DEAR DAGS/DAGS: I have been planning my wedding since the day I met Michael. At first, he seemed like the perfect man: a gourmet chef who is my soul mate. Recently, I was alerted to the fact that he has a secret family, complete with a wife and twin daughters. I confronted Michael and he assured me that although this family technically exists, it is no threat to us, as they were never legally married. What should I do? Our wedding is in two weeks! If I tell my family they will be devastated. I don’t want to ruin my life. Please, let me know if my chef has ruined the marital entrée! Is this still a recipe for happily ever after?
DAGS: Oh, my darling stupid! You poor, dear imbecile! Was there ever a more loyal, doting dimwit? No, there never was, you sweet, sweet, sweet slug-brained dummy face.
Unlike my former co-columnist who is probably neck deep in exotic quicksand (Oh, don’t cry for Mags! She probably thinks it’s a mud wrap!) I am here for you and your needs! Just ask my editors! I said, “I know how to speak to modern women, because ignorance is a global epidemic! Just call me The Idiot Whisperer!” Editor's Note: Dags, please. Unlock the office door and stop posting, that's all we ask. We don't want to have to call the police.
Unlike Mags, I’m not going to rim your margarita glass with sickly sweet hot pink sugar crystals. I’m all about the pickles, baby! Brine all the time! I am going to pickle your problems, and then make you drink that nasty green pickle juice and also probably bathe in it. At least wash your hair in it, until it drips into your eyes and you scream, “Ouch! It stings!” Because when you’re with Dags, it’s ALWAYS GONNA STING. You got that?
What were we talking about again? Surely not my pickling hobby! Ooh, did I tell you I recently implemented a new canning system into my crafts room? Technically, it’s the garage, but my hubby doesn’t mind the smell. Yes, he still lives in there, with the cats and tower of tuna fish cans that I am GOING TO GET AROUND TO RECYCLING EVENTUALLY, OKAY?
The wedding was supposed to be for YOU, but clearly YOU don’t care for happiness. Let’s just take your big, white wedding and ruin it, right? Why not have Michael tongue kiss his fake wife at the altar (I bet she has a real diamond, though. Also, she most certainly has a bona fide joint back account with YOUR fiancé. Oh, not to mention their genuine article sizzling sex life. Feel better yet? That’s what I’m here for!) Editor: Dags, think about it, you are going to need supplies once that birthday cake runs out. Why don't you just calmly turn off the computer and unlock the door?
DEAR DAGS/DAGS: Someone in my social circle just alerted me to the notion of bridal party thank you gifts. I am already paying the caterer an astronomical fee, not to mention my $7,000 + designer gown and Gulliver, my single-named wedding consultant (I’m told he’s a GIANT in the industry!)
Are these bridal party gifts REALLY a necessity? I would hate to waste money on foolish trinkets for the peasants, I mean, bridesmaids, when there are other more important matters to attend to. The Eiffel tower ice sculpture isn’t going to pay for itself! Neither will the ice scale model of The Plaza Hotel, nor the top shelf vodka bar styled to look like the Gobi Desert. I know what you’re thinking! How cute, a vodka oasis in the desert! That’s what Gulliver said EVERYONE would say!
Pretty Penny Wants to Save a Few
DAGS: I just had a revelation! It doesn’t matter what kind of advice I give! Truly, it does not matter in the slightest! With Mags gone, I have a monopoly on the wedding advice game! I mean to tell you that I am The Gulliver of this place, and this place is my own personal Gobi Desert! Maybe that’s why Mags was always drinking vodka…
The old Dags would say something like, “Get it together, you catty cash cow!” or “Those bridal bimbos slaved over your invitations and watched you squeeze like a smoked sausage into your white, designer casing. Don’t you owe them some token of gratitude? Even a lousy vanilla fig scented candle? Or a coffee mug with your face imprinted on it, with some obnoxious saying, like “You’ve always bean like a sister to me!” Get it? Coffee BEAN. I know, ugh.”
Consider me reborn! Gone are the days of busting my hump (this one here, on my back, see?) while Mags giggles sweet gobbledygook into an audio recording device, and then gets Hank from the mailroom to type up said nonsense for her by presenting him with some string bikini pictures! They called her a columnist! Ha! Yet she was onto something, wasn’t she? This not-working-at-work thing might just be for me!
I’ll tell you what the new Dags will do: light said stupid candle, pour some of the vodka she found into this here coffee mug, and call it a day! Happy marriage, happy divorce, and come back real soon for advice from yours truly, The Wedding Warrior! Now aren’t you glad that Mags was tricked by a con-artist and probably lured to her doom? I know I am!
Pamphlet? Pamphlets are the crap that Mags was made of! Boo hoo! Whatever will we do without some pieces of paper stapled together!?! How about grow up, you sniveling sisterhood of suckers? Mwahahaaaaaahaaaaahhahaaaa! Ooh, that was fun! That’s what they call maniacal laughter, right? Dags has always wanted to do that! Editor: We've called the police Dags, if you won't come out will you at least stop laughing? It's very unnerving.
Dags is Dagmar Hewlett: Dags had her own wedding three years ago, but that's not going to prevent her from planning yours.
Editor: Dags, the police want to know what your demands are.
Dags is Dagmar Hewlett: Dags is the only columnist you should ever seek advice from. Don’t make a major or minor decision without consulting Dags first! Dags recently learned that she is the descendant of ancient gypsies and capable of planting an Ancient Gypsy Anal Rash Curse on all who do not obey her demands! Too far? How is Dags supposed to know when she has gone too far, mere editors? Dags is the supreme ruler of the advice giving galaxy! Bow before her and press your lips upon her feet! Yes, even the weird toe!
Editor: Sorry Dags, no can do. Officer do what you must but be careful with the door it's one of my favourites.
It is so embarrassing when a member of staff goes beserk. She has been in that office all week and it is a full time job monitoring her crazy postings. We thought when Mags disappeared that all of our lives would improve--no one drinking our White-Out, no one assaulting the UPS man, not having to look all over the toilet stall before going in, not having to hear someone singing Lili Marlene while perched on the photocopier, but in reality things have gotten worse. Dags has become unglued. We need to find Mags--Can you help us?