Ask Alex

Written by Jester

Alex is a former teen criminal who was reformed Ludovico technique, as chronicled in the novel A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess and the feature film by Stanley Kubrick. He now works as the advice and etiquette columnist of Capital of Nasty.

Dear Alex:

My 24-year-old niece is getting married soon. The wedding invitation we received specifically asks that instead of wedding presents, we simply give cash. Now I know things are different since my husband and I were married, but this seems pretty tacky to me. Have times changed and I'm just "out of it," or is this in bad taste? How should I handle the situation?



The little ptitsa desires a malenky bit of cutter instead of a nice prezzie all wrapped with a bow real horrorshow? Well, give up your pretty polly. Then she and her ded can kupet the veshches she wants, and not have to hold on to the grahzny junk you give her.


Dear Alex:

I have a 17-year-old son that my husband and I have raised very well in a loving Christian home. He doesn't do drugs, he's never been in trouble with the law, and he's polite and courteous. However, a week ago I was shocked to find a packet of condoms in his dresser! Worse, it looks like he's using them steadily. I don't understand how all our teaching and Bible readings could go to waste on him. I want to confront him about this, but I'm afraid he'll accuse me of "snooping." What do I do?



Your little malchick is doing a yumyumyum bit of the ol' in-out in-out and I don't see why you are so oh-oh-oh about it. It's nature, baboochka, remember it? You can teach him about Bog and the Good Book all you like, but when a malchick sees a fine devotchka, he gets a pan-handle and he wants to do some lubbilubbing with her. At least he's not a gloopy prestoopnik, always in trouble with the millicents and being dragged off to the Staja. Let him and his little ptitsa do the in-out in-out. Next you'll be all razdraz about him smoking a cancer.


Dear Alex

I am engaged to marry a wonderful woman who is as devoted to her career as I am to mine. Problem: she lives in New York, I live in Miami. Neither of our jobs permits working at home, and we can't decide who should move where after we get married. What do you think we should do?



One or both of you has got to ask yourself "what's it going to be then, eh?," and make up your rassoodocks. Perhaps it should be you, nazz. Would you rather have a jeezny full of rabbit in Miami, or a sammy, steady supply of the ol' in-out in-out from your zheena in NYC? Doesn't sound like such an oozhassny hard decision to make to Your Humble Columnist.


Dear Alex:

I viddy your column in the gazetta every week, and normally I say you are one oomny malchick. But I read your response to HEARTBROKEN IN VERMONT and now I say you are really Dim. How can you tell the little ptitsa to break up with the millicent and make her pee and em all Boo Hoo Hoo? You owe the poor devotchka a retraction and an appy polly loggy, before she ends up on her oddy knocky, thanks to you.

Sign me,


O my dear brothers, what is Your Humble Columnist to do? The vonny bratchny says I don't know my sharries from a yahma in the ground. My madmenny droog, a piece of advice: shut your rot before Yours Truly gives you such a sweet tolchock to your brooko that your guttiwuts plesk all over the walls of my cantora. I am the Columnist here. Pony, nazz?


Dear Alex:

A while ago you printed a wonderful poem about fathers. I just recently lost my father to a long illness. Could you print the poem again in dedication to this loving, wonderful human being that has made so many lives brighter?



O my brothers, this poem is so choodessny Your Humble Columnist gets a bolshy many requests to reprint it. Here it is, odin more time.

My Father's Hands
(author unknown)

I am just oneand his hands are strong and hold me safeWarm are my Father's Hands

Now I am five and his hands throw me the ball and beckon me with encouragement and promise Strong are my Father's Hands

Then I am ten and the still sturdy hands bandage the scrape on my shin from falling off my bicycle Gentle are my Father's Hands

And Now I am fifteen and his hands teach me how to wave a britva with a blade oh so sharp that one shive across the guttiwuts of a poolgy millicent has the red red krovvy flowing real horrorshow for a good night's UltraviolenceSammy are my Father's Hands.