Congratulations to my good friend Pab. He recently signed a three year syndication for his webcomic, The New Adventures of Queen Victoria. We're celebrating by revisiting a question he asked right around the time that TNAoQV was just getting started.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  What do you get when you fall in love?
- Pab

Dear Pab,
  If you're very lucky, you get a lifetime of happiness, sprinkled liberally with passionate moments and almost no questions about strange genital growths.

  If you're not so lucky, you wind up on Maury for an episode called "My Girlfriend Slept With My Best Friend And Also His Dog And By The Way She's A Man With Three Nuts."

MySpace validates its existence, with a question coughed up from the Ask LBB Friend Space.

Dear LBB,
  What's the deal with French Canadians?
- Erin

Dear Erin,
  Canada is the pudgy sixth grade hall monitor of the western world. Grown-ups are always complimenting it on being polite and well-mannered, but when it tries to warn the bigger kids against running in the hall, they just laugh.

  The French, on the other hand, are the awkward, angry kids smoking cigarettes and making out behind the bleachers. Napoleon inflated their already considerable egos, and they've muddled through 200 years of republics trying to simultaneously pretend that they didn't enjoy being the center of an empire, and they didn't mind being rolled over every time some other country decided it was their turn to conquer Europe. Picture these kids who are too cool for school living in a nation full of polite, mild-mannered honor roll students. It's the sociological version of a John Hughes movie, and it goes a long way toward explaining why Quebec has such a secessionist bug up its ass.

LBB goes international with a question
from a reader in Odessa, Ukraine.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  SORRY!I know English very BED!but - what is BASTARD??? - This is NAME?or other!???
OHAAI - this is STATE!???

BY!!!
- Platon Grant

Dear Platon Grant,
  Don't worry about your "bed" English, Platon. You're slightly more intelligible than your average teen l33t-5p34k moron. If it helps, you know far more of English than I know of Russian.

  In English, "bastard" is an old, insulting term for a person whose parents are not married. In modern America, children of unmarried parents have become more common and accepted, and the word has come to mean a person (usually male) who is rude or unfriendly. Add it to the list of nouns that have one meaning, but are also used to describe people you don't like. "Dick," "bitch," "asshole" and "fucktard" are all examples.

  In my case, "bastard" is used in the second, less literal sense. My parents were, and are still, happily married. It's almost creepy. When I call myself a "bastard," I'm telling the world that I am a cranky, ill-tempered misanthrope. Also, "Little Bald Cock" sounded like the title of a bad, basement-made porn movie.

You finally did it, didn't you.

  Alright, you sons of bitches. I've studiously avoided taking this step, but I finally broke down and did it.

  Ask the Little Bald Bastard now has a fucking MySpace page.

  Please bear in mind that I will absolutely not be using this as a regular hangout/friend tracker. It's the Internet equivalent of a short bus, intended to drive the "special" users of the Internet to my column. That said, if any of you want to add me as a fucking MySpace friend, you can find me at http://www.myspace.com/lbbastard.

Dear LBB,
  My boyfriend has been reading "The Secret" -- with a highlighter and taking notes! Is he trying to tell me something?
Thanks,
- Jen

Dear Jen,
  Whether he's trying to or not, you boyfriend is telling you that he's a credulous, vacuous fucktard. Unless he's a book reviewer, or he's taking notes for an article debunking its obviously frivolous claims, your boyfriend is falling hard for the silly notion that the "Law of Attraction" will allow him to acquire things simply by thinking really hard about them.

  You should ask him exactly what he's trying to attract. If he's wishing hard for the money to buy you a wedding ring, then he's telling you he loves you. He's a credulous, vacuous, romantic fucktard. If he wants the Universe to drop a busty blonde in his lap, then his motives are far more suspect. He's a credulous, vacuous, unfaithful fucktard. Unless, of course, you're the busty blonde he's wishing for. In that case he's a credulous, vacuous, horny fucktard.

  In other news, I've discovered that it is impossible to overuse the word "fucktard."

Dear LBB,
  When the hell will modern science finally find a way to replace my brain's ability to store and recall the original "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" theme with the ability to, say, learn Mandarin?

Slowly losing my mind,
- Bryan

Dear Bryan ,
  Don't blame that shit on science. If you'd spent a decade studying Mandarin for half an hour a day, you'd be speaking fluently. Instead, you're firing up your Livejournal to compare the TMNT movie unfavorably to the original animated series. (No Shredder? The horror!)

  That said, I too am eagerly awaiting the day when I can replace my faulty wetware with some good old fashioned flash memory. I'd gladly Johnny Mnemonic things like the loss of my virginity, the first time I got fired, or high school to make room for my mp3s. Unlike my iPod, I can't accidentally run my jacket through the wash with my brain in the pocket. The only condition I have is that whatever software runs by new silicon brain can't be a Microsoft product. That would give "blue screen of death" a literal meaning that I'm not ready to sign on for.

Tales from SEPTA

  Spotted on the Blue Line on Friday afternoon: Blow-dried, hair-gelled preppy douchebag. Reading The Secret. With a highlighter.

  In case you've missed the latest bee in Oprah's metaphysical bonnet, The Secret is a new self-help book/DVD that purports to contain a "secret" that successful people have been keeping for years. Apparently, you can influence the Universe to give you literally anything you want, as long as you want it hard enough. This proposition is supported by a sprinkling of quotes from famously successful people, such as successful anti-semite Henry Ford, and the guy who "wrote" the Chicken Soup for The Soul books. Also, the pages have been weathered with highly sophisticated dyes, for that "ancient tome" look. Nothing says authenticity like artificially yellowed paper.

  A typical scene from the DVD shows a little boy drawing a picture of a bike over and over again. This illustrates just how hard the boy wants that particular bike. Then, he opens his front door, and a smiling old man is standing there with the same exact bike the little boy drew, minus the shaky grasp of proportion and perspective in the crayon doodles. Curiously enough, the toothy gentleman (grandpa, molester, or both?) is absent from the drawings. I hope that doesn't mean that every wish the Universe grants also comes with a complimentary smiling septuagenarian. You'd think there'd be a disclaimer about that.

  The real secret, of course, is this. In addition to being another spoonful of the pseudo-inspirational pablum that Oprah force-feeds her viewers, The Secret is an absolutely perfect scam. Think about it. Tell the preppy douchebag that he can have anything his heart desires, as long as he just wants it fervently enough. If he gets what he wants, then it worked! High five! If his wish doesn't come true, then it's his fault. He obviously didn't want it hard enough.

  It's classic. If you win, they win. If you lose, they still win, because they can blame you for your failure. You didn't get that promotion? Your husband is still seeing that Brazilian hooker? Grandma's still in that wheelchair, wearing those diapers? You didn't get your crudely drawn crayon bike? Too bad! The system works. You just didn't do it right.

  Guess what? Life sometimes sucks, and no one every gets everything they want. The real secret is that there's no psycho-babble trick to wring tasty treats out of the Universe. The Universe is not Domino's Pizza; it doesn't deliver. You'll get what you want (or not) like the rest of us, through varying proportions of work and luck. If wishing super-hard for something really made it happen, your daughter's room would be full of unicorn shit.

  By the way, The Secret obviously isn't working for Mr. Blow-dried, hair-gelled preppy douchebag. Under all that shellac, his hair is still thinning.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  What's your favorite logical fallacy?
- Armchair Skeptic

Dear Armchair Skeptic,
  I'm a big fan of ad hominem attacks. You nazi shithead.

I'm Not Cool Enough To Pretend This Isn't Exciting...

  Wired.com's Table of Malcontents is one of my favorite blogs, and one of the few that I make sure to read every day. (RSS rules.) ToM celebrated last week's Steak and a Blowjob day with a contest to let readers create a holiday of their own, and a winner was me!

  I proposed Flame Shame Day, an annual day when people who post nasty comments on blogs and message boards are required to spend one minute thinking about how their snarkity affects the people it's directed against. The ToM staff liked the idea, and they're sending me a card to celebrate.

  Even if you don't want to read my winning entry, you should still check out Table of Malcontents. Odd, interesting, amusing and amazing nuggets from the farthest corners of the Internets are always on the ToM menu. Enjoy! LBB commands it!

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  What happens when you shake your moneymaker?
- Fellow Baldy

Dear FB,
  These days, my moneymaker is more of a liability than an asset. Shaking it merely results in stuff falling out of my pockets, and the derisive laughter of any passersby. Once my flabbier bits stop quaking, and I've collected the scattered contents of my pockets, I make a mental note to increase the number of drinks I've had before I attempt any future maker-shaking. So far, I'm up to an even dozen.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  What's the deal with putting your seat back in the upright position when your plane is landing? Will the three-inch chasm between upright and reclined make any difference?
  Seriously, this keeps me up at night, and Friend Brian says I should ask. Solve the mystery, man.
  Thanks,
- Jenn

Dear Jenn (and Friend Brian),
  I bet you asked this question assuming I'd take your side and toss off a sarcastic dismissal of the seemingly arbitrary seat position requirements dictated by the flying debt hoses we call airlines. LBB thumbs his nose at your expectations; to quote Vanilla Ice in Cold As Ice, "You don't know me. You don't wanna know me. I'm dangerous."

  It turns out the important factor in a plane crash is the distance to the seat in front of you. If you can brace yourself against it, your chances of a fatal head or spinal injury are dramatically decreased. If everyone puts their seat up, you'll be a few inches closer to the seat in front of you, and it will be easier to brace against the flat, vertical surface.

  Having your seat up will also make a big difference when the fat guy behind you, who's been snoring like a brick in a wood chipper since Cleveland, awakes on touchdown and decides to maneuver his bulk into the aisle. That extra three inches might just be the difference between an uncomfortable, huffing exit or a belly bump to the back of your head.

  Now go away, or I shall quote appalling cinema at you a second time.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  How come Coach bags cost so much when they're probably made by starving children in Nairobi getting paid three cents a day?
- Jenn

Dear Jenn,
  Because it's expensive to be a responsible corporate citizen. Environmentally efficient "green" factories, comprehensive employee benefits, massive donations to underprivileged families, leather taken exclusively from cows that die of happiness; these things are costly, and you should be proud to trade an obscene amount of money for the pleasure of knowing your hideous shoulder bag is contributing to the well being of the whole planet.

  Then again, it's possible that you're paying half a kajillion dollars for ten dollars worth of materials and labor because the popularity of the brand allows its manufacturer to get away with an obscene markup just by virtue of the name. But you're too smart to pay a wildly inflated price for a mediocre product just because of a logo on a tag, aren't you?

  Next week on Ask LBB, lose weight through a simple combination of diet and exercise!

Dear Little Bald Bastard,

  Why does a cursive capital letter Q not look anything like a Q?

  Do you ever leave a penny? Have you ever taken a penny?

  Do you like french fries dipped in a milk shake? Is your milk shake better than mine?
- by_steph
Dear by_steph,
  Cursive handwriting is an ancient conspiracy, designed to make postcards from your grandmother completely unreadable. The capital Q has persisted in its singular oddness simply because people don't complain about it much. Grandmothers almost never start sentences with it.

  My years in retail have made me a fan, perhaps even a groupie, of exact change. If I have to fish a sad, discarded penny out of a filthy dish to avoid getting a pound of change back from my morning bagel, I'll dig right in. As a selfish, bitter man, I generally hoard the change I get, so I leave a penny far less often.

  I can honestly say that I've never considered dipping my fries in a milkshake. The combination of salty and sweet sounds intriguing, though. I can attest that my milkshake is one of the best in the known universe. Not only does it bring all the boys to the yard, but it makes otherwise stoic men weep with joy.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  Who would win in an advice column fight to the death: Ask LBB or Ask A Ninja?
- fadingembers
Dear fadingembers,
  Ask A Ninja's expertise seems to be focused on ninjary in all its deadly splendor. I have the advantage in that I don't have any expertise. I'm free to shoot my uninformed mouth off about any topic I feel like, from animal husbandry to zoophilia, and everything in between.

  Of course in an actual fight to the death, the Ninja would slaughter me before I'd even finished the thought of challenging him. I bet my entrails would be prettier than his, though.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  How will I know if you've answered my question?
- Darryl L. Pierce
Dear Darrrrryl,
  What a fortuitous and not at all planted question! If you want to see all of the questions and answers as they're posted, you can add the Ask LBB feed to your favorite feed reader program. Then, you'll get to see every update I make, until the day when my bitterness finally dissolves my fragile organs, and I die choking on my own bile. Enjoy!