Want to know The Hole Truth? Ask Randy Bob!


Randy Bob is a fast-thinking river Hoosier living at the butt end of the prairie. With common sense answers to life’s uncommon questions, he is a Tom Joad figure for the hopeless and semi-ruined who hunger for a second chance in the lottery of life. Address all inquiries and proposals of marriage to rrlewis@hotmail.com.

Dear Randy Bob,
Recently, my 16-year-old son has been using the word “boner” to describe mistakes, mishaps, and blunders. We’ve made subtle hints about other meanings, but he continues to say things like, “Did you see Grandpa’s boner on the tennis court? It was even bigger than my boner in gym class yesterday.” How can we get him to stop this boner-talk? We made him look it up in his 1911 Oxford English Dictionary, but it only seems to support his cause.

—Regina in Calgary

That is a hard one, Regina, but don’t get too bent out of shape. I would say that you can live with his lexicographic rigidity as long as he doesn’t begin using adjectives such as “throbbing,” “pulsating,” and “vastly delectable.” Good luck in straightening him out!

Dear Randy Bob,
Shouldn’t Chapstick be called “UnChapstick”? If I wanted a Chapstick, I’d rub my lips on a branch.

—Quimby in Peoria

Good insight, fellow American. I’m forwarding that gem to the fine people at Chapstick Incorporated. Look for changes in their packaging in the weeks ahead.

Dear Randy Bob,
I live in a commune devoted to fulfilling Ralph Nader’s prophesy of a greener America. Unfortunately, some of my fellow communards are dyslexic or something. To conserve water, I told my ex-girlfriend Ganjarina that she needed to post a bathroom sign that said, “If it’s yellow let it mellow; if it’s brown, flush it down.” Well, for some reason she posted a sign that said, “Don’t frown at the brown, just poke it with yer [sic] finger.” Should I move out or continue trying to win her back?

—Alex in Memphis

Dear Alex,
She’s the one. Don’t give up before the “movie magic” kicks in. Tell her that you’d "poke anything" to win her heart and be sure to send me an invitation to the nuptials.

Dear Randy Bob,
When will General Motors release the hemp Cadillac? It’s the only car made completely from the fastest growing biomass on Mother Earth, but “the man” is working in concert with “the power elite” and the “fat cats” to keep it “secret.” How can we bust open this story?

—Ganjarina in Memphis

Good work, Ganjarina! I think you just spilled the beans on those fat cat conspirators. I’ll look for my Hemporado in showrooms this fall!

Dear Randy Bob,
I live in Wyoming with a gaggle of geese and a wind turbine. My neighbors and I have come up with a question of etiquette. 9/11 was very tragic and it made us see the good side of New York City. However, we wanted to know how long we needed to wait, just to be polite, before we can go back to hating New York?

—Fran in Wyoming

Dear Fran,
That’s a very good question and timely too! I’ve received similar questions from readers in Texas, Florida, Oregon, and 46 other states. After consulting the waterlogged copy of Miss Manners that sits on our broken commode, I believe the answer is very soon indeedperhaps after the next time you see George Steinbrenner on television. Or that Seinfeld fellow? I understand he has some connection to the tri-state area. Best of luck!

Dear Randy Bob,
When will America confront the raging lookism of our television programming? I’m starting to get a complex. My girlfriend is beginning to realize that I’m no David Hasselhoff.

—Ralph (pronounced Rayfff) in Minnesota (pronounced “Hogtit Furfinger”)

Dear Ralph,
Your homely prayers will soon be answered. Just yesterday I read a proposal for UG-TV, a new network that would offer ugly programming exclusively for an ugly demographic. Talks have been in the works to bring Ernest Borgnine out of retirement, along with a hot new reality show called “Larry King Backrub.”

Dear Randy Bob,
Are those Soloflex commercials with the young stud buffing his abs supposed to be wildly homoerotic? As a 16 year old with an interest in drama, jazz dance, and quilting, I’m starting to spend too long in the shower each morning. My mom is beginning to wonder.

—Peter in Paris, Texas

No, no, Peter, don’t be silly. Those late-nite ads of toned and oiled male bodies gleaming like ’57 T-birds were carefully designed by experienced sexologists to never push viewers out of the “heterosexual comfort zone”. So tell your mother that anything that happens in the shower is between you and the shower caddy. Viva la dance!

Dear Jesus, how many LSD hits have I ingested?

—Larry in Latrobe

Larry, because you have addressed me as lord and savior, I would suspect the answer to be “seven,” with the additional stipulation that these were “staggered” hits consumed over a period of four hours while working on a quart of Schnapps. Experience tells me that you might want to find a soft couch and an IV.

I’m an elderly Catholic and I wanted to know which religious denomination will be the most numerous in 50 years? I don’t want to be outnumbered in heaven.

—Agnes

Bad news, Agnes. World demographers expect to see orthodox Christianity lose its numerical majority before the year 2050. The new frontrunner? Theologians know the answer, but are keeping mum, claiming that, “It would only touch off world hysteria, looting, fornication, and gluttony, all of which will be heavily promoted by this sexy new super religion.”

Dear Randy Bob,
I hope this isn’t too personal, but some friends and I were wondering if “Randy” means horny in the United Kingdom? And if so, would a “Randy Bob” be something that happens in the back seat of a Jaguar?

—Helmut in Chicago

Dear Helmut,
Although I have encountered that very question on dozens of occasions, I can report that the answers are “No” and, most emphatically, “No.” Randy Bob is merely short for my full name, “Ra-Ding-La Bobwana,” which was given to me by my Uncle Wilbur, God rest his soul, the same uncle who showed me how to fish with sticks of dynamite and a case of Wild Turkey.

Dear Randy Bob,
I’m an astronaut stationed in Florida. Recently after an important training mission, I splashed down near a small island where I found a beautiful lady leprechaun. But taking “Queenie” home has been a source of constant frustration. She is always popping up in my office and even hides in my pencil cup during important meetings with the admiral. My superiors are beginning to suspect the truth about my zany antics, but no matter how much I shout “Queenie!” in exasperation, her behavior seems to get worse. What should I do?

—Tony in Orlando

Dear Tony,
What a pickle! Fortunately, research shows that imps, sprites, and shamrock-flinging floozies have a natural antipathy for ’80s hard rock. A few Scorpions tunes should send her packing. And just as food for thought, Tony, you might note that NASA’s mission control is located in Cape Canaveral, not Orlando, so unless you’re flying a rocket at Epcot Center you might want to “touch base” with your commanding officer before your next mission.

Dear Randy Bob,
I forgot to mention one other thing. I asked Gangarina to make my favorite breakfast as a Sunday treat, and she served up orange juice and something she called “French toad.” It was very crunchy, even with the maple syrup. Are you sure she’s the one?

—Alex in Memphis

Dear Alex,
Yes! Her creative cooking should only stoke the amorous fires in the steaming brick oven of your heart. But if somehow this fails to happen, be sure to send me her number. She sounds like a doozy in the lady-friend department and you can’t have too many of those! Good luck with the stoking!


Contributor

Brooklyn Rail staff

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