In Oh, Heavens, Miss Havana! our heroine offers an advice column by day and assassinations by night. The devil condemned her to hell in The Substitute, but God came to her rescue. Now she must work her way through purgatory mistakenly believing she is the Angel of Death. It’s a tough road to walk for someone whose evil streak landed her in Satan’s arms after she died the first time. Below are some comments from her advice column fans.
Dear Miss Havana. What qualifies you to give advice? Some of what you say seems to be at the fringe of believability. Just Wondering.
Dear Wondering. So, you want to know my qualifications for giving advice? WTF? Did anyone ever ask Abby or Ann anything like that? So what makes me a target—because I’m prettier? Asking me a question like that is like asking what makes a woman strong and the answer is the same. Living with a man, you twit! Isn’t the only function of a male to make a woman miserable?
But rather than point fingers, let’s just say I’ve been through Hell and that uniquely qualifies me. Yes, I’ve been through Hell. Lucifer was my “man,” if you can call that shithead a man. Living in his lair didn’t get me a website initially, but it made me strong to survive...and gave me a daughter. You might get to meet her one day if you play your cards wrong, but that’s another story. Fact is, going to Hell isn’t recommended, and my time with Lucifer isn’t what got me there in the first place—it only gave me a new perspective, attitude being everything.
Mostly it was the life I led before that catastrophe that gives me the experience to enlighten others, at least in terms they can understand. That was when I actually liked men, or better, I liked what they could do for me. Face it; the “other side” didn’t give me this beautiful exterior just to have me squander it working as a bank teller, did they?
Okay, so I ruffled a few feathers, and perhaps a drug deal or two went south. BFD. It could happen to anyone. I was a substitute teacher in my home town and a party girl in Chicago on weekends. My students learned, or faced my whistling paddle, and I pulled out all the stops in Chicago—the Windy City was my playground. If I hadn’t run into such bad luck with so many bad sports I’d still be racking up profits by destroying lives. Mine was a short life, but so chocked full of experience I can barely cram it all in the advice I offer now—advice you’ll never get from Ann or Miss Manners!
As you read my pearls of wisdom, there is only one rule: if you disagree with the advice I give, you are wrong.
Dear Miss Havana. My husband wants to have sex all the time. How can I stem his libido? Sincerely Sore in Singapore.
Dear Sore. A time-tested methodology is lack of hygiene. Don’t shave or clean your pits—all of them. The problem will solve itself. Another method is inviting a trashy friend over, serving lots of alcohol, and going to bed early…alone. Your husband will find his own way to the bedroom in time, but chances are he won’t want sex, depending on how trashy your friend is.
Dear Miss Havana. My boyfriend and I have been arguing over the most used word in the English language. Perhaps you can help us resolve the issue. As a former teacher, can you tell me if the word “fuck” can be conjugated? Very Truly Yours, Grammarian in Georgia.
Dear Grammarian. Hell, yes, but that word usually more closely associated with copulation than conjugation. What’s more, fuck is the only word in the English language that retains its meaning regardless of prefix, suffix, tense, or usage. It can be a verb, noun, gerund, or just about anything else, but there can be a problem if it’s a dangling participle. Furthermore, application of the word is limited only by one’s imagination. For example "prefucktroily" would be routine fucking, while a "prefucker" is someone who will screw you, but not in a good way, no matter what. Imagination is the key.
Dear Miss Havana. My girlfriend’s mass pales in comparison to almost everyone I know. She can’t reach around her butt to clean herself. How can I help? Gagging in Georgia.
Dear Gagging. We'd all like to eat our feelings, but you need to explain to her they shouldn’t be wrapped in bacon and cookie dough, breaded and deep fried, dusted in powdered sugar, and kissed with a beurre blanc demi glaze. The next time she grabs a donut, just offer, “You gonna eat that repressed emotion?” She’ll get the message in time. Now, I'm not saying I wouldn't date a fat guy, but they gotta bring a little something extra to the table...and it better not be covered in gravy. But back to your immediate problem. Spread her cheeks in the back yard and then use the garden hose. In Lucifer’s home we call that the “redneck backyard bidet.” If you’re visiting friends, borrow a beer and shake the bottle really hard before removing the cap, but ONLY after your girlfriend is prepared as above, otherwise you’ll be forced to try to drink that fire hose, and that can be tricky.
Need advice? Try Oh, Heavens, Miss Havana! (http://www.amazon.com/James-L.-Hatch/e/B005CQB6E6)
Thanks for reading,
James L. Hatch