Dear Cthulhu: Issue #25



Dear Cthulhu,

I wrote to you recently regarding the troubles my wife and I were having getting pregnant and our difficulty adopting kids due to our lack of funds. When last I wrote, I was in jail on prostitution and trumped-up baby trafficking charges because I asked prostitutes to let us adopt their children should they ever become pregnant.

I admit I didn’t take your advice to plead guilty to the solicitation charge to get a slap on the wrist and go home. I come from a religious family where such a thing would be very shameful, even if it wasn’t true.

Luckily, all the charges were dropped thanks to a good judge. Turns out the cops who did the sting had recorded the whole thing. They hadn’t introduced the video as evidence, relying on the undercover officer’s testimony. My public defender was too stupid to ask to see the recording.

As luck would have it, I was arraigned right after another gentleman was caught in the same sting. They used a video showing that he had requested not only the services of three prostitutes, but a goat, a vacuum cleaner, and an inflatable teddy bear.

The judge asked if my arrest was from the same sting operation and then asked my lawyer if he had seen the video. He admitted he hadn’t, so the recording was played. It clearly showed that I was telling the truth and although I did pay the prostitutes, it was only so I could speak to them about adoptions. Luckily, paying people to talk to you isn’t illegal and all the charges were dropped. Unfortunately, one of the reporters in the courtroom wrote a feature about me in the paper that my wife read. I hadn’t told her about the arrest or who I was speaking to about adoption. At first she didn’t believe me when I told her I hadn’t been with any of those women. After I finally convinced her with a transcript of the court hearings, I dove in head first and mentioned your advice about me having an affair in order to impregnate another woman. My wife slapped me across the face, then moved back home with her mother.

My wife is the love of my life and her leaving hit me hard. And her slap did too. I started drinking heavily. One night while I was extremely drunk, I started trolling the Internet for a way to adopt a baby that wouldn’t cost as much as a small house, which was far more money than we had.

Then an online miracle happened. I found an adoption site that was totally and absolutely free. Admittedly, there was a lot of alcohol in my system and the screen was not only blurry, but there appeared to be two of them, but I wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. I filled out the form and was instantly approved for the adoption. They even emailed me a certificate.

Even though it was two in the morning, I drunk dialed my wife and told her the news. She was so excited and happy, that she came right home and we made mad passionate love.

The next morning I overslept for work and had to leave without taking a shower or eating breakfast, but I made it to work on time. I didn’t have a chance to check my email for the adoption papers until lunchtime. It was then I realized my mistake.

I hadn’t signed up to adopt a child. I hadn’t signed up to adopt a dog or cat either. Instead, I managed to adopt a one-mile section of highway near our house.

I called my wife to try and explain my mistake, but before I could say anything she started telling me about how she had told her entire family, friends, and everybody in town that we’re going to be parents.

If I tell her the truth, I know I’m going to lose her and be a laughingstock. But if I don’t tell her, she’ll figure it out when no baby arrives. Should I kidnap a child? I could drive several hours away.

I know you mentioned that you managed to get a woman to let you adopt her baby. Do you think you can help a guy out and hook me up? Please? Or even let me adopt that baby from you. I’d be eternally grateful.

—Even More Paternally Perturbed Man In Manitoba


Dear Perturbed,

Letting you adopt him is no longer an option. Sadly, my adopted son—who incidentally I named Delicious—is no longer with us, although he lingered with me for days. It was a painful loss, mainly because Delicious gave me such heartburn. And Cthulhu has not gotten any letters recently from people trying to get rid of their unwanted or tasty children. Although that in and of itself is an oddity. As I mentioned to you in my response to your previous letter, human parenting is a thankless and heartbreaking task. Every few months I get a letter from a parent wanting to get rid of their children in some way, shape, or form. Amazingly, few are actually willing to go through with it in the end, some out of misguided love and others from a fear that the authorities might prosecute them.

I do not recommend kidnapping a child. Fifty years ago it may have worked, but today in the information age, any missing child will have an Amber alert issued and anyone with a new baby will eventually meet someone who starts asking questions and is intelligent and nosy enough to call a tip line. After a quick round of genetic testing, there will be no doubt as to your crime.

I do not believe you will be able to procure a baby in time to placate your wife and adopting a pet will not be the same, especially for a human female who feels motherhood is passing her by.

Cthulhu reiterates that your best bet for a child is to impregnate another woman, then sue for joint custody.

Barring that, go out and purchase one of those It’s a Boy signs with a stork on it and put it out on your stretch of highway and bring your wife by and explain what happened. Perhaps she will have a sense of humor about it. Or, more likely, file for divorce. Of course, that will leave you unencumbered to go out and try to impregnate other women. And if you are successful in gaining custody, you can use the child as a lure to re-kindle your romance with your wife. Or perhaps you will find you enjoy the new and fertile female more than your barren and unsupportive one.

Have A Dark Day



Dear Cthulhu welcomes letters and questions at All letters become the property of Dear Cthulhu and may be used in future columns. Dear Cthulhu is a work of fiction and satire and is © and ™ Patrick Thomas. All rights reserved. Anyone foolish enough to follow the advice does so at their own peril. For more Dear Cthulhu get the collections Cthulhu Knows Best; Dear Cthulhu: Have A Dark Day; and Dear Cthulhu: Good Advice For Bad People from Dark Quest Books.


Dear Cthulhu: Issue #24



Dear Cthulhu,

I’m a newly single mother and I’m slowly going insane. I feel as if any moment I might crack and go postal.

My son is five months old and hasn’t slept for more than three hours since he was born. I’m exhausted. I can barely keep my eyes open at work, which is bad because I drive a school bus.

To compound everything, I am convinced I’ve got postpartum depression. I talked to my doctor about it. She gave me some medicine, but it hasn’t helped. I’m barely able to function. I’m afraid to even take a sleeping pill to get one good night’s sleep because I’m worried my son could die before I wake up. Of course, when he wakes me up after the only twenty minutes of sleep I’ve gotten in days, I worry that I might kill him myself.

I’m at the end of my rope. Please tell me what I should do.

—Haggard Mom From Hayward


Dear Haggard,

Get a babysitter long enough for you to sleep. If you cannot afford one, seek other solutions. You never mentioned anything about the sperm donor for your offspring—did he run off? Do you know who he is? If so, a simple paternity test can assure you of child support payments, which could be used to hire a sitter.

Do you have family or friends? Perhaps you could convince one of them to take your child for a night to give you a break, and then take a sleep aid. A good night’s rest will make things look much better. In fact, if you have many close friends, ask each of them to do this on a rotating basis. It should help you cope immensely.

If you are unlikeable and without any people who care about you, then perhaps consider giving the baby something to help him sleep. There are many children’s medicines which would not harm the child, but have sleepiness as a side effect. Many of these are available over-the-counter.

Cthulhu may be stating the obvious here, but are you taking your infant to a pediatrician? There are various conditions and problems an infant may have that will cause them to have difficulty sleeping. Some of them are treatable. If you are lucky, your doctor might find a solution that would save your sanity as well as your family bond.

Of course, there is another option if you are simply looking for a way out of the mess your loins have gotten you into. Most states have a law that allows a mother who is in over her head to drop off a baby at a hospital or a fire or police station without fear of repercussions or being arrested for abandonment.

There is also the possibility of giving the child up for adoption. There are many parents who are unable to conceive offspring of their own and are desperate for a chance to raise the unwanted offspring of another. In fact, Cthulhu himself would be more than happy to take this morsel… rather darling child off your hands. Cthulhu can personally guarantee that the child will never want for anything again. And then the two of you will be able to rest in peace, although perhaps in different ways.



Dear Cthulhu,

My wife and I have been married for six years and we’ve been trying for five of those to have a child. The love of my life has something called endometriosis, which makes it very hard, if not impossible, for her to conceive. We depleted our meager savings to try fertility treatments, all to no avail. A while back we came to the realization that we just weren’t going to be able to have children of our own, so we started to look into adoption.

We’d like to adopt from this country, but our state has some stupid law that the mother of the child has a year to change her mind. I can’t imagine the heartbreak if after 364 days the birth mother decided she’d changed her mind and wanted our baby back. It’d crush me and probably kill my poor wife. We considered adopting from overseas, but I couldn’t believe how expensive it is. We were looking at up to fifty grand, sometimes more. We simply don’t have that kind of money. We barely managed to scrape together five grand after six months of eating peanut butter sandwiches and Ramen noodles.

One way around needing most of the money was to find someone who wanted to give away their baby. Sadly, we’re not the only ones trying this route. The pregnant young girls treat the situation like a reality show and pick the couples with the flashiest cars. We’re not allowed to give them money, but I know for a fact that some of the couples who were chosen gave the girls expensive gifts.

I needed to get around the rich people who were blocking our plays, so I started trolling the seedier parts of town and talking to hookers. I told them if they ever got pregnant, not to have an abortion because my wife and I would be happy to adopt the child.

Next thing you know, I got arrested for prostitution in a sting operation. The girls told me they were working and had to be paid for their time. I wanted to get in their good graces, so I paid in case they got pregnant in the future.

The cops say the charges will stick because I gave the girls money, but all the girls insisted that I paid them just to talk to them. The cops don’t believe them either because that story gets them off the hook too. I told anyone who would listen that I wasn’t trying to have sex with anyone, I was just giving them an option of what to do should they ever get pregnant. Now the District Attorney’s Office is talking about adding baby trafficking to my indictment.

My bail is ten grand, so I can’t even get out. We don’t have that much. I’m sitting in the slammer in a city two hours from home and running through all my vacation days. I’ve only told my wife that I’m trying to figure out a way to get us a child.

I am emailing this to you from jail. We get twenty minutes of computer time every day. I have a public defender that I’m not sure graduated from law school in this country. He certainly doesn’t act like he knows what he’s doing. He told me he was going to try and see if he could plea bargain it down to endangerment of a minor, even though I explained to him there were no actual children involved.

At this point, I’m tempted to defend myself. What should I do?

—Paternally Perturbed Man in Manchester


Dear Perturbed,

Truthfully, Cthulhu has never understood the innate need of humans to produce offspring. The instinctual imperative does help to keep the species propagated, but let us continue to be truthful. Humans are so obsessed with procreation that even with birth control, there will be mistakes that happen and more children will be born.

Why just last month, Cthulhu got a letter from a woman with postpartum depression similar to the one above, whose screaming and crying infant was keeping her up at all hours of the night. It was driving her insane. Cthulhu offered her a win-win situation and Cthulhu adopted the child. She now has her life back and I had a wonderful child. You would not believe how plump and sweet the child was, but enough about my dinner and back to your issue.

There is a simple way to get yourself out of jail—simply plead guilty. Unless there is some sort of unusual bid for election to a higher office happening, prostitution stings usually involve a fine and a public shaming in the papers. Offer to plead guilty to the prostitution if they dropped the other charges, pay the few hundred dollar fine and go back home to your wife.

Then before continuing on this mad quest, Cthulhu suggests you take a closer look at the people around you who have small children and see how tired and unhappy they really are. Then look at those with teenagers, especially rebellious ones and see the heartache these offspring are causing their parents. If you look at this logically, you shall realize how much better off you are without children.

If this does not change your mind, simply inform your wife that you are going to try to have an affair with another woman. I know at first this will seem like something she would not want, but then explain to her that you’re only doing it to get the woman pregnant. Then after the child is born, you can sue for shared custody and your wife can help you raise your illegitimate offspring. Admittedly, the best you could hope for to have the child half the time, but is not half a child better than none? Especially if served with a good hollandaise sauce.

Have A Dark Day



Dear Cthulhu welcomes letters and questions at All letters become the property of Dear Cthulhu and may be used in future columns. Dear Cthulhu is a work of fiction and satire and is © and ™ Patrick Thomas. All rights reserved. Anyone foolish enough to follow the advice does so at their own peril. For more Dear Cthulhu get the collections Cthulhu Knows Best; Dear Cthulhu: Have A Dark Day; and Dear Cthulhu: Good Advice For Bad People from Dark Quest Books.


Dear Cthulhu: Issue #23



Dear Cthulhu,

I am a Second Amendment advocate (I hate the term “gun nut”). I’ve been collecting guns ever since my father gave me my first rifle on my third birthday. I currently have over 300 rifles, shotguns and automatic weapons and another 150 handguns, both revolvers and automatics. I have more stored ammunition than the National Guard.

It’s more than just a hobby with me, it’s a fashion statement. My handgun collection comes in a number of styles and colors. I may carry concealed, but that’s no reason for my gun to clash with my outfit. I, of course, have all the necessary permits to carry concealed.

Then I realized that I had all this wonderful armament and, because I live alone, no one ever gets to see it. A few times I invited some friends over and showed off my collection, but they all got very nervous and made excuses to leave. Which is a shame, because I had bought a bunch of guns as lovely parting gifts. Their loss.

Then I met a few guys who were stationed in Afghanistan and had snuck some neat things out of the country. They sold me my very own rocket launcher. Cthulhu, you should see this baby. It is beyond awesome. It could take out a helicopter, plane or tractor-trailer. I had a neighbor who needed some land cleared and was gonna pay a lot of money to knock down some trees. I did it for free.

I love this thing more than I’ve loved any other object or person in my life. I sleep with it. I sit it in a chair at the table when I eat with a napkin tied around its neck. I even put up a special wall hook in the bathroom so I didn’t have to be apart from “Launchy” when I showered. The only time I was away from Launchy was when I worked. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that it was stupid to leave Launchy home just because I had a job. I mean lots of other people bring stuff to work like purses and cell phones. Why shouldn’t I be able to bring a rocket launcher?

So I did. Unfortunately, the principal of the school I work at as a second grade teacher objected and called the cops on me. I was arrested and they got a search warrant for my house. When they found my collection, they seized it and put me in jail without bail. And without Launchy.

It’s just not fair, I tell you. Now they think I’m a danger to the kids. Did anyone ask the kids? From what the rugrats told me, it was the greatest show and tell. Ever.

I have looked to the American Rifle Association for assistance, but even they are not willing to help me because I brought it to a school and it’s technically not a gun.

So, Cthulhu, tell me… do you feel taking rocket launchers to an elementary school is covered by the Second Amendment or not?

—Gun and Rocket Launcher Advocate in Albuquerque


Dear Gun Nut,

As a whole, Cthulhu is amused by the laws of human kind. My understanding is that the original intent of the Second Amendment was to prevent tyranny, using the logic that it would be easier to conquer people who could not shoot back. Nothing in there gives you the right to bring a weapon to show and tell.

As far as the stockpiling of weapons goes, Cthulhu has no objections to small arms as I am impervious to them. Cthulhu is not fond of nuclear weapons. Not only can they give me a bad sunburn, but they poison the planet I will one day rule or destroy, not to mention kill off the people which are fated to serve me and serve as my source of food and amusement. So I do not care about you having the weapons you mentioned so long as you do not use them on other humans, which are by rights mine.

It appears that you have lost touch with the reality that most of your fellow humans share. There have been a number of senseless gun-related tragedies, several involving children in schools. Bringing any kind of weapon to school violates not only the school district’s likely zero-tolerance weapons policy, but common sense as well. Children are humanity’s future and my future subjects and as such should be protected.

It does appear to Cthulhu as though you had no plans to actually use the weapon. However most other people would not realize that. You were fortunate to be taken alive, all things considered.

Instead of bringing the weapon to work, you should have opened up a gun museum and put the pieces on display. That way fellow gun nuts could come admire your hardware without any perceived threat of injury to others. A pity you didn’t write to Cthulhu before show and tell. It seems likely that you will be convicted and convicted felons are typically banned from owning firearms and it would most certainly be a condition of any parole. You will have to take up a new hobby. Have you considered taxidermy, cockroach racing or stamp collecting? Maybe trying to get a complete collection of every Dear Cthulhu column and book ever published will help fill the void.

Have A Dark Day.



Dear Cthulhu welcomes letters and questions at All letters become the property of Dear Cthulhu and may be used in future columns. Dear Cthulhu is a work of fiction and satire and is © and ™ Patrick Thomas. All rights reserved. Anyone foolish enough to follow the advice does so at their own peril. For more Dear Cthulhu get the collections Cthulhu Knows Best; Dear Cthulhu: Have A Dark Day; and Dear Cthulhu: Good Advice For Bad People from Dark Quest Books.


Dear Cthulhu: Issue #22



Dear Cthulhu,

I’m a straight C student. Unfortunately I’m the child of two overachievers. Both my parents were valedictorians of their high school class. My mom’s a rocket scientist. My dad is a brain surgeon. They are constantly on my case about my grades, trying to motivate and force me to work harder, telling me that I’m never going to get into a decent college. This despite the fact that I really do study hard. The problem is I was diagnosed with dyslexia and I have trouble reading. However, I excel in areas they never did. I’m the pitcher for my school’s baseball team and can throw a 92 MPH fastball. I’m also class president and a member of the chess club. My parents taught me the game soon after I was able to walk. It’s the one area where I’m actually better than the two of them. Whenever we play these days, I set up two boards and play them both at the same time. I haven’t lost since I was eight.

For years, I pointed out that I’m good enough to get a scholarship to college for baseball, which likely means they would overlook C grades. I would also qualify for a scholarship for chess. They’re few and far between, but they do exist. It wasn’t enough for them.

Because of cuts in federal funding, when teachers retired at my school, they didn’t replace them. Instead, existing teachers had to double up, so my math and science teacher was the same woman, Ms. “Galore”. Ms. Galore is also the faculty advisor to the chess club. A few months back, on my 18th birthday, I was the only one on the chess team who made nationals. I spent a lot of time with Ms. Galore practicing and we became very close. I even gave her a shoulder to cry on when her husband divorced her for a college cheerleader.

The chess club raised enough money for me and one other person to travel to Las Vegas for nationals. I asked my parents to go. Mom was working on a reusable rocket design for a private corporation and Dad had been asked to give a talk at the local elementary school on career day, so they both said no. Despite all their other accomplishments, I honestly think there are some jealousy issues on their part. They met playing chess and I’ve been a better player than the two of them combined since I was a kid.

So I asked Ms. Galore and she said yes.

Despite all the raised money, there was only enough to pay for one hotel room and we had to share.

The night before the tournament I was real nervous and couldn’t stop pacing. Ms. Galore suggested we play a game of chess to calm me down. I beat her in twelve moves and didn’t stop pacing the whole time.

Ms. Galore had been trying to teach me to play with distractions, so she suggested we play strip chess. It was like a dream come true. Ms. Galore was the hottest woman I’ve ever seen in real life. It worked because I lost my shirt in the first game, but after that I beat the pants off her. Then the blouse and bra. I was distracted again and had lost everything but my boxers before I starting winning again and finally beat her thong off her, leaving her naked.

She stood to give me a congratulatory hug. When I stood my boxers had a very distinct shape. Ms. Galore looked down and smiled and the hug ended up leading to something else much more intimate and wonderful.

The next day at the national chess tournament, not only did I win, but I did it in record time. I was motivated. Ms. Galore promised to let me try anything I wanted with her if I won the tournament and I was in a hurry to take her up on the offer.

I got a trophy and a small award ceremony when I got back to the school. The tournament was in November and ever since then my grades in math and physics jumped to perfect scores.

My parents were thrilled, although they still give me grief over my other C classes. I’ve gotten several scholarship offers for both chess and baseball. One of the chess scholarships would even let me bring my coach up to the college level with me. And I’m seriously considering bringing Ms. Galore, because not everything that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, although she is refusing to go to prom with me. Afraid of losing her job and teaching license.

The problem is I know I didn’t earn those As, at least in the traditional sense. I’m torn about whether or not I should confess, but I don’t want anything to happen to Ms. Galore or to lose my scholarship offers. And I would love to bring her to college with me to keep me motivated, but the baseball scholarship is to a better school and covers everything, while the chess one only covers tuition.

What should I do?

—Chess Player in Cleveland


Dear Chess,

You may be thinking with the wrong body part. Confession will do nothing positive for anyone involved. You did earn you grades even if it was not in the traditionally accepted way. For centuries men have been trading money, prestige and other favors to women in return for procreational acts. In recent years, women have been getting in on the act. You seemed pleased with the results and were not forced, so keep your mouth shut.

Cthulhu recommends not bringing Ms. Galore to college with you. You may meet someone your own age that you want to procreate with. Or you may both decide that you are both in the nonsense called love and want to be together, which would still get her fired, as few colleges will let their staff procreate with students. Since you are no longer her student, you might be able to formally date her.

Also it might be disturbing to you if she meets other men at the college closer to her age and decides to teach them how to work through distractions the same way she did with you.

Have a Dark Day



Dear Cthulhu welcomes letters and questions at All letters become the property of Dear Cthulhu and may be used in future columns. Dear Cthulhu is a work of fiction and satire and is © and ™ Patrick Thomas. All rights reserved. Anyone foolish enough to follow the advice does so at their own peril. For more Dear Cthulhu get the collections Cthulhu Knows Best; Dear Cthulhu: Have A Dark Day; and Dear Cthulhu: Good Advice For Bad People from Dark Quest Books.


Dear Cthulhu: Issue #21



Dear Cthulhu,

I’ve read your last two columns dealing with breastfeeding issues with interest. Let me throw my problem into the mix. I am also getting extra scrutiny and grief for my breastfeeding which I think stems from my being male.

It all started five years ago when my son was born. My wife refused to breastfeed and made this decision while still pregnant. I argued with her that all the studies and anecdotal evidence pointed to the benefits of breastfeeding for physical, cognitive and emotional development. We kept fighting for a week until she finally screamed at me that if I wanted our child to be breastfed so badly that I should do the breastfeeding.

If was an off-handed comment made under the assumption that only women can breastfeed. It turns out it’s not true. A small number of men have been able to breastfeed by taking hormones. I decided to add myself to their number. My wife was more than a little taken aback. I said I wouldn’t if she would do it, but she stuck to her guns never believing I’d go through with it. But I did.

I breastfed our son and to be honest I thoroughly enjoyed it so I did the same for our twin daughters. My wife and I were fine with three kids so she had her tubes tied but I didn’t want to stop breastfeeding. I applied for a job with a rich family as a wet nurse. Apparently the wife paid big bucks for her breasts and felt she was too good to use them to feed her own kid.

I was told I got the job until I showed up and they found out I was a man. My name is Fran, so they assumed I was a female. I was fired on the spot.

I sued for sexual discrimination. They decided to settle out of court and as part of it gave me the job. They owned a dairy and just didn’t want the negative publicity.

Things worked out for a while. I was making double what I made at my full-time job. Then things got a little freaky and I did some thing I was embarrassed by, but got almost a half million in bonuses.

I figured that would be the end of it but it wasn’t. First, I should explain what I had to do to get the cash. “Mr. Dairyman” was a bit of a closet freak. Apparently he was never breastfed as an infant. He told me it was one of the reasons he paid for the missus’ breast enhancement. It was also one of the reasons he wanted a wet nurse, not so much for the kid but for him.

The first time he asked me to nurse him, I told him to go to hell. The second time he waved ten grand in my face and I relented. I mean, I managed to nurse twins and had plenty left over. I figured that one time would be the end of it, but it wasn’t. He kept coming back and each time waving more cash. Then his requests got weirder, but the money kept going up. I agreed to everything but the shaving of my chest. I mean a man should have chest hair, even if he works as a wet nurse. I felt cheap and used, but rich at the same time.

I didn’t tell anyone about it. I figured I’d wait it out and pocket everything I could and move on.

I didn’t count on a big-breasted maid who was mad at Dairyman because he had been carrying on with her and had been neglecting that affair to drink my “father’s milk.” She hid a camera and recorded one of our sessions in which Dairyman milked me like a cow into a bucket and then drank the bucket. Then he set up a bunch of shot glasses and squirted my father’s milk like he was using water pistols.

And, as sad as it is to say, that was one of our tamer sessions.

The problem is the maid posted the video on Itube. Dairyman hit the ceiling and his wife left him and took the kid, so I figured I’d be out of a job. Instead he tripled my salary to stay on. My wife doesn’t surf the net much, so she hasn’t seen the video yet. You can’t make out much of me except for my chest, but that would be enough for her to recognize me. Besides, how many breastfeeding men are there out there? I’m torn. I don’t feel it is cheating because we never had sex, but it looks bad. I’m not sure how I will explain it to her if she finds out, let alone how I’d explain going to work as a wet nurse in a house without a baby. The truth is she thinks I’m still working at the rock quarry.

It’s really got me bothered to the point where I’m considering stopping the hormones and letting my father’s milk dry up. There’s just no joy in nursing anymore. I need some guidance. What should I do?

–Breastfeeding Papa Playing Milking Games In Milwaukee


Dear Breastfeeding,

When faced with a problem like this, one needs to ask oneself is it worth it? From what you have written, it no longer is for you. I suggest you do stop the hormones and leave your job at Dairyman’s. You are richer than when you started so you can get by without a job for a while. (Although you fail to mention if you declared the income. Cthulhu suggests that if you do not have a foolproof way of not getting caught that you report it. Those people at the IRS scare even Cthulhu.)

You need to have the maid take the video off. There will still be copies up, but it reduces your risk somewhat. Since she is unlikely to be predisposed to help you, I suggest you offer to take her with you to the doctor who gave you the hormones and he could do the same for her. In fact, do it right and you might be able to get a nice severance package from Dairyman.

Have A Dark Day.



Dear Cthulhu welcomes letters and questions at All letters become the property of Dear Cthulhu and may be used in future columns. Dear Cthulhu is a work of fiction and satire and is © and ™ Patrick Thomas. All rights reserved. Anyone foolish enough to follow the advice does so at their own peril.


Dear Cthulhu: Issue #20



Dear Cthulhu,
I’ve had a very traumatic week. I just found out that my girlfriend of three years was just a figment of my imagination. I still don’t believe it. I mean I admit I was always suspicious when she never wanted to go out and I never met her parents but she met mine and a bunch of my friends.

My co-workers told me that all my pictures of the two of us together were PhotoShopped. Apparently they first became suspicious because “Monroe” looked just like Marilyn Monroe. Truthfully, it was one of the first things that attracted me to her. I, of course, defended our relationship and pointed out to one of my co-workers that her boyfriend looked like Marilyn Manson and I didn’t judge her or her goth ways. I swore the picture wasn’t touched up, that she was real. I even tried to prove it by calling her on my cell phone. When she picked up, I put her on speakerphone. All my co-workers claim all they heard was the listing of movies and times for the local theater. I started to listen to them. I admit that it did seem rather odd that all she talked about were movies. I needed another opinion so I called my ex. She looked like Raquel Welch. Oddly, when I called her, her number gave the weather. I asked my parents about the times we had dinner together. My mom told me that she had never met Monroe. She told me I had always had imaginary friends and just never grew out of it. She said she always humored me so I didn’t get upset. In fact she explained that she had never married and had always been a single mother. She got pregnant with me after a drunken binge at college. She told me my father never existed. Yet I remember him tucking me in, checking under my bed for monsters, playing catch with me. When I asked her how a figment of my imagination could throw a ball. Mom said I would go out in the backyard and throw the ball up on the roof and let it roll down and catch it.

Needless to say, my world was shaken. I called my friends and got a suicide hotline, a computer help line, and a number that took toaster registrations. I realized for the first time how odd it was that my childhood friends looked like Humphrey Bogart, John Wayne and Kermit the Frog. And my father looked like Homer Simpson.

My problem is figuring out if I am crazy or just have some odd-looking friends. And did I waste all that money over the years buying condoms? How do I figure it out?

–Possible Head of The Imagi-Nation


Dear Head,

Yours is a pitiful tale. Cthulhu is not a psychiatrist but it does appear that you do have some serious reality perception issues. It is very sad. Normally Cthulhu would encourage your delusions to have some fun with you, however there are those who consider Cthulhu himself a figment of fiction, of imagination and fantasy and that these columns are written by another pretending to be me. To them and you I say that reality is usually a harsh place and if these fantasies help you cope and give you some happiness, then do not toss them aside. However try to put the same amount of effort into connecting with real people. And always check the phone numbers you call with your mother or co-workers to make sure you are not calling for sports scores or a recipe hotline.



Dear Cthulhu,

I read your recent comment to the woman who was getting grief for breastfeeding her adult son in public. I too have problems breastfeeding in public, even though my daughter is an infant. My problem is I look very masculine and people call the police on me. I’ve been arrested three times as a sexual predator. I’m let go each time after the strip search, but still it is embarrassing. And I still have a court date and had to come up with twenty grand for bail because they wouldn’t accept the word of the officer who searched me.

Plus, my husband left me. Turns out he was really gay and just married me to have a beard to fool and please his parents. It’s hard enough being a single mother without all this going on. How can I stop this from happening to me?

–Manly Woman in Manchester


Dear Manly,

Yes. Stop breastfeeding in public. Use a breast pump, put the milk in a bottle and use that while you are out.

However you have suffered at the hands of others and the great thing about your country is that it gives anyone the ability to get revenge and inappropriately large sums of money by suing for real or imagined slights. You should file a civil rights lawsuit for sexual harassment and discrimination. I assume the officers who strip-searched you were male. Cthulhu has never been depraved enough to attend law school, however that alone should add a zero or two onto the end of your settlement. You can then use some of the money to visit a plastic surgeon to make you more feminine. And be sure to save some for your daughter when she grows up. Chances are she will resemble you and need the same surgical fix to make sure other children do not mistake her for a male.

Have A Dark Day.



Dear Cthulhu welcomes letters and questions at All letters become the property of Dear Cthulhu and may be used in future columns. Dear Cthulhu is a work of fiction and satire and is © and ™ Patrick Thomas. All rights reserved. Anyone foolish enough to follow the advice does so at their own peril.


Dear Cthulhu: Issue #19



Dear Cthulhu,

I am constantly being criticized by friends and even strangers for breastfeeding my son in public. They all try to tell me he’s too old. I think it is up to the mother when she stops breastfeeding her kids. Besides, he just won’t take the formula. I’ve tried and he doesn’t like it. If it helps, my little one turned thirty-six last month.

–Momma Manning the Milk Pumps


Dear Milk,

Traditionally when the child can open up the mother’s shirt and help himself to a snack, it is time to cut them off. And it is quite possible that your behavior is keeping him from meeting women his own age to play and procreate with. If you are interested in grandchildren, I suggest stopping the feeding immediately. But look at it this way. You have kept your mammaries going for almost four decades. Maintain that with a breast pump for a while longer and you may be able to feed your grandchildren as well. I would suggest not mentioning it to your future daughter-inlaw or your son’s baby’s momma because she would probably not understand and would likely ban you from babysitting.



Dear Cthulhu,

I’m an avid gardener and I had been having trouble with vermin. I set traps, sprayed and put up those little sonic things to drive them off, and it didn’t do a bit of good. Something kept stealing my carrots so I waited patiently in my garden with a shovel in my right hand and a bottle of bourbon in my left. Finally after three hours, a rabbit showed up and I caught him nibbling on my cucumbers, so I clocked him over the head. The memory of that horrible clang has stayed with me ever since. That and the sloshing sound my bourbon made as it poured out onto the ground. I’m not sure which haunts me more.

The poor critter’s head was caved in and blood turned his white coat red. The worst part was his tiny little eyes stayed open and seemed to be staring at me, accusing me of murder. That or the voices in my head were messing with me again.

I’ve never killed anything before, not even a spider. Unless you count with my car and I don’t. I mean it can’t really count since they took my license away, right? Besides I’d been having a stressful week, finding out my girlfriend was cheating on me with her Clydesdale. If I had to be honest, I probably took out my jealousy on the rabbit, not that that excuses the bunnicide. Or the Clydesdale back-kicking me when I tried to make it a eunuch. My fault on both counts. I should have brought something sharper and bigger than the file on my nail clippers for the operation, but my probation doesn’t allow me to get caught carrying sharp weapons.

I buried the dead fuzzy thing near the tomatoes. Can’t waste good fertilizer, right? Since it was technically a memorial service, I tried to say a few words, but I got too choked up. Plus I didn’t really know Fuzzy, so I switched themes and poured some booze on the rabbit and lit him up. Technically Fuzzy died in battle so I figured he deserved a Viking funeral. I even jammed a couple of twigs in the side of his head to made it look like he was wearing one of those helmets. I’m a little fuzzy on what happened to Fuzzy, but he may have gotten up and ran around while he was still on fire. I told him to stop, drop and roll, but he didn’t listen. I guess he couldn’t hear me over all the noise. I never knew a rabbit could scream. Of course that’s assuming it wasn’t alcohol-induced hallucinations, but I usually enjoy those.

Now Fuzzy is haunting me. First in nightmares, then I saw a rabbit running through my garden and I knew it had to be Fuzzy back from the dead. One time I saw three of him. Double I’m used to, but triple? And one of him was even different colors. All of them were still eating my veggies, but I figured I owed him so I only chased him around with the shovel for an hour or so before I passed out and decided to let him go.

I figured I’d best move his body somewhere else so both of us could rest in peace. The problem is I didn’t exactly mark off where I buried Fuzzy and I was rather drunk at the time. And it’s also possible his flaming ghost may have risen from the grave to burn down my neighbor’s house. Witnesses said they saw a flaming rabbit running around the building right before it went up in smoke. Truth be told, it could have been the same night as the Viking funeral. Time sort of runs together when I drink. And I’m not really sure if I hooked up with a hot Playmate Bunny around that time or if something else happened that I’d rather not talk about. Of course it would explain some rather embarrassing burn marks.

How do I exorcise the spirit of this crazed rabbit and get my life and garden back?

–Killed The Rabbit In Kalamazoo


Dear Kalamazoo,

Haunted by the dead and angry spirit of a murdered bunny rabbit. Certainly not something for the faint of heart. There is indeed a way to rid yourself of this horrible specter, but it will not be easy. In fact I suggest you make sure you are halfway to inebriation before even trying it. It does not sound like it will be a long trip.

First you must strip off all your clothes and tie a single carrot around the front of your waist, as well as one to each wrist and another pair to your head that are pointed upward over each ear. Next, you must start doing the bunny hop in your garden and make your way down the street to your neighbor’s burnt home, all the while chanting “Bunny, bunny go away, don’t come back to haunt me another day.” The more people who see you the better. Cthulhu will be sending a film crew as well. I need an entry for a home video show.

Have A Dark Day.



Dear Cthulhu welcomes letters and questions at All letters become the property of Dear Cthulhu and may be used in future columns. Dear Cthulhu is a work of fiction and satire and is © and ™ Patrick Thomas. All rights reserved. Anyone foolish enough to follow the advice does so at their own peril.


Dear Cthulhu: Issue #18



Dear Cthulhu,

My wife is a huge racing fan. She was that way when I married her but lately things have changed for the worse. She’s given herself the nickname “Speedy” and insists the kids and I call her that. She pretends like she can’t hear us if we don’t. Whenever we go somewhere, Speedy insists on driving. It’s not that I mind being chauffeured, it’s that she drives like she’s on a track. She’ll do upward of 80 MPH in a 30 zone. Speedy’s been pulled over a dozen times, but gets out of a ticket every time because her dad is the chief of police and her mom is a local judge.

I’ve tried to get her to go for counseling, but that only made it worse because the therapist made her get in touch with her inner driver. Now she will only turn left, which makes getting off a highway dangerous. Forget about local driving—we live in a part of New Jersey where they make you go right to go left. The bottom line is that we have three kids and I worry about their safety, especially when I go to work and leave them with their mother.

Worse still, she’s out in our garage souping up our minivan with nitrous oxide boosters. She bought a racing jumpsuit and a helmet, which she wears when she drives. Speedy painted a number on the sides of our minivan. That would be the least of it if I didn’t have to put up with the snickers and rude comments from the neighborhood guys, which wouldn’t even have been an issue if she had chosen any other number but 69.

The very worst part of it is she splits up all her errands. Instead of going to the grocery store, hair salon and auto parts store in one trip, she stops at the house in between each and expects me and the kids to act as her pit crew. The cost in tires in the past week was more than my last paycheck. When I talked to her about it, Speedy told me not to worry, that we’ll only have to pay for the tires until she lands a sponsor like Greatday or Hotrock Tires. Then she hit me with a tire iron when I suggested that since she wasn’t a real racer that might not happen and that it wasn’t safe to have the kids work on the car. Our three-year-old cut his hand and needed stitches after using the power impact wrench to take off the lug nuts and the eight-year-old went up like a Roman candle after the racing gas can backed up and dosed him and a spark set him on fire. Luckily I instantly doused him with the racing fire extinguisher Speedy keeps near the car, but he still lost all the hair on his arms and both eyebrows.

I’m at my wit’s end. If I leave her, her dad will make my life miserable and if I try to get custody of the kids, her mom will make sure whatever judge I get gives them to her. I’ve thought about cutting her brake lines, but I’m too worried I’ll get caught and I couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t have the kids in the car with her when the brakes fail. What can I do?

–Married To A Racest


Dear Married,

Once again, Cthulhu must state that humans should not kill humans. That pleasure is reserved for Cthulhu alone. I suggest first trying medication. If you can’t get a local physician to prescribe for your wife, maybe for you. Many humans seem to care less while on narcotics. There are several internet sites that will help you out, whether you decide to medicate yourself or your spouse. Of course, you will have to research which medication you feel will work the best and not have bad side effects. Without any medical background this will be a challenge, dangerous, and also fun.

I also recommend feeding into her psychosis. Find a local stock car race league and have her join. It is possible that racing for real may decrease her desire to pretend to race. And work hard to convince her that driving on the side decreases her potency on race day. Make up quotes to that effect from racers she admires and post them on the web under another name as if they are news, then show them to her as if you found them.

As for protecting your offspring, mention to her that most sponsors follow child labor laws, at least in their factories in the Untied States, so using child labor will hurt her chances of landing a sponsorship deal. Of course, that will leave you a one-man pit crew. If she stays in the car, use the power tool to make noises and move around like you are really changing the tires after spraying something foamy on her rear view mirrors so she can’t see. Wipe it off only after you are done. This should save your back and your tire bill.

Have A Dark Day.


Dear Cthulhu welcomes letters and questions at All letters become the property of Dear Cthulhu and may be used in future columns. Dear Cthulhu is a work of fiction and satire and is © and ™ Patrick Thomas. All rights reserved. Anyone foolish enough to follow the advice does so at their own peril.


Dear Cthulhu: Issue #17



Dear Cthulhu,

I love cats. I think they are simply delicious and because of that I put up with them as pets. Having them around to barbecue whenever the mood strikes is worth putting up with the furballs, shedding, and changing the litter box. And I never have to worry about getting more. I don’t spay or neuter mine, so they make more. Plus, somebody’s cat is always having kittens and they are so grateful to me for taking them, nobody ever questions how many cats I have. That is until I met Kitty.

She bought the house I rent the first floor of. Turns out she loves cats and started paying attention to mine. I had to start making up names for them, but she caught me when I couldn’t remember the right names. I didn’t want to have trouble with either my landlord or the ASPCA, so I did the first thing I could think of to distract her—I slept with her.

She was very appreciative. Kitty is a tad overweight, if a tad equals about a hundred and fifty pounds. Now every time she asks questions about the cats, I sex her up. Truth be told, she’s damn good in bed. Plus, she took a hundred bucks off my rent and cooks for me, which is good and bad. The woman can cook but I can’t exactly hand her a kitty carcass to cook up. There may be more than one way to skin a cat, but the meat left behind still looks like a furless cat.

Last week I cooked up my last two kittens marsala style and they were scrumptious. Problem is Kitty noticed they were gone and wanted to start posting missing signs all over the neighborhood. I had to pop a Viagra and a cappuccino so I could keep going until she passed out from exhaustion. When she woke up I made up a story about a couple of nuns who were going door to door collecting kittens for the poor. She asked me what the name of the order was and I said they were the Sisters of Perpetual Petting and she gave me a look. She even looked them up on the internet. She obviously didn’t find anything. She wanted me to call the cops and report them as nun impersonators. It took me two hours and some creative uses for my kitchen mixer to distract her that time.

I’m having cravings and want to cook up some kitty, the cat not the girlfriend, but I’m not sure how to explain another disappearance. Should I try to catch one of the neighbor’s cats instead? Although I make sure mine get only the best food and I even milk feed them. Makes the meat much more tender. There might be an inferior taste and maybe even some disease in an outside cat. I’ve thought about moving, but I can’t get an apartment this size for this money anywhere near here and I kind of like Kitty and the things she does for and to me.

Any advice?

–Kitty Eater In Kansas


Dear Kansas,

Cthulhu shares your culinary tastes. In fact, consider picking up my new cookbook, 101 Ways To Skin and Prepare Felines. I admire you raising your own stock; I prefer free-range myself, both in humans and cats. Telling Kitty is obviously not an option if you want to keep your residence and procreation partner. Explain to her that you need some time to yourself. She will of course assume you are trying to dump her. You will assure her with much energetic intercourse that she is mistaken and that you simply need about two hours at 350 degrees, twice a week. Also tell her that you have not adopted the cats, that you are a foster owner taking care of them until good homes can be found so they do not have to stay in kill shelters. When a cat disappears, tell her it was adopted by a caring family. And use an extra-strength room deodorizer as the smell of cooked “care” is very distinctive. Wrap the bones and any leftovers in other garbage and take them to the dump yourself. You do not want her to be throwing something out and see a kitten skull staring back at her, although strung together they make a striking necklace.



Dear Cthulhu,

My wife told me recently she is pregnant with twins. It took her an hour to calm me down because I wanted to know who the father of the other kid was. She claims that I’m the father of both but that doesn’t make sense to me. Is she yanking my chain? I saw her talking to the mailman once and he shows up at the house almost every day, even when I’m at my construction job. I always thought it was suspicious, but my wife claims he goes to every house in the neighborhood. I tried to get the other husbands together to keep him off the block, but they all laughed at me. That happens a lot since I was hit in the head by that wrecking ball a few years back. Since I got out of that coma, people laugh at me a lot which is why I’m writing you. I figure you won’t be able to laugh at me in your column and you’ll level with me.

Did my wife cheat on me with some other guy? And do you think it was the mailman? And if she did, how do I tell which kid is mine cause I sure as hell ain’t gonna pay to raise some other guy’s brat.

–Hit In The Head In Hackensack


Dear Hit,

Cthulhu is very sad to inform you that you are right and your wife is wrong. Multiple births always involve more than one father. Don’t feel bad. It is something that the so-called experts conspire to keep secret from the masses. At least it is only twins. Imagine the night the women who have eight or nine offspring must have had. Without knowing your wife, Cthulhu would only be speculating on the identity of her other lover. You seem to be a very astute gentleman, so I think you should follow your gut feelings on the matter.

Have A Dark Day.


Dear Cthulhu welcomes letters and questions at All letters become the property of Dear Cthulhu and may be used in future columns. Dear Cthulhu is a work of fiction and satire and is © and ™ Patrick Thomas. All rights reserved. Anyone foolish enough to follow the advice does so at their own peril.


Dear Cthulhu: Issue #16



Dear Cthulhu,

I am a 54-year-old divorced man with no kids and I’m obsessed with the Jabaguy card game. It’s based on the Japanese anime cartoon where kids train creatures to fight each other. I’m in a deadend job, but I’m too old to start over. I haven’t had a date in years. My only pleasure in life is playing Jabaguy. Sadly, I just can’t seem to get anyone my own age interested in playing, and it just can’t be done with any sort of satisfaction over the internet, so I have to go to local comic and game stores for tournaments where the only other players are eleven-year-olds.

Apparently the parents think it’s creepy and seem to suspect I’m some sort of sicko. Nothing could be further from the truth. One store just asked me not to come back because the parents were complaining. It doesn’t help that I’m so good at it that I almost always win which just make me look like a bully. That and I can afford to buy the rare and powerful cards that the kids can’t.

I’ve tried video games, casinos, even poker but nothing fills up the holes in my soul like this game.

What can I do to put the parents at ease?

–Shunned Old Jabaguy In Jamaica


Dear Shunned,

The simple truth of the matter is that what humans believe to be true is more important than what actually is. Just look at what the governments of the world have gotten you to believe over the years—wrestling is real, your water is safe to drink, they are not experimenting on you, and your vote counts, just to name a few.

You need a spin doctor, a professional PR person to help you convince these parents what you want them to believe. Unfortunately, it sounds like this is out of your price range and you do not appear bright enough to do it on your own.

Your best bet is to give yourself a reason to be there besides the actual playing of the game. Talk to the owners of these stores and see if they will hire you part time to run these tournaments. Offer to teach classes in game strategy at the store and you can play as part of your classes. And stop entering and winning the tournaments. Take a dive and throw a game once in a while because beating an eleven-year-old at a kids’ game comes off as mean and immature and the parents on some level probably feel protective and angry that you have taken a victory away from their offspring. Otherwise you have no chance of winning them over.

And as an added bonus you may qualify for employee discounts on your Jabaguy purchases.



Dear Cthulhu,

The bugs are out to get me. I hear their buzzing in my ears constantly and I can feel the vibrations from the worms as they dig through the dirt under my house. The bees make their honey with the sole purpose of drowning me in its sticky gooeyness while I sleep. They all want to lay their eggs in my flesh so they can thrive from my injury. No matter where I go they follow me, ready to crawl on my skin or bite my flesh. I think the cockroaches stole my shoes and there is a butterfly in China whose entire existence is to try and direct a hurricane at my house. It’s getting hard to sleep because I have four bug zappers in my bedroom and the eerie purple white light keeps me awake nights. They wait until I finally doze off before sending a kamikaze at a zapper to wake me up. Each day it is getting harder to think. I refuse to go outside where they can get me. I got fired from my job for not showing up and I fear the grocery store will stop delivering once my credit cards cut me off.

Is there some place in this world where the bugs can’t find me?

–Infected By Insects in Indianapolis


Dear Infected,

Grow some backbone. You are bigger than the insects. You should not fear them, they should fear you.

Cthulhu suggests you confront and work through your fears. Enroll in a course in order to become an exterminator. Many extermination companies offer this as part of their training. This way you regain employment, learn how to kill insects, and stop being a victim.
And get a girlfriend so that when the bees do bury you in honey, you can at least enjoy yourself.

Although it is sad that, ultimately, the bugs will get you. After you die and are buried, the maggots will gnaw on your skin and the worms will crawl through your flesh. Even if you are cremated, there are bugs who will actually digest your ashes. I hope that thought doesn’t keep you up any more at night, because if you do not get a job it is not the grocery store you should be most worried about, it is your power company. They will cut off your electricity and your bug zappers won’t be any more than four big paperweights. And the cockroaches will be coming for more than your shoes.

Have A Dark Day.


Dear Cthulhu welcomes letters and questions at All letters become the property of Dear Cthulhu and may be used in future columns. Dear Cthulhu is a work of fiction and satire and is © and ™ Patrick Thomas. All rights reserved. Anyone foolish enough to follow the advice does so at their own peril.