Ask Dr. Answer Dude

The bipolar bear felt a little under the weather this week, and needed to recharge his bearterries, so, as a fill in, we’ve taken the most recent article from nationally syndicated and Pulitzer Prize nominated columnist, Dr. Answer Dude. I hope you guys like this; it cost us 500 dollars for syndication rights. I told him it was a bad idea, but anyway, enough of me going on. Without further ado, this week’s Ask Dr. Answer Dude.

Hello out there, loyal readership. I am back with yet another installment of Ask Dr. Answer Dude, the only article in the world that takes every letter from my P.O. Box and private email address, and answers them no matter what! My lawyers have informed me, however, that, due to last week's “exorcise demons with battery acid” fiasco, I am currently wanted in 13 states. They have advised me to leave the country as soon as possible, and to give up on this terrible, pointless mess of a career. But if the “eat a bucket of paint to cure herpes” debacle and the “how to commit insurance fraud” bungle won't stop me, neither will 27 dead and 56 injured. So let's dive right in!

First up is a letter from loyal reader Pamela Strapp from Spokane, WA. Pamela writes:

Q: Dear Dr. Answer Dude,

I think you’ll find that your warning from last month “step on no pets” is a palindrome.

Love,
Pam

A: Well done! So is “Tuna nut!” (optional French version “I’m a tuna nut, ami!”)


Surprisingly, I also received two letters from unrelated plumbers named Frank out of Cedar Rapids, IA, reading the Cedar Rapids Chronicle-Review. Both men wrote:

Q: Dr. Answer Dude-

Hi! My Name is Frank!!
-Frank

A: Hey, Fellas!


Our close friend, Captain Tim, from a country estate in French British Columbia, sent me this gem:

Q: Qu'obtenez-vous quand un ours?
Épuisez Le Yaourt!

A: Ha ha ha! What!??! Is that British or Columbian? I’m sorry, dude, I don’t speak either.


Just today I received a letter from our colleague, Don, who just so happens to be my roommate.

Q: Dude,
Rent is due tomorrow. You still owe me, plus last month. I need 1200 by tomorrow afternoon.
Dave

A: Bro, I mailed your check out last Thursday! But if you really want, I’ll go down to the bank and cancel the check for like 20 bucks, get a new check certified for like 10 bucks, go down to the post office and have it overnighted for another 10 bucks… or how about I just give you your cat back and we call it even?


By far the most interesting submission this week was from a Mr. Landsend who, with a large photo album of his family and friends, sent in the following query:

Q: When out strolling by a tree-lined lake on a crisp autumn evening, wouldn’t you prefer a shoe that makes you feel light and effervescent like a bubbling Chardonnay? If so, our Subarctic Siberian-tested Weathertektm Boots [sizes 2-13 (mens), 1-14EE (womens)] will fit you like our fresh leather glove with lamb fur interior (page 43).

A: That is both fantastic and beautiful, like you and your significant other drinking one daiquiri with two straws, lounging on beach chairs somewhere on the Southwest coast of Corsica, immersed in a fading Mediterranean sunset on a warm summer evening.


My girlfriend, Tiffany, made use of my email, DearDrAnswerDude@gmail.com, to send the following:

Q: Baby, I don’t love you anymore
Love, Tiff

A: Sweetie, so which is it? Am I no longer truly yours?
Yours Truly, Me.


Here at Answer Laboratories, I also received an urgent letter from a group called the YMCA, who wrote in with the following concern:

Q: Mr. Anserdud-
In case you don’t grasp the gravity of the situation, this is your final warning. Unless you settle these delinquent accounts, we will repossess your car, TV, and anything else you won’t pay off. If we don’t hear from you by next Friday, it will already be too late.

Our Regards,
The Youngstown Mountain Collection Agency

A: First of all, it’s DR. Anserdud. Second of all, the Village People were way wrong about you jerks. Maybe I shouldn’t have enrolled my son in the navy.


Finally, clearing house, my publishing company apparently, sent this obvious important message in a very fancy envelope:

Q: Congratulations! You may have won our $10 million dollar prize! Would you like to take a survey about Dish Soap?

A: Screw that! I’m a millionaire! Hey, Phil- I QUIT! SHOVE YOUR BALD HEAD IN THE TOILET AND FLUSH IT! YEAH YOU HEARD ME!
FLUSH IT PHIL!

Vancouver, here I come!


The bonus question is from our youngest reader, Yung Jong, 13, from Ottawa, who sent in the following joke:

Q: Knock Knock

A: Come in!

Check back next week for the stunning conclusion (It’s UPS).

Dr. Answer Dude writes for over 200 papers nationally. He lives with his roommate, Dave, in Scar, South Dakota.

street cred thoughts from a white boy

As a white male, aged 18 to 35, I am but a small cross-section of, quite possibly, the most influential and powerful group in America today. This group represents, along with others, the backbone of the American future. We will undoubtedly be the next world leaders, CEOs, and NASCAR drivers.

This week's article is about something of crucial importance to us, the young white adults: Street Cred. For those in the reader pool who are unaware of sweeping urban trends, Street Cred is a way of gauging how true-to-their-lyrics gangsta rappers are – if its just a show they put on, or if their lyrics are honest reflections of themselves. For example, Chris Wallace, also known as the Notorious B.I.G., who was a high-ranking crack dealer and was shot to death, has high street cred. Someone who makes Black look Pink, for example Ja Rule, has little or no street cred. Street Cred to a rapper is much like Political Capital to a politician- it is an ever-changing mark of how believable, how in-demand, how effective, and, thus, how relevant the rapper is. No one is going to listen to Paris Hilton rap about how tough it was growing up on the streets or how she’s "liable to cap a nigga." A man serving five consecutive life-sentences for murdering his grandma and stealing her food stamps, named "Clyve Da Murderah," however, is prime meat for the street cred I am talking about.

Many rappers explode on the scene with an aire of cocky thugness, rapping over crunk beats, exulting the virtues of money, hoes, and crime, and repeating their name several hundred times in each song so you won't forget how tough they are. They invariably ride this crest of stardom as high as they can until, once they gain enough notoriety, they throw the hard knock image out the window in favor of a warm fuzzy chair in front of the burning fire that is Capitalist America. (I’m a professional. Don’t try those kinds of analogies at home.) I'm talking, here, about someone like Lil' Kim, who started by rapping about cunnilingus, fucking, and murder, and who now whores herself and her image for, of all places, Old Navy and its Performance Fleeces. But she’s not alone. Here is a short list, off the top of my head, of hardass rappers who moved out of the hood and into the lame-ass commercials of pop-middle-America.

Method Man- went from saying he will “pull my fucking tongue out of my fucking mouth and stab that shit with a rusty screwdriver”, into pitching me deodorant, acting in shitty TV shows (see: Meth and Red), and crappy movies. (See also: Redman).
Xzibit- He was tough, but now he just wants to pimp my ride and sell me deodorant
Lil’ Kim- see above
The Game/Kayne West/Ludacris- Cell Phones
Ice Cube- Is he there yet??? Went from the hardest of the hard to that and other horrific family movies.
Ja Rule- formed Murder Inc., and then did gay-ass duets with Ashanti.

Also, I have received an exclusive preliminary script from a commercial featuring soon-to-be-ex-badass 50 Cent. Here is a clip from the script:
50 Cent: Yo, when my bitch’s pooty be stankin up my shit, I hit that ho with.. BAM.. Summer’s Eve. After she be douching up her nani-nani, that cooch’ll smell like fresh gardens or some lost paradise Eden shit. For real… Go poony, it’s your birthday.. no more stanking

Street Cred and where rap stands today

The once plentiful currency of Street Cred, rich in the pool of NWA, Tupac, and Biggie, has transformed into something vastly different. The gangsta rap game was one of skill, where its very expression was a way of both venting frustrations, but at the same time sharing real lives, real hardships, and the real fucked up shit people needed to do to survive, all the while trying to get out of the ghetto. Then, riding the train of profitability, rappers started making up hard-life stories to get street cred, and people eventually started turning away from it. Now, gangsta rap is at its craziest stage yet- it’s no longer about expression, about having something to say, or accurately portraying how you feel, and giving insight to a tough life that most people have no clue of- it has turned into a mad rush for record companies to sign the hardest possible MC. It’s almost reminiscent of what pop music has become- no longer a measure of talent or desire, but the quest for a pretty face and a marketable name (see- Ashlee Simpson, Hillary Duff, Lindsay Lohan, et al.), except instead of a pretty face and marketable name, it’s a rough childhood and number of bullet entry wounds. I’m sure record companies are out roaming the streets for the guys who have been shot the most. In fact, I bet rappers have to fill out the following application to even be considered for a rap label:


Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised.

With a glut of talented producers, songwriters, editors, stylists, image consultants, advertising executives, managers, as well as technology capable of making it sound like Britney Spears can sing, all record companies need to do is find the most bullet-ridden criminal they can, place him in front of a mic, and give him lyrics like:

I don’t wanna go to school and get an education
Just pass me the remote so I can change the station
I don’t need no Emancipation Proclamation
Cause I’ll fucking shoot a nigga and still own a nation

And then profit.

Rap keeps getting sadder. Do yourself a favor and pick up some MF Doom, Vaudeville Villain.