Dear Crabby | January 2005


Twit’s Note: Consider the following song parody an “extra” this month. The Dear Crabby column follows it.

I’m sure you had more than enough song parodies from me in the last issue. But I couldn’t help myself, not with a new album (yes, they still make those things) from my favorite rock band, U2. That, and a recent “incident” a friend of mine had at a local restaurant. Please note the fictitious restaurant’s name in this parody was chosen because it fits/rhymes with the actual song. It is NOT the true name of the restaurant in question. My lawyer advised me to stick that disclaimer in there.

So now, here goes (or not)…

Sergio’s (sing to the tune of U2’s “Vertigo”)

Unos, dos, tres, catorce [one, two, three, fourteen]

Lights go down
It’s dark
The menu in my hand
Will burn my heart
I’m feeling so much weaker
Than I thought
My eyes are watering
And though I know
it can’t be fought
my bowels can wander

Hello, Hello
[Spanish for Hello]
I’m at a place called Sergio’s
¿Dónde está? [Where is it?]
The food’s turning my bowels into jello
Cause this place gave me something I can feel

The night is full of runs
No, not the baseball kind
These are no fun
The toilet at Sergio’s is working overtime
I know it’s gotta flush
At least I know

I can smell the seat
I’m askin’ for the check
The waitress with crimson nails
Has grabbed me ’round the neck
I’m going to get sick
I’m going to get sick

Hello, Hello
I’m at a place called Sergio’s
¿Dónde está?
It’s a place next time I’ll never go
Cause the food gave me something that won’t heal

Blowing chunks, blowing chunks ain’t worth it
Blowing chunks, blowing chunks ain’t worth it
Blowing chunks, blowing chunks ain’t worth it
They’ll give you what you want
But it’s gonna make you ill

Hello, Hello
I’m at a place called Sergio’s
I’m getting cramps and all I know
Is this place gave me something I can feel
You’re teaching me …aaahhh
Your food is teaching me …aaaah
How to hurl

Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no,
Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no!

Those of you who remember obscure details (as I do, while I forget major, important stuff) will recall that in this past October’s issue of Flamenco, someone suggested we have a “Dear Abby” type of column in our publication.

Big mistake.

You see, somehow, my fifth, (not so) great grand-aunt 20 times removed (the more times removed, the better!)–who has been nagging me incessantly for years to do a “guest column” in my space (trust me, she’s NOT Mensa material, so she can’t get in and do her own column)–caught wind of this suggestion. So she’s turned the nagging up about two thousand notches or so–it being her lifelong dream to write an advice column–and I’ve finally relented.

So, asking for your patience and forbearance, I present to you my (not so) dear aunt,

Dear Crabby

Aunt Crabby

DEAR CRABBY: I’m 16 years old and I don’t know what to do. I desperately need your advice. “Tim” and I have been dating for 5 months now and I really love him. A few weeks ago we had sex for the first time and it was like being in heaven. But now I’m pregnant. My father has a very violent temper and if he ever finds out, I’m afraid he’ll kill “Tim” and beat me. What should I do? — HOPELESS IN HIALEAH

DEAR HUSSY IN HIALEAH: You’re kidding me, right? Didn’t your parents teach you? I hope you’ve learned your lesson and next time, keep your legs closed, you little hussy!

DEAR CRABBY: I’m a 40-year-old man, divorced, with no children. I just met a woman who is 35 years old with a 10-year old daughter. “Maria,” and her daughter “Suzie,” are both great. I think I want to marry “Maria,” and I think “Maria” would want to marry me too. But there’s one problem. I don’t know if the three of us will fit in my mom’s garage, which is where I live. Actually, I have another problem: I’ve been unemployed for three years now. And I don’t have a car, so I couldn’t take “Suzie” to school. Do you think I should ask “Maria” to put “Suzie” up for adoption so we could get married? — LOVER BOY IN LANTANA

DEAR LOSER BOY IN LANTANA: You’re kidding me, right? First of all, what kind of loser is 40 years old and still lives with his mommy? And what kind of a woman would go out with a loser like you? I mean, come on, even if you look like Mel Gibson, that “Maria” must be hard up to be seen with the likes of you! If I were her I’d ditch you in a heartbeat.

DEAR CRABBY: I’m writing you with more of a lament than a need for advice. You see, a few months ago I gave my darling twin grandsons–“Johnny” and “Ronnie”–a very nice, expensive birthday gift: a package of the finest “Fruit of the Loom” underwear. One package for each, mind you. Well, anyway, when I was a child, I was taught it was proper to send a “thank-you” note when someone gave you a gift. Although I never actually wrote such letters myself, I always thanked the gift giver in my mind at least. But anyway, it’s been several months and I haven’t received anything by way of thanks from my ungrateful grandsons. Their mother–my daughter-in-law–keeps making up excuses for them, such as the fact that they’re two years old. But I believe there is no excuse for such inexcusable and childish behavior. Not to mention, I think my son could’ve done much better for a wife, but that’s for another letter. What do you think I should do about my ungrateful grandsons? — PROPER IN PINECREST

DEAR PRISSY IN PINECREST: You’re kidding me, right? What kind of an idiot gives kids underwear for a gift? (Twit’s note: my dear aunt Crabby, you do–in fact, you STILL send me underwear in sizes that haven’t fit since I was 10 years old!) But you’re right on one issue. That daughter-in-law of yours is turning those little twerps into a bunch of spoiled ingrates who will soon come to believe they deserve everything they get. Put your foot down now with them or you’ll regret it later. And quit buying them underwear for their birthday!

“Dear Crabby” will run in this space from time to time. To reach “Dear Crabby,” please use our contact information from the “Contact the Twit” page and make sure to include the title “Dear Crabby” in the subject line.