Aunt Fugly is the just-now-resurrected GFY agony aunt — kind of like Dear Abby, but less predictable, and often, less helpful. Periodically, as their busy spa and Twitter schedules allow, anonymous celebrity experts step in as Aunt Fugly to offer advice to the less blessed among us — the lovelorn, the etiquettelorn, and just people who are generally… lorn.
This week’s Unnamed Expert is embarking upon a complicated divorce, calls herself “a LOVER who LOVES,” and says she looks forward to eating men for breakfast after years of being eaten for breakfast by a man.
Dear Aunt Fugly,
So, look. I’m not sure what else to do. I dated my boyfriend for a bunch of years. I made my ass awesome. I supported his fashion line. His acting attempts. I climbed a freaking MOUNTAIN for CHARITY. And STILL everyone says he slept around on me, and now we’ve broken up, and he’s supposedly hooking up with every unattached girl in town and I am trying to keep up by getting on the backs of people’s motorcycles in front of photographers and looking all happy, and shit, but people have kind of stopped caring about me already. And then my ex went and told a magazine I am the most special flower in the history of his garden, and now he wants to go out to dinner sometimes. What should I do? His mom liked me. The tabloids said so.
Out of Sync
This is the oldest story in el libre, chica — boy meets girl, boy and girl go away and marry other people, boy and girl get divorced from other people, boy and girl decide they are in love, boy marries girl, girl discovers boy keeps his cheekbones like that because he drinks the blood of innocents, boy sleeps in custom-made velvet lined box during daylight hours, girl installs deadbolts on bedroom door, boy shoots through them with a harpoon and then drains her twice a day for strength, girl puts up with it because people love to talk about their children and their Great Love until suddenly girl gets crazy-famous again and does not need him and can finally stop taking iron pills and … ay, wait, is that not your story? Then I do not care. I AM FREE, LOVER. FREEE!!!!! EL SABOR DE LIBERTAD ES DELICIOSO! It tastes like men who have a pulse! It is like I have been in the desert and now I can drink! So go find a motorcycle to get on and leave me alone.
Dear Aunt Fugly,
Here’s the deal: I am fucking awesome. I’m crazy rich, I do a ton of drugs, I sleep with a lot of girls who are way too young for me — usually at the same time — and people paid actual money to see me, like, have a mental breakdown on stage. I am your idol. So come over and have sex. Bring accessories. Especially if they are other people’s vaginas.
It is called ASK Aunt Fugly, stupidface. You have to ASK something. Like, maybe I will ASK you when the last time was that you took a shower, or ate something that was not flavored lube, or read something and understood the words. Pero, Mr. Tontobrain, unfortunately for you I do not care what your question would have been! HAHAH! TAKE THAT. My answer to your not-question is, “Awesome people do not spend all their time telling you they are so awesome.” Unless they are Kanye (is he single? Ay, dios mio, por favor let Kanye be single, puedo ver the HEADLINES, I am climaxing just THINKING about all the tweeting and the loverness!), or unless they are ME, because I am the World’s Most Beautiful Mammal, but that is not YO saying that, that is People saying that, so it is not un-awesome for me to say it because I am just REPEATING it, and ifit HAPPENS to remind you that you are dealing with somebody who is OUT OF YOUR LEAGUE, scumthigh, then that is not my fault. In short, Loserneck, I am SINGLE and I am HOT TO TROT and yet you still could not pay me to trot on your racetrack. Because I am TOO EXPENSIVE. Y tambien you are gross. Adios, non-lover.
Dear Aunt Fugly,
Nobody remembers me! I spent all those years being evil on TV and then I married a crazy douchebag and got a ton of really great plastic surgery and then everyone got upset so I went into hiding, and it turns out NOBODY CARES that I am not around much anymore. Like, what is that? Shouldn’t America NEED me?
I need you! My washer, it is broken. And my dryer does not spin. Right now my staff is doing everything by hand in a big pot and then drying it on a washboard (why are there not places where you can go and wash your clothes in a big row of machines!!!), but they are so TIRED, Mr. Maytag, because we have so much laundry (you do not expect me to wear ONLY three outfits cada DIA, do you? HAHAHHAA) and so if you do not fix my washer I am going to sue you for not being nice to my servants (wait someone just told me there IS a laundry thingy but you have you use COINS and I have not used COINS since Marc made me play this silly little game called Quarters with a bottle of whiskey and I woke up married!). But call before you come over. I might not be home. I might be at Kanye’s place!!!! VIVA LA LIBERTAD!!!!!!!