Uncle Jim's Advice Column for the Blunted

Dear Jim

Q: The thin brown strings on my head are always getting long. Not only that, but the brown strands in my no-no places are also lengthening. I'm really worried because I've had this disease since birth, and all the doctors I've been to say that they have no cure for me. What is wrong with me? Am I dying? Please help!

anxious, Brent - Pietermaritzburg

Dear Brent

You are not alone so don't worry. The brown strings prevalent on your head are called hairs. What they have been doing all these years is growing. The shocking statistics are that up to 100% of all humans experience hair growth at some point in their lives. In fact, it is so overwhelmingly normal that it leads me to suspect that the doctors who have no cure for you are referring to defects of the brain inside your head as opposed to its brown stringy packaging. You are not dying. So stop being a drama queen and be grateful you're not bald like me.

Dear Jim

Q: Yesterday, out of the blue, I stopped breathing. I then attempted to buy a doghnut from the corner cafe but the till attendant ignored me in favour of a short fat farmer. Today, for some unknown reason, my family threw a party in which all the attendants cried and ate asparagus from plates. They also seemed to bow down to and offer their utmost respect to a rock on the ground. I have bowed to it and found it redeeming. Is this a new religious cult? Can I join? What do I have to do for initiation? What are the laws and customs?

eager, John - Grahamstowm

Dear John

Q: From your above letter I am able to discern that a) you are dead and b) you haven't noticed. Apparently the people around you have. You may be stupid. Crying at parties can be fun for the individual but can be a real mood-ruiner. And minus points to you for not inviting me to the reception - asparagus happens to be my favourite food. I am guessing you died from an overdose of hallucinogenic drugs, as you have obviously mistaken your own gravestone as a religious deity. Keep worshipping that rock with your name on it, you self-loving fuck.

PS: Try walking through a wall. You may find it fun.

Dear Jim

Q: I have a pet goldfish called Lucius Malfoy. Lucius is gold and white. He is a good fish. He is my soulmate and I keep him on a leash when I take him for walkies around our block. But today he stopped moving and he wouldn't jump through his favourite hoop. What can I do to help him?

lovingly worried, Jarrod - East London

Dear Jarrod

If I were in your shoes I would also be worried about little Lucius - if I hadn't paid attention to the 'walkies around our block' part of your adventures with him. Lucius the fish has gone to a happier place, one where he does not have to develop lungs to be able to live. Left with his small fishy carcass, you have little leeway for extravagance in your dealing of this matter. A viable option is to flame-grill him for a nutritious, light supper. Or, if it is the motionless bit of the deal that you are worried about, you can drop him from an elevated place in order to induce some movement (you may have to repeat this). Don't stop dropping 'lil Lucius, now - he might stop moving again.

I have addiction problems.

It took me some time to come to terms with it. It was not willingly, nor do I intend to do anything drastic to remedy it. But I feel a need to vent, because it is so embarrassing that I trust posting it on the Internet would be a better option than, say, screaming it to every blonde person I walk into at the local friendly grocer.

From the day I was conceived the notion that the Internet is the number choice for confessing shameful, sordid secrets, from chewing used gum or unrolling 2-ply toilet paper, separating the layers and re-rolling it to make two rolls to having disturbing dreams about Lysol or crying to outdated Martin Luther King footage. Who could possibly find the motive and the means to ridicule it? As you're all aware of, the World Wide Web is full of charming, sensible, articulate and courteous people who respect each others' opinions, and any person who is rude or outrageously insensitive would be arrested and chucked into an internet prison filled with text-only documentations on how to make 60 prawn souffles in 50 minutes or how to dress like Liam Neeson or some or other horrendous crap like that.

But I digress. I guess I'm too shit scared to type this out aloud for fear of your collective actions (even if you are all charming, sensible, articulate and courteous), so I'm unconsciously trying to delay the process. But the time has come.

...I'm addicted to Solitaire.

Now, this is no 'Every day I think about Solitaire and have an unexplained desire to play it when I am exposed to certain foods'. We're talking HARD CORE SOLITAIRE INFATUATION. We're talking 'Every minute of my existence feels empty if I do not have the means to stack red and black cards on top of each other to create an even bigger pile of cards that, depending on the position of Sagittarius tonight, may or may not vomit bouncing simulated monstrosities when I finally win'.

I admit - I love Solitaire. It has seen me through the dullest of days; in sickness and in health, in wealth and in poverty, in trouble and out.

In fact, I once had a dream that I was in the act of moving the red Queen Of Diamonds onto the black King of Spades, and the Queen spoke to me and told me she did not want to be moved because she was racist. Also that she didn't want to sit next to him on the taxi home.

Then there was that other time in which I had to choose between living, dying, and being printed into a card with that awesome old-school rose pattern at the back. Natually I chose living, but it was a close call. Dying sounded much too exciting for me to contemplate not choosing.

Then again, if my sole purpose in life was to drag cards in an endless nightmarish train of red and black, I'd be contemplating suicide too.

...wait, what?