Another letter to The Snark.  This one is from Dixie Normous of Tightsqueeze, Virginia.

Dear Uncle Snarky,

I am a 19 year-old girl with a dark secret.  I have a mortal fear of being groped by Sasquatch.  This might sound like a small matter to you, but according to The National Enquirer, Sasquatch gropings are on the rise in the contiguous United States and parts of Guatemala.

Yet another victim! 

My mom and dad are taking our family on a camping trip, and they’re forcing me to go. They say if I don’t face my Sasquatch groping fears that I could end up a depraved sheep-shagger like you, Uncle Snarky.  I am horrified of Bigfoot touching my no-no, but I’m even more horrified of someone confusing me with you.  I don’t mean any offense, of course.  I’m sure you’re probably a very nice pervert.  Although, I still would never stand in front of you in line at Lubricants-R-Us.

So, I guess my real question is, should I risk it all and go to the forest with my family, knowing full well that I might get hairy-palmed by the Abominable Hoe Man?  I know you’ll steer me right, Uncle Snarky.  You’re the wisest, most wonderful person who’s ever lived!  

I’m sorry. That previous paragraph was total bullshit.  I was giggling my ass off whilst I was writing it.  I actually think you’re an idiot and a danger to society.  But, your opinion would be appreciated.

Call Bobo!  It’s definitely a Squatch!

The Snark replies:

Well, thank you for that vote of confidence. I’ll bet you never get tired of hearing guys say “I wish I was in Dixie”. Uncle Snarky is always excited to receive letters from 19 year-old women with dark secrets. He prefers when those letters come with filthy pics and pairs of panties, but let’s not split hairs. So to speak.

Let me start off by saying that The Snark can say with absolute certainty that Sasquatches roam among us. Spend five minutes with my wife’s side of the family and you’ll be a believer too.

If there’s one thing Uncle Snarky knows, it’s groping. I remember this one time when I was at a frat party in college. The hour was growing late, and I was waiting for the frat boys to pass out unconscious so I could rummage through their wallets. Suddenly, The Snark was beset upon by a 300-pound defensive lineman from the football team of the venerable Funk University (OLD F U). At first I was flattered. Then, I realized that the idiot thought that I was Jodie Foster! Talk about beer goggles!

I’m sorry, I lost my train of thought. But, here’s a bit of wisdom … “Making love on an escalator is a moving experience….. until your wanker gets caught in the mechanism.

– Uncle Snarky –

Recently, a reader named Smoot Knudsen from Smorgasbord, Sweden wrote The Snark:

Dear Uncle Snarky,

We have heard of you, here in Europe.  Your name is legendary.  We use Uncle Snarky stories to frighten the children so that they will not ask us for books or food, or more slack.  Sometimes, late at night, I like to pretend that I’m you and I’m violating moose and woodchucks with impunity.  I giggle like that little girl on The Brady Bunch who could not say “she sells seashells by the seashore”.

Here’s my problem.  I have a cousin named Mordechai.  He’s a pretty nice fellow but he’s kind of confused.  He’s got muscles in his head that ain’t never been used.  Thinks he own half of this town.  I think I could have a song there!  But I digress.

Mordechai loves to play a game called “I’m going to kill your ass with a machete”.  He loves this game so much.  But, there’s a real downside to the game.  Every member of my family is dead now except for Mordechai and me.  I have a strong suspicion that Mordechai might be a few muskrats shy of an orgy.  Know what I mean?
I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but I really don’t want to play “I’m going to kill your ass with a machete” with Mordechai.  I just can’t see it ending well.  What would you suggest?

P.S.  I want a pony.  I want a fucking pony.

Uncle Snarky Replies …

Smoot, Smoot, Smoot,

What the hell is your problem?  You have a cousin who wants to be in your life and he’s making every effort to include you in his activities and you seem so ungrateful.  I saw the picture of Mordechai that you sent and he looks like a fine fellow to me.  He obviously has your best interests at heart.

I suggest that you invite him to your house for a sleep-over tonight.  Make some s’mores and do each other’s hair.  I know The Snark never feels better than when he’s freshly pedicured, and has a head full of Dippity Do.  It’s Heaven …. whoops, I mean Valhalla.

One more thing.  Wait until Cousin Mordechai has dozed off for the evening and then chainsaw his ass into bite-sized pieces and set the house on fire.  What are you, an idiot?  This crazy bastard has watched one too many Friday The 13th movies and has caused me to urinate in my chair.

P.S.  About the pony …..   

– Uncle Snarky

Chris P. Bacon, a reader from Hog Nut, Arkansas writes:

Dear Uncle Snarky,

I am a boy who belongs to a girl scout troop.  I feel that boys are underrepresented in the girl scouts and I am a trailblazer for a better tomorrow.  We need a guest speaker for our next troop meeting, and since we couldn’t get the dude that lives in the oleander bushes behind the 7-11 store, we thought, what the hell?  Uncle Snarky is better than nothing.

Some of the parents are objecting to having you speak to our troop.  They say there are rumors that you’re a pervert and a weirdo.  Sally’s mother says she saw your face on one of the most wanted posters in the Post Office and that you’re a corruptor of youth.

So, how about it?

Uncle Snarky replies:

I feel you on the trailblazing, Crispy, I mean, Chris P.  The Snark was enrolled at the St. Agnes School for Morally Bankrupt Girls for almost seven months before they figured out I was a guy.  I’m pretty sure it was the penis that gave me away.

I must say, I’ve become tired of the rumors of my perversion.  I feel that I’ve done more than enough to substantiate those rumors and they should now be considered stone cold facts!  

Do the girl scouts still do those horrible hazing rituals?  I remember this one time, when I was at St. Agnes.  The girls said I had to pass a “test” before I could become a scout.  I was force fed toadstools that coincidentally grew behind the 7-11 store.  I was tripping balls, I mean, tripping vulva, and ended up getting arrested for impersonating Chelsea Clinton and demanding special treatment at Wal Mart.  They say that the taser won’t have any permanent effect on my reproductive ability, but the kick in the crotch I got from the police donkey might.

That ain’t Hello Kitty peeking out of my arse!

I can’t remember what the hell your question was, but let me leave you with this bit of wisdom … never try to smuggle a badger from Mexico into the United States by hiding it in your underwear.  Nothing good will come of it.

– Uncle Snarky

Dammit.  I thought she said fish STICKS.