Snapperhead’ returns with more good advice

The response to my proposed advice column, Dear Snapperhead, as outlined a few weeks ago in this space, has been overwhelming.

I’m continuing with the concept anyway.

First, a note of caution. Dear Snapperhead in no way reflects the opinions of anyone associated with mankind other than Snapperhead. Also, if you’re considering getting a facial tattoo, make sure the guy doing it doesn’t spit-shine his needles.

On to the letters.

Dear Snapperhead, I’m the president of a large midwestern university. The problem is that the school is located in a boring, small midwestern town. I‘m into several “alternative lifestyles,” if you know what I mean.

The only thrill I get out here is raising tuition. What should I do?

Lonely at the Top.

Dear Lonely at the Top, take advantage of your surroundings. You’re swimming in a sea of small farm animals and dimwitted products of inbreeding. Sounds to me like you’re in the middle of paradise and don’t even know it.

Dear Snapperhead, I’m a law enforcement official with a lovely wife and two kids. My problem is that the real reason I became a cop is because I receive great physical and emotional satisfaction from handcuffing people.

I would rather restrain somebody, especially if they’re wearing bowling shoes, than win the lottery. It’s gotten so bad I’ve started handcuffing jaywalkers. Help me please!

Kinky copper.

Dear Kinky copper, I’m forwarding you Lonely at the Top’s address.

Dear Snapperhead, you think you’re funny, don’t you? You consider yourself Mr. hotshot columnist and all you are is a diseased, sick moron who makes fun of people. Well here’s a problem for you: I feel like killing you by inserting a chainsaw into your mouth. What do you think of that?

Not funny.

Dear Not funny, I’m forwarding your address to Kinky copper.

Dear Snapperhead, I have had a string of bad luck recently. First, my vintage 1957 Mustang broke down. Then, in order, my wife left me, my house and all my belongings burned down in a tragic fire, I lost my job, I broke my arm, my parents won’t talk to me and my doctor told me I have three months to live. What should I do?


Dear Lucky, so what are you going to do with the Mustang?

Dear Snapperhead, I have an unusual problem. I’m a 21-year old highly-successful blonde swimsuit model. Because of my looks and money, guys are intimidated by me. I haven’t had a date in years. What can I do?


Dear Heather, since you are obviously the product of an overactive, male chauvinist imagination, I won’t bother to answer your letter.

However, if there is any reader out there who fits that description, feel free to call me for some free personal counseling.