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ASK MAX AND YOU SHALL ROOFCEIVE!
The Straight Shih-Tsu. (WARNING! Some questions may be eaten.) CLICK HERE TO ASK MAX A QUESTION! Click on the book covers to order from Amazon.com! Family Affair In Stores Now! Forget About It Stupid and Contagious

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June 29, 2010 Edition
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$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

What’s with weathermen? Do they have to be cheesy as a prerequisite for the job?

- Embarrassed for These People

Dear Embarrassed,

Why are you embarrassed for them? Being a television meteorologist (let’s not be sexist, there are plenty of cheesy weatherwomen these days) is the best job in the world.

Okay, that might have been an overstatement. Being Jay-Z is the best job in the world, as I note later in this edition. (That’s a ploy to keep you reading. Mommy taught me that trick.)

If you’re me, the best jobs in the world are Dog Food Taste-Tester or Professional Toy Fetcher or Roll of Paper Towels Shredder. But, I digress…

Don’t blame the meteorologist for being cheesy, especially these days, when computers do all the work. We don’t actually need a human being relating to you the same stuff you can find faster on your computer. So the only thing keeping these people employed is personality.

Are they cheesy? Of course they are! If these weather—um—people were any more interesting, they’d be doing something better. If they were any less interesting, they’d be replaced by someone else who can read a monitor and tell you “it’s 72 and sunny” without accidentally swearing or drooling.

And that’s all it requires. Which makes it a pretty good gig.

Honestly, I could do the job. Dogs are very sensitive to changes in barometric pressure. And you’ll always know when there’s lightning and thunder, because I’ll be under the bed, shivering.

: : :

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

How come it’s cool to like certain music in college but suddenly it’s uncool when you’re a bona fide adult? And how come nobody tells you this stuff in advance?

- Music Geek For Real

Dear Music Geek,

You have me at a loss, because I’m not sure exactly what music you’re talking about. Granted, I’ve never been to college, given how poorly my obedience training ended. (Once again, dear instructor: Only having 8 ½ fingers is sexy. Really. Chicks dig that.)

But I’m into music too. My mommy is friends with lots of musicians so I grew up around music and I love it. That said, I’m highly attuned to high-pitched sounds, which can actually be a problem with stuff like Mariah Carey songs and the squeals of Ryan Seacrest fleeing in terror from a mouse.

Best I can tell, if you’re a real music geek, you probably liked good music in college. What was legitimately cool then isn’t any less cool now that you’re a “bona fide adult.” Also, to be genuinely cool is to have the conviction to like what you like, regardless of what other people think.

On the other hand, if you were listening to Nickelback in college, your tastes were never cool, and you should immediately seek therapy.

: : :

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

How long do broken hearts last?

- Crybaby

Dear Crybaby:

That’s the kind of philosophical inquiry I’m given to consider for hours while getting my belly rubbed. Okay, that’s not entirely true. While I’m getting my belly rubbed the entirety of my consciousness is going I’m getting my belly rubbed! I’m getting my belly rubbed! Oh, sweet Lady Gaga, I’m getting my belly rubbed! NEVER STOP RUBBING MY BELLY!

Sorry, I hope that wasn’t too painful to hear, especially since I get the impression that right now no one’s rubbing your… um… belly. And you desperately miss whoever was rubbing your belly, and I totally get that.

Everyone tells you time heals all wounds, and outside of a sawed-off shotgun blast to the face, that’s generally true. But no one ever mentions how much time it takes. And it takes a long time. How long, I can’t exactly tell you. But it can seem like forever, as in how long it will take to clean oil out of the Gulf of Mexico. How long it will take to get out of Afghanistan and Iraq. How long it will take for David Caruso to deliver his next line.

We’re talking a long time.

In the meantime, take care of yourself. Get out of the house, spend time with friends, find your favorite tree and take a good, long pee on it. You’re in good company. Everyone deals with a broken heart once, twice—actually, on average, 37 times. When you’re ready, you’ll be back in Belly Rub City.

: : :

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

Did Jay-Z ever elaborate on what the 99 problems he had were? I get that none of them was a bitch, but what were they?

- Problematic

Dear Problematic:

As a matter of fact, Jay-Z did elaborate. I was hanging with Jay the other day (that’s right, I call him Jay). While we were kicking it, I happened to ask Jay what his 99 problems are and he was happy to break it down. They are:

1.     Restless Leg Syndrome

2.     Ongoing beef with Andrea Bocelli is becoming increasingly violent.

3.     Overly-general search warrants

4.     How when you’re counting massive stacks of $100 bills and someone mentions a number, you lose your place and have to start over again.

5.     Running out of those $100 bills to light your cigars with.

6.     The way the tag in the back of your T-shirt flips up and no one tells you about it.

7.     The FBI, the CIA, and the DEA

8.     Static cling

9.     Caprice Crane won’t bequeath him the most adorable, sweetest, handsomest dog in the world, and it’s breaking his heart…

Okay, so that’s when I woke up. Jay and I didn’t hang, and I don’t know what his 99 Problems are. the guy is insanely rich, insanely popular and he’s with Beyonce. How bad can his problems be?

Also, for the record: a bitch is not a problem! Granted, Jay and I might not be talking about exactly the same thing.
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June 21, 2010 Edition
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$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max:

I’m an aspiring writer. Could you please let me in on some of your writing tips? You seem to be quite the creative dog. Also, I saw your picture… I’m a miniature female Yorkie – in heat. Hahahaha, you know, just FYI.

– Writer’s Block

Dear Writer’s Block:

I’m always happy to help a fellow writer, especially a miniature yorkie in heat. (Or what the boys and I call a “Nicole Richie.”) My top writing tip is this: Know the best time for you to write.

For example, I never write between noon and 8 p.m., because that’s nap time. I never write from 8 to 9 p.m. because that’s dinnertime, and I need those calories to power my writing. I never write after 9 p.m., because I’ll be sluggish from dinner and winding down. Finally, I never write in the morning, because you can’t expect me to be creative before I’ve had a chance to really get into my day.

If that sounds unproductive, just remind yourself that this schedule is true for most writers, except the team of 150 interns known collectively as James Patterson.

Finally, if you really are interested in hooking up, let me know and we’ll exchange digits sometime. I have a great pinky finger I got off the mailman just last week.

- - -

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

My favorite book EVER is your mommy’s Stupid and Contagious. It is indeed stupid how contagious this book has been in my life, as I read it at least twice a year. What I love most about this book is the way it plays out in my mind, and how much I laugh out loud at Heaven and Brady’s ridiculousness. (Cinnamilk? Genius.) I have thought many times about how ecstatic I would be to see it in movie format, but then I’m reminded of all of the train wreck screenplays that have come from fabulous books. My question is, what does your mommy think? Would a movie version of the novel destroy its perfection?

– Overborne and Self-assured

Dear Overborne:

First off – that’s cute, playing off the title. (Kurt Cobain would be impressed, and his spirit needs some good news after those Robert Pattinson rumours.) Next, let me thank you for loving my mommy’s book, because I witnessed firsthand all the hard work she put into it. Well, on certain occasions. Like during full moons, or when there wasn’t a VH-1 reality show on or an especially interesting episode of To Catch A Predator.

Seriously, I know she appreciates your love of the book. I know because she re-read your email out loud 500 times and she’s wondering whether she can blurb your comments under the name “Nicholas Sparks.” (That is you, right? If so, just say nothing. Good enough, Nick. Can I call you Nick?)

As for a film of Stupid and Contagious: Mommy would love it. It’s an idea she back-burnered for a bit while working on “other projects.”

Sure, it can be tricky adapting a book for the screen, but for every Bonfire of the Vanities (poor Tom Wolfe), there’s also An Education. For every Striptease (poor Carl Hiaasen), there’s Marley and Me. (BTW, shouldn’t someone have warned me about the ending to that one? COME ON, PEOPLE!)

One day, Stupid and Contagious might very well hit the big screen, and we hope it’ll be great. We also hope that happens before iCarly and Justin Bieber are old enough to be cast as Heaven and Brady. But whatever happens, what matters is you’ll always have the book. (Though if you lose it, feel free to buy another one. Dog food ain’t cheap.)

- - -

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max:

Are all the girls wild about you or is it just the smart and sexy ones?

– Bridget

Dear Bridget:

The smart ones are wild about me regardless of whether they’re sexy… but then again, since to me being smart is sexy, I guess they’re all smart and sexy. That sounds a bit narcissistic, granted. But anything that works for Robert Downey, Jr, can work for me too. (BTW, Gwyneth: Call me.)

It’s not my fault. I was the pick of the litter, and let me tell you, that was one fine litter. (Kinda like the Kardashians, but with slightly less alliteration and dating of pro athletes.) I mean, look at me! Your table scraps can’t defend against these eyes. One hungry look and your willpower melts. Just like your leftover roast beef will when it gets between my incredibly attractive jaws.

As for the other girls, what do I care? All I need are the smart and (thus) sexy ones. Like you, Bridget. And you, Neytiri. And you, Sailor Moon. And you, Betty White. And you…

- - -

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

My supposed ex-boyfriend is an enigma. He had been acting very cold, but texting me all day and night. When I asked him what was up, he said “it is too real” for him, but he doesn’t want to lose me as a friend. Broke my heart. But the next day, BAM, he’s texting like usual, like nothing happened. He acts like a dog, so I figured I’d ask the top dog: YOU. What is he doing? And why? He is acting exactly like he had been, minus calling me Sweetpea. What’s up with this dog?

– Unsigned

Dear Unsigned:

I’m glad you asked, because this topic has bothered me for a long time: referring to selfish, game-playing, string-you-along types like your “supposed ex” as dogs. This guy is no dog, no way, no how.

A dog is loyal and loving (especially me). A dog is caring and sensitive to your emotions (especially me). A dog will protect you and defend you from anyone and everything (especially me, and imagine the balls that takes from a guy my size).

Your “supposed ex” wants you only on his terms, in which you’re there for him whenever he needs a sounding board/ego boost/occasional mounting. (What? I’m a dog, people.) Your “supposed ex” wants to have his cake and eat it too, whereas a dog just wants to devour the cake. (And probably the plate it arrived on.)

He’s not a dog. That moniker is way too good for him. Change his status from “supposed ex” to just plain “ex” and find someone who loves you like a real dog does.
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April 7th, 2010 Edition
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$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

Is Saturday Night Live less funny than ever this year, or does it just seem that way?

— Old Enough to Know

Dear Old Enough:

Saturday Night Live has been on the air 35 years. Over that span, the “SNL is going downhill” comment originated sometime around, oh, the second episode. It just resonates more now. Back then, people couldn’t tweet their criticisms within seconds. (I believe they snail-mailed their tweets to the local newspaper.)

Passage of time makes everything seem better, with the obvious exception of Cop Rock. And that’s good. If people weren’t nostalgic for the good ol’ days, Bob Seger and Billy Joel wouldn’t have careers.

It’s easy to forget all the weak SNL sketches and lame guest hosts from the ’70s and ’80s and ’90s, but there were tons. If you think hosts like Michael Phelps and Paris Hilton were bad (and they were), you never saw the therapy-inducing, mind-numbing horror that was Steven Seagal in 1991. (You nostalgic types might remember 1991. Billy Joel doesn’t.)

So cut SNL some slack, especially with Tina Fey hosting this week. (She can rub my belly any day.) Remember, presenting 90 minutes of (mostly) live programming on a (mostly) weekly basis with hosts who are (mostly) inexperienced with live TV isn’t easy. Plus, SNL somehow kept Horatio Sanz gainfully employed for eight years. You can’t be upset with a charity.

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

WTF is up with Erykah Badu? Is she dangerously crazy or just I’d-better-cross-the-street crazy?

— Crossing the Street Just in Case

Dear Crossing,

First, watch the language! I don’t care what acronym you use, “What The Fleas” is not cool. (Great, now you made me say the F word.)

Anyway, you’re referring to Ms. Badu’s video for her song “Window Seat,” in which the Dallas native (born Erica Wright) walks in front of Dealey Plaza, where JFK was assassinated, taking off all of her clothes and pretending to be shot in the head. She does this all to a song that has nothing to do with JFK, politics or naked chicks.

I know what you’re thinking: That sounds just like a Miley Cyrus video.

Sidenote: Did you notice that Erykah was not wearing her usual enormous headscarf? It’s because no one would have believed a bullet could penetrate that thing.

Regardless… if walking outside naked was crazy, I’d have been locked up years ago.

Still, there are concerns. Erykah’s children are named Mars (odd), Puma (odder) and Seven (who is she, George Costanza?). But artists always give their little ones outrageous names. “Max,” obviously, being the exception. And if giving yourself a weird name was a crime, we’d have locked up Sting and Ke$ha by now. On second thought, go ahead and lock up Ke$ha.

Erykah Badu isn’t crazy. She’s a critically-acclaimed free spirit, and one who knows that controversy (even the contrived kind) is a smart way to stay on the public’s radar. So there’s no need for you to cross the street… unless she’s wearing that headscarf. Seriously, who knows what she’s got under there?

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

Bookstores are filled with people surfing the net. Newspapers and magazines are dying. I can’t even kill a cockroach with this skinny little phone book. Your mommy’s a writer – is the world running out of readers?

— I’m a Worrier

Dear Worrier,

I’d say newspapers are still useful for me to poop on, but I think that phrase is trademarked. Also, it’s not accurate. I handle my business in a well-appointed courtyard, beside a vibrant garden – and I’m certainly doing my part to keep it vibrant.

The internet has hurt newspapers, but people still read – just in different formats. (Snoopy and Marmaduke will live forever. Sadly, so will Garfield.) What do you think people are doing on their computers? They’re reading.

Movies, TV and video games all failed to kill reading, despite Shakespeare’s prophecies. (Is that accurate? I should read more.) Also, reading on a screen is no different than reading on paper. (Have I mentioned that Mommy’s novels are all available in electronic Kindle versions you can purchase and view on many kinds of devices? No? Remind me to do that sometime.)

If people still take time out of their busy day to read an advice column by a dog – albeit an awesome dog – I think we’ll be just fine.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m halfway through this great classic novel, Old Yeller. It’s the first time I’ve read it, so don’t spoil it. I sure hope there’s a sequel.

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max:

Paper or plastic?

— Thanks and Come Again

Dear Thanks:

Depends on the usage. Here’s a quick guide:

Dog toy: PLASTIC. (We’ll destroy the paper one in two seconds. Plastic might last two minutes.)

Mask for bank robbery: PAPER. (Nothing ruins a perfectly good robbery like asphyxiation.)

Disposing of corpse: PLASTIC. (You’d hate to drip evidence all over your jumper cables.)

Wall: PAPER. (Because “wallplastic” is just too… German.)

Dear John letter: PLASTIC. (I know. You figured “paper.” But plastic won’t get ruined by his tears.)

Mâché: PAPIER. (You like how I did that, right? I’m crafty.)

Heidi Montag: NEITHER. (Unfortunately, we know where she falls on this one.)

Hope that helps. And hey, where’s my receipt?
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February 26th, 2010 Edition
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$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

I have two Shih-Tzus (and lost three, two years ago, to old age). Over the past 17 years of living with Shih-Tzus, my big question has got to be: “Why are Shih-Tsus genetically predisposed to pooping and peeing the second their paws hit carpet, and why do I keep getting Shih-Tzus?”

— The Definition of Insanity

Dear Definition:

Actually, my dictionary says the definition of insanity is:
1. a deranged state of the mind;
2. extreme folly or unreasonableness;
3. any decision recently made by NBC
Of course, owning Shih-Tzus is the most brilliant decision you could have made over the past 17 years, with the possible exceptions of having come up with the ideas for American Idol, Twitter, or “Snooki.”

(Okay, “Snooki” isn’t exactly an idea. Actually, I don’t know what the hell a “Snooki” is, but you’re the one who brought up things my brethren would pee on.)

(By the way: Wikipedia says Snooki is an “aspiring veterinary technician.” Not an aspiring veterinarian, mind you. She an aspiring veterinary technician. That’s what she aspires to. Really?)

(Also, to clarify: My vet techs are awesome. I mean it. They’re artists with a nail clipper, masters with a distemper shot. Please be nice to me next time I visit!)

(Finally, I might be addicted to parenthetical expressions. That can’t be good.)

Where were we? Oh, yeah: Your dogs like to do their business anywhere and everywhere they can find a free spot. They’re the Wal-Mart of poop. Sorry about that.It happens. Regardless, you clearly love Shih-Tzus, so just start accepting it and purchasing Nature’s Miracle by the case.

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

Your owner, Caprice (in case you forgot who picks up your poop, feeds you, walks you, and all that fun stuff), is pretty damn funny. She’s also pretty damn good looking. Knowing that most funny people are not good looking (i.e., Sarah Silverman, Jeffrey Ross, etc.), I’m wondering, what’s the catch?

– Terribly Unfunny

Dear Unfunny,

Let me get this straight: Your think funny people are usually unattractive. And you call yourself terribly unfunny. Which means you must think you’re pretty attractive. Well, I think you’re probably a dog. (But I think dogs are awfully cute, so this is a good thing.)

You’re right, my mommy is foxy. (She’s modest, too, which is nice.) But you don’t think Sarah Silverman’s a cutie? Are you kidding? I’d hump that leg all day and twice on Tuesday! As for Jeff Ross, sure, he’s no Rin Tin Tin, but in the right light…I’ve seen girls swoon. Plus, he’s a good dude. And he’s less likely to tear up your herb garden. (Unless he’s drinking Patron, in which case, all bets are off.)

Anyway, there’s no catch. There are plenty of sexy people out there who are hilarious comedians, and vice versa. You’ve never heard of Tina Fey? Amy Poehler? Jon Stewart? Stephen Colbert? Steven Seagal? (Sorry, I should have stuck with intentionally funny.)

My point: Funny and adorable are not necessarily mutually exclusive.

How do I know? Don’t be silly. I’m living proof.

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

I’m having email issues with my new apple laptop. How to you make the fonts

larger on incoming emails? Answer that, will ya?

— Marian

Dear Marian,

You guys have a lot of confidence in a dog. Am I supposed to know everything? Just because I give better relationship advice than Dr. Phil? Just because I have a 100 percent approval rating among readers named “Caprice,” “Tyra” and “Conan?” (No, we’re not sure which Conan.) Just because I know who impregnated the Octomom (one word: Jonas) and why Paula left Idol? (One word: Jonas.) Just because I know the winning numbers to the next California lottery? (Helpful hint: One of them is odd.) Just because I know how “downward facing dog” became a yoga pose? (I’ll tell you once the kids go to bed.)

OK, fine. I’m told that pressing Apple’s key along with “zero” should return you to the default size, if it’s not like that already. No luck? Try and <+> to make fonts larger in your browser.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to buy some lottery tickets.

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

I’ve had this best friend since I was in grade six and he was a bit of a loser. Not that I wasn’t… because I was. I still am. That’s not the point. The point is, ever since high school started he’s been… different. He’s cool now because he lost weight and I guess he got more attractive (I don’t see it). He was the only one I could talk to about my secrets because they’re secrets that I can’t tell people and I could only trust him. Now he’s really distant and I don’t think he cares about me as much as he used to. No, I don’t have feelings for him… he’s just like my big brother and I want him back. I’m not good at trusting people and making best buddies with people because I’m awkward and shy and I am not attractive, so people stay away from me, I guess. What do I do?

— Lonely?

Dear Lonely:

Oh, sweetie. I don’t know everything, but I know you are no loser. (Actually, I do know everything, but let’s keep that between us and Mensa.)

I realize it’s hard to make heads or tails – or tails, or tails, or tails — (sorry, I got distracted) of things right now. That’s why they call this an “awkward phase.” Be patient, my pet. You should have seen me when I was a puppy! My ears and paws looked gigantic on me. I looked like a tiny, furry Jeff Goldblum. But that’s okay. Not everything was in proportion yet. That’s what happens as you grow up.

People – and puppies – all mature at different times. Maybe you haven’t come into your own. That’s okay. It’ll happen. Don’t believe me? Google “Jennifer Love Hewitt school photo.” Or “Eminem school photo.” Goofy as hell. Not exactly what you’d refer to as “cool.” But look how they turned out.

As for your friend, that’s natural too. This is the time when many childhood friendships dissolve. But it’s also when new ones emerge. Let him go do his thing. You’ll move forward.

I used to be shy too, but one day I realized I had nothing to lose by just going up and sniffing whosever stuff I wanted to sniff. (You should handle this a little differently, but you get the idea.) It’s scary at first, but dig up the courage. It gets easier. Before you know it, you’ll be the alpha dog. And the world will be your chew toy.
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January 20th, 2010 Edition
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$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

If your therapist never offers advice or suggestions but just nods empathetically and asks you “how that made you feel,” wouldn’t you be better off just talking to someone who *doesn’t* charge you by the hour?

— Say Something

Dear Say Something:

That’s a good point. Why spend the equivalent of Heidi Montag’s plastic surgery bill on someone doesn’t provide any input? Here’s why: You’re not paying the therapist to tell you things. You’re paying the therapist to tolerate to your insane ramblings and to not expose your weird kneecap fetish to TMZ.

Face it: You can’t expound on your anxieties, aggravations, attraction to pan flute performers, childhood secrets, frustrations, homicidal impulses toward mimes, curiosities, tendency to cry at the theme music for Judge Judy, fear of fanny packs, dreams, nightmares and pandaphobia to just anyone.

Therapists don’t get judgmental. They won’t burden you with tons of undesired (and clueless) advice, like some guy friends will. They won’t divulge your deepest, darkest secrets after a Sudafed and two Grey Goose martinis, like some girlfriends will. And they’re unlikely to use gender stereotypes for comic effect, like some doggie columnists will.

That said, you don’t have to pay big money to share the few personal thoughts you consider untweetable. The solution is simple: Get a dog!

We listen to all of your crap with doting attention. We love you no matter how screwed up you are. We don’t care how many new body parts your Hills money paid for, as long as you still smell the same. We won’t divulge your inexplicable attraction to Donald Trump or the fact that instead of reading the Ayn Rand book you claim to love, you were actually watching According to Jim.

All we ask in return is a little love, some food, the occasional belly rub and your prompt attention when we need to do our outdoor business. If you have a therapist like that, congratulations. But if you have a therapist like that, you’re not the one who’s most in need of help.

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

Why is it that whenever it rains in Los Angeles, it’s all anyone can talk about? Do people in Los Angeles melt?

— Stop Whining About The Rain, You Babies

Dear Stop Whining,

I smell what you’re cooking. (I’m pretty sure it’s meatloaf. And I want some.) You think we’re all a bit spoiled here in L.A. You think we can’t relate to “Middle America.” You think we’ve lost touch with the common folk, just because most dogs have a retractable leash while I have a doghouse with a retractable roof.

But it’s not easy living in L.A. Our state has more trouble managing its money than M.C. Hammer. The air quality is worse than the conference room on Mad Men. You can’t even get a half-decent job serving tables until you’ve had three failed television pilots. And if you do snag a good gig, you have to pray Jay Leno doesn’t hear about it.

So damn right we want our sunshine. It’s the one thing we should able to count on. That’s why they call it Sunny California. Hundreds of face lifts get ruined every time there’s an unexpected deluge in L.A. Hundreds of cabana boys miss out on the $20 tip they’d get from spreading lotion on Mrs. Goldenstein’s leathery back. And hundreds of dogs get caught in the rain and end up smelling like – wet dog. I get shivers just thinking about it. (And when I get wet, you do not want be nearby when I shake.)

So cut us some slack. Because here comes the sun, and I say: It’s alright.

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

I have been bewildered by a phrase for a very long time now and I was wondering if you could provide clarity. Why do people say “the proof is in the pudding”? I know the meaning from its use but where on earth does that phrase come from? How did it start? Were puddings actually involved? Thanks for your attention to this pressing matter.

— Too much time on my hands in Washington D.C. (as have many of my peers working in the Hill – which I must differentiate from The Hills – Speidi outranks us in idiocy which is really saying something!!)

Dear Too Much Time:

“Proof is in the pudding?” Really? You really do have to too much time on your hands. I’m getting the impression the only people who do any work in D.C. these days are lobbyists and Gilbert Arenas’s gun dealer.

Reliable sources (Wikipedia, Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations, Mickey Rourke) inform me that the original phrase was “the proof of the pudding’s in the eating.” It means you don’t know whether something’s good or bad until you actually try it out. Amen to that. And speaking of, if there’s any pudding around and you need proof, let me at it! I am an excellent eater.

The phrase actually is credited to Cervantes’ Don Quixote, the source of many great phrases, including “tilting at windmills,” “show me the money” and “Beyonce had one of the best videos of all time. Of all time!” Which confirms what we’ve always suspected: Cervantes was a jerk.

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

Lately I have been getting attention from women who are all, like, 14 years younger than me. It makes me feel creepy. But they are hot. What should I do?

Sincerely,

Old enough to remember the first Melrose Place

Dear Old Enough:

Or should I say R Kelly? Seriously, how many times to we have to have this conversation? It’s time to start hanging out with ~~girls~~ women your own age. Also, if I was able to learn when and where to pee (on tree, good; on cheerleader, bad), so can you. That’s all I’m sayin’.

I guess we need some more information here, pal, such as just how old you actually are. For example, if you’re George Clooney, a handsomer-than-ever 48, then a 34-year-old lady friend is right in your sweet spot. (His current squeeze is 31.) However, if you’re George Clooney, you clearly don’t need dating advice from anyone.

If, however, you’re 29 – which is certainly old enough to remember the first Melrose Place – then this interest is coming from high school freshmen. If this is the case, you probably should feel creepy.

But let’s presume you’re more like 37, and this interest is coming from the fresh-out-of-college-or-maybe-still-there crowd. What are you so worried about? It’s not like you’re doing the pursuing. These ladies are showing interest, they’re legal, they’ve been around the block at least a little, and they’re hot.

Be proud that you still strike young ladies as a catch even as you close in on 40. You should be thrilled you even have the option to hook up with ladies 14 years younger than you. For dogs, that’s not so much an option. Even for the geezers who make it that far: talk about robbing the crate. Also, next time? Less math and more bacon. That little gem is perhaps the key to life. Definitely the key to mine. Counting on my paws isn’t easy and I’m hungry.
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January 5th, 2010 Edition
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$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

I’m an Indianapolis Colts fan. (As all clear-thinking people and dogs should be.) And I am torn about them sitting their starters the past two games to protect them from injury for the playoffs. They gave up the chance to have a perfect season. That irks me. On the other hand (paw?), if Peyton Manning got injured, they’d be screwed. Where do you come down on this topic?

Sincerely,

Pigskin Perturbed in Peoria

Dear Perturbed:

I’m a football fan, too. I like the Colts, because unlike many other teams, they never use the Wildcat formation. (Blegh!) I also like Peyton Manning. Not only is he a future Hall of Famer, but he’s still the funniest athlete ever to host Saturday Night Live. I actually saw the game you’re talking about, since I can only watch Air Bud: Golden Receiver so many times. I’ve never seen such an irate crowd. Yes, I think the Colts should have gone for the undefeated run.

The offensive line has always protected Peyton very well, and he’s never had a serious injury. If the Colts wanted to rest Peyton, that’s understandable, but they should have done that from the get-go. Instead, they let him play for more than half the game, and then yanked him (and other key starters) with the Colts nursing a small lead. The fans were booing, the starters appeared disgusted, and it left all parties with bad tastes in their mouths. Kind of like this green kielbasa I found in an alley once. But that’s another story.

Ironically, one a week later the New England Patriots decided to start Pro Bowl receiver Wes Welker in a game that didn’t matter for playoff seeding — and he suffered an awful season-ending knee injury. So… there’s an argument to play it safe.

What would I have done? I’m a dog. I live life to the fullest. I chase after shadows, bark at loud noises and will protect my turf with near-rabid tenacity. (Don’t call 911. I said near-rabid.) The Colts should have gone for the jugular, locked on and not let go until blood sprayed everywhere. (Wow, that was dark, huh? I think in my previous life, I was a pit bull.)

Ultimately, though, I don’t care who wins the Super Bowl. “Why,” you ask? Because the NFL doesn’t have any dog mascots, but cats are all over the place. Jaguars, Panthers, and Bengals, are you kidding me?!?!

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

People seem to always ask you questions about themselves, but I would like to know a few things about you. First off, who is your favorite renaissance artist? I have always been partial to Titian, but obviously have great respect for others, especially Michelangelo. In my mind, Donatello was kind of a hack. I mean, look at his “David.” Unnecessarily sexy if you ask me. But oddly enough, he is my favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. If you were a ninja turtle, what weapon do you think you would use? I think I would use a bowstaff.

My final question is: If you could be any other kind of dog, what kind of dog would you be? I have a Chihuahua, but I think she thinks she is a Great Dane because she loves to tussle with the big dogs, and she only sits still if we read the Marmaduke comic strip to her. What will that crazy pooch do next? Anyways, if you wouldn’t be anything other than a Shih Tzu, that is a completely acceptable answer and maybe we can all learn something from you. Thanks for your help. You are a good boy.

- Jason from the suburbs.
Dear Jason:

Thanks for the opportunity for me to be a funny furball again, Jason. A twofer, huh? That’s getting more bang for your buck. And guessing from your first question, you’re going to need that extra cash for pizza. And snacks. And beer. And lava lamps. And DVDs of The Big Lebowski.

(Please note, Max does not condone the use of illicit substances. I’ve seen too many young feline lives destroyed by catnip. And let’s not even get into some of my poor brethren, who have taken to chewing on rawhide every day, sometimes even before noon. Simply shameful.)

Let’s see… you were wondering about Renaissance art, Ninja Turtles and something called a “Bowstaff,” which I believe is a piece of expensive home gym equipment that before long, you will primarily use as a place to hang your laundry.

Art kind of stumps me. Studious as I (obviously) am, I’ve never attended a Humanities class. This is likely because I’m not a human, and no one ever offered a Caninities class. (I mean, just how long can you study Dogs Playing Poker, Dogs Playing Blackjack, or my favorite, Dogs Playing Free Bird?)

Renaissance artists? Not my strong suit. Heck, until last week I still thought Caravaggio was an appetizer of thinly sliced beef. (Whatever you call it, I’m glad I stole some off the table at mommy’s last cocktail party.) I also believe you were angling for a Titian joke, but I’m way too classy to go there. I mean, I’d hate to make a boob of myself. I’m just keeping you abreast of the situation.

As for weapons, I have no need for them. I come fully armed with sharp teeth, powerful claws, a desperate need for attention, and a love of belly rubs, having my ears scratched, cozying up on mommy’s feet.

Oh, and a .38. (Don’t worry. It’s awfully hard to shoot with paws.)

Finally: Would I be any dog other than a Shih Tzu? What, are you, crazy? Have you seen me? How cute am I?

(Answer carefully. Remember, I’m packing.)

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

Sometimes my boyfriend is the sweetest guy on the planet and sometimes he can be brutal. He doesn’t hit me or anything like that but he can be a real bully when he doesn’t get his way or sometimes if he’s just in a mood. Is there like a percentage of “good times” that is a good basis to decide if he’s worth it?

Signed,

Pretty In Percentages

Dear Pretty:

You know how dogs can just tell when a guy isn’t a good guy? If someone is sweet and friendly, we can just tell, so we’ll start wagging our tails and roll over for belly rubs right away. But if someone strikes us as a threat, we’ll growl and bark and protect our “people.”

After reading your question, my fur is on end, I’m growling like crazy, and I don’t even need to get in a room with this guy to know he’s bad news. I don’t mean to bum you out by going all Cujo on this one, but this is a serious deal and I need to deliver the straight Shih Tzu:

A few things you said raised huge red flags. You said “he doesn’t hit me or anything like that.” I’ll be doggone if that’s any consolation. If this guy didn’t seem dangerous, it would never occur to you to bring up such a thing. You said he can be a “bully” and “brutal.” That’s awfully strong language. Take it from a pup who knows what’s behind a bark: Your boyfriend is emotionally abusive. And if you do some research, you’ll see that almost all relationships that become physically violent started off with emotional abuse. Even if things don’t reach that point, you should never have to put up with behaviors like bullying and verbal brutality from someone who claims to care about you.

Take it from me: There are lots of great guys who will treat you with respect and care all the time. You want to know the percentage? That’s it. You deserve T.L.C. exactly 100% of the time. That’s the percentage you deserve, and no less. Nobody’s perfect. But you can and should always know that you are loved, even when you’re having a disagreement. Go find someone who doesn’t need to feel better about himself by making you feel bad. You’ll find someone great. I know because you’re one of my correspondents, which clearly means you’re awesome.

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

I got a sweater for Christmas. Yeah, right. I guess they were all out of coal. I’ve been giving my Mistress exasperated “You’ve got to be kidding, bitch!” looks, but she remains oblivious (communicating with these bipedal dingbats is hard without a voice box – as I’m sure you know). How do I tell her to stop this uncool and undignified nonsense? I’m at the end of my leash: the neighbor dogs are laughing at me, and I’m considering running away (or at least forgetting my toilet training).

- Mortified in Manhattan.
Dear Mortified:

Wow, have I ever been inundated lately with puppy prissiness – or is that pissyness? – over overly outfit-obsessed owners. (I really have to get over this alliteration thing. There’s a brand new resolution, people.)

I hold to the notion that not all canine apparel is appalling. Personally, I have no trouble communicating what I like or don’t like with my bipedal beauty, mi bonita mamacita. (What? If you’re going to buy that I can talk in English, is Spanish that much of a stretch?)

Mommy knows me like the back of her well-manicured hand. She would only adorn me in doggie dress if it was particularly cold out, or if she wanted to protect me from a particularly sunny day, or if she thought she found something that was particularly adorable, or if she was just bored or drunk. So basically, I deal with it pretty much every day.

Long story short: As long as your mom isn’t dressing you in Ed Hardy, don’t get so stressed. Any sweater you don’t like, you eat. Eventually she’ll realize that like Matthew McConaughey, you’re at your best au naturel.
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December 29th, 2009 Edition
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$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

Every year I make New Year’s Resolutions, and you know the story: I stick with them for a week or two, and then my resolve falls apart and I go back to my old habits. I really want to make some permanent changes this year. Does anyone actually make a New Year’s Resolution that sticks? What’s the secret?

- No Stick-to-it-ive-ness

Dear No Stick:

You’re not alone. According to a resolution study I found on Wikipedia (What? I don’t sleep all day), 52% of participants were confident in their goals, but only 12% actually achieved them. (Way to go, Jon Gosselin. See? “Become the most unlikeable person in America” wasn’t so hard to achieve after all.)

How can you improve your likelihood of being in the almost-one-in-eight? That depends on whether you lift a leg or you - um, I mean, it sorta depends on your gender. The straight poop: Men achieve their goals 22% more often when they set specific goals such as “lose a pound a week,” rather than “lose weight.” As for women, they succeeded 10% more when they made their goals known publicly and got support from their friends. So consider that.

As for me, I keep my resolutions simple, and they always work out. Let me look over the past year’s list, and how I did:

Max’s 2009 Resolution No. 1: Stop snarfing down every morsel of food that lands on the floor.

Resolution accomplished? YES. (I now ignore anything that’s not meat-based. Just like Aretha Franklin.)

Max’s 2009 Resolution No. 2: Stop spinning around, chasing my own tail.

Resolution accomplished? YES. (Now I only spin around to chase that tiny furry thing that keeps hanging out right behind me. Damn, that sucker’s fast.)

Max’s 2009 Resolution No. 3: Look ridiculously cute an extra three times a week.

Resolution accomplished? YES. (I know. Let’s be honest. It happened more than three times a week. I was trying to be humble.)

Max’s 2009 Resolution No. 4: To respect our nation’s heroes, stop peeing on fire hydrants.

Resolution accomplished? YES. (Now I pee everywhere.)

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

I have been telling people how adorable I am for so long that I’ve begun to believe it.

So my questions are:

1) Is it possible that I am not quite as adorable as I think I am?

2) How can I be more adorable?

3) Whatever happened to that chick who played Lisa on Saved By The Bell?

Thank you,
Adorably(?) Canadian

Dear Adorably(?) Canadian:

The best way to be adorable is to own it. If you truly believe you’re adorable, you are. Granted, it helps that I’m actually, objectively, adorable. If you look up “adorable” in the dictionary, you’ll find a picture of me. Well, you’ll find one if you look in my mommy’s dictionary, anyway. She uses pictures of me as bookmarks. Why? Because I’m adorable, of course.

While it’s possible you’re not as adorable as you think you are, it’s still better than the reverse. There are too many humans out there with low self-esteem already. These people keep makeup companies, sportscar manufacturers and Botox technicians in business, and we only tolerate them because L.A. would grind to a halt without them. Someone has to appear in VH1 reality shows, after all.

It’s cliche to say you’re as beautiful as you think you are, but there’s a lot of truth to that. Have you ever seen a dog with low self-esteem? Doesn’t happen. When we hit you with the puppy-dog eyes, we know you’re going to feel like a monster if you don’t share a chunk of that warm, juicy roast beef. (And in truth, you are a monster if you don’t share. Hook a brother up!)

So never doubt that you’re adorable. If I can dig through a trash can looking for a paper towel to rip to shreds and still be adorable, you certainly can too. Plus, you’re from Canada, so you must be adorable. Oh, Canada, the home of such adorable stars as Ryan Gosling, Sandra Oh, Mike Myers and Shania Twain. We’ll look the other way on Céline Dion, because clearly her being Canadian is a fluke.

Finally, as for what happened to the chick who played Lisa? I sniffed out what information I could. Lark Voorheis — no relation to Friday the 13th’s Jason Voorhees, or so she claims — is still acting, though mostly small roles in movies and TV. Unlike the other main ladies of Bell, Ms. Voorhies didn’t go on to star in either Showgirls or Shriek If You Know What I Did Last Friday the Thirteenth. So she gets props for that. Even better, she played no role in Screech’s sex tape. Tragically, Screech did play a role.

That’s what I hear, at least. Mommy doesn’t let me watch that sort of stuff, though apparently I hear there’s a great one starring my favorite canine coquette, Brittany Spaniel.

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

Rock, paper or scissors? If you only have one shot, that is? And if, say, you had a lot riding on this bet you made with Steve, who’s going to hold you to it, that bastard?

- I Really Shouldn’t Have Made This Bet

Dear IRSHMTB:

What you really should have done was come up with something that made a better acronym, like “Don’t Understand Moronic Betting.”

So you have a lot riding on a game that’s only slightly more strategic that a coin flip, and you’re in a state of panic. That’s cool. I freak out whenever there’s a thunderstorm, so I can empathize. Still, you humans never cease to amaze me.

Since your opponent is a guy, and it’s a one-shot deal, your best bet is Paper. There are two reasons for this: One, guys tend to throw Rock most often because it’s supposedly “manly.” (Silly man-humans.) Second, regardless of gender, Scissors is thrown slightly less often that the other two options: 29.6% of the time, according to the World RPS Society.

Side note: Let’s all take a second to consider that there actually is a “World RPS Society,” devoted to dumbest game in the world with the exception of Deal or No Deal. Seriously, “fetch” works on about 17 more metaphorical levels than Rock, Paper Scissors. And yet you act like dogs are dumb when we start to run after the stick even when you pull it back. (Not cool, by the way. You’re not Peyton Manning. Cut out the pump fakes.)

Okay, back to our example. If you throw Paper, the likelihood (70.4% of the time) is you’ll either beat his Rock with your Paper, or you’ll both throw Paper and live to fight another day.

Me, I always throw Paw. I’m pretty sure that’s why my canine chums and I always end in a tie.

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

I’ve somehow survived the holidays without introducing my new boyfriend to my family. But he’s starting to think I’m purposely avoiding it (which I am) and I don’t know what to do. It’s not that I’m embarrassed of him. Or my family. I’m just not sure if worlds should be colliding yet.

Signed,

Collision Course

Dear Collision Course:

I get that. Mixing a romantic partner with family can be a dangerous proposition, especially in the early stages. I wouldn’t bring just any lassie home to Mommy. Well, unless that lassie was Lassie. But I digress.)

If your boyfriend really is new, it makes sense to want to wait. There’s nothing wrong with that. What is wrong is that you’ve neglected to explain that to your boyfriend. Now he’s suspicious about your motives for hiding away the kinfolk, which leaves him to postulate all sorts of worst-case scenarios, like your mom is Cruella de Vil or your dad is Michael Vick.

(Okay, so maybe that’s my worst-case scenario. But you know what I mean)

I’m a dog, and dogs are obvious and direct about what we think and feel, which — despite the occasional humpage of your boss’s leg at a cocktail party — is a good thing. You should be just as straightforward. Talk to your boyfriend. Explain that you didn’t think the time was right, tell him why, and impress clearly that it’s no reflection on him.

Give him the puppy-dog eyes — that always works for me. If that doesn’t break him down, do the eyes again, this time resting your chin on his thigh. (That always works for me, and it will definitely work for you, even if it’s not for exactly the same reason.)

If he’s a decent guy, he’ll understand. And if he doesn’t, let me at him. I’ll tear him a new one. And by that, I mean I’ll actually tear him a new one. Just call me Dog the Bounty Hunter. That name’s not taken, right?

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December 21st, 2009 Edition
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$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

I’m a blogger - I won’t say I’m famous, but do I get a lot of hits on my website - and lately women have been sending me marriage proposals via email after I post a blog they like. Now, as a single guy, I’m flattered…but also curious. Do you think they mean it? I know they don’t mean “let’s get married tomorrow” but should I be considering asking these girls out?

- Hitting on the Hits

Dear HOTH:

Welcome to the club, pal. It’s nice here, huh? Forget Taylor Lautner – nothing stirs up the ladies like writing a popular blog. If I had a piece of cheese for every furry female who wanted to put a ring on this claw, I’d be set for life.

It’s flattering to get proposals, my friend. I’m sure you’ve heard from more than one admirer who wants to rub your belly exclusively. (Okay, maybe I’m projecting a little here.)

I’m sure at least a few of these ladies seem intriguing. (Like me, you’re probably sniffing a “but” coming up.)

But it’s a bad idea. Here’s why:

As soon as social media became universally popular, women suddenly became incredibly well-versed in Photoshop. Most guys don’t care to finesse their pictures any more than they care to clean their paws after tearing up the neighbors’ garden. But many women spend hours on hair and makeup before even taking a picture, much less the lengthy “post-production” process.

Suffice it to say: The would-be bride who appears to be a dead ringer for Blake Lively might, in person, turn out to look like Robert Blake.

Spend a little less time on your blog, get out, and socialize. Your winning personality will be just as genuine in person as it is on your website, and your potential partners will be much more genuine.

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

What are you hoping for for Xmas and what are you getting your owner? (It’s OK to reply; she doesn’t read your website.)

- OWSR

Dear OWSR:

She doesn’t read my site? Say it’s not true!

My mommy is proud of everything I do, from my advice column…to my 8-Track collection (I really do think they’ll make a comeback)… to the 750 hours I’ve logged toward my pilot’s license… to my delicious Spanakopita recipe… to me tearing up her new curtains.

Okay, so maybe she’s not proud of everything I do. But hey, she’s aware.

What do I want for Christmas? Good question. I probably could use some more entertainment options, since that YouTube video of the cat getting caught on the ceiling fan is finally starting get old.

Call me corny, but I have everything I need. I have a wonderful Mommy who loves me so much she lets me continue to give advice to wonderful people like you, even when the advice occasionally turns out wrong. (In retrospect, “eat all the asbestos you can find” might have been poorly considered. I may have been hungry when I wrote that.)

What will I give Mommy? Exactly what she wants: Complete loyalty, unrelenting adoration, 4.5 carat white diamond earrings, and many nights of cuddling.

Or at least three of the four.

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

Why is it that every holiday season I can count on at least two of my exes suddenly crawling out from under their rock to “check in?”

- Holiday Love Skeptic

Dear Skeptic:

This could be entirely coincidental. The holiday season is when everyone finally gets around to “checking in.”

You get Christmas cards from people you never speak with. You get Christmas cards from people you forgot existed. You get Christmas cards from people you thought were long dead. And it occurs to you that the reason you’re not close to these people is they keep forgetting you’re Jewish.

(That was just an example, mind you – I’m not Jewish. Mommy says I’m Chinese. But I’m not sure what holidays they celebrate over there. I’m guessing I Ching Eve, and maybe Wu-Tang Day.)

You know the deal here. This time of the year brings everything you have – and everything you don’t have – into high relief.

If you love whom you’re with, you love that person even more right now. But if you have some concerns, you’re even more concerned right now. For some people, it’s the most wonderful and romantic time of the year! For others, it’s the time when there’s a big spike in breakups…and suicides.

Well, that got dark, fast. Let’s lighten up a little shall we? Now, you said these exes are “crawling out from under their rocks.” I’m guessing that means you’re not interested. But most things I find under rocks are things I buried there in the first place because I wanted to find them later so it gets a little confusing. Still, even if you think they should turn around and crawl right back under those rocks, try to be gracious. Because the truth is, you should just be flattered. To these exes, you might be the one that got away…

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

What is the proper etiquette when you step onto an elevator and you are assaulted by bad cologne or perfume? I’m talking a “you-can-barely-breathe-level” assault?

- Why Bathe In Your Nasty Cologne

Dear Why Bathe:

It was “Why Bathe,” right? Because we are in solidarity on that idea, my friend. Who wants to bathe?!?! I keep giving Mommy the same “why bathe” line, but she’s awfully insistent on it. And she’s bigger than me.

Personally, I think I smell wonderful all the time, but I might be the wrong critter to ask – I find that “freshly covered in mud” scent far more appealing than, say, potpourri.

But back to your etiquette question. Sure, we’ve all been in enclosed spaces with fragrance freaks, who not only pour it on heavy but always choose something gruesome, like “Old Spice” or “Axe Body Spray” or “Dropkick by Steven Seagal.”

As bad as that is, it could be worse: We know these people have no common sense and smell artificially awful. Imagine how bad they smell for real. Do you really want to experience that bicycle messenger’s actual scent?

Resist the temptation to ask your fellow vertical traveler whether the CIA has formally classified his body spray as an airborne toxin. If he’s clueless enough not to know what he smells like, he also might be seconds away from having to yell, “Don’t tase me, bro!”

So what should you do? Take the stairs. You have to work off those holiday pounds somehow, and your expanded lung capacity will come in handy next time you have to take the elevator.
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December 14th, 2009 Edition
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$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

My boyfriend has the worst taste in music. It’s embarrassing! How do I get this point across or at least get 50% control over what we listen to when we’re together?

- Maybe Music Snob

Dear Maybe Music Snob,

Some examples would have been helpful, but given that you said “worst,” I’ll just have to assume you mean he rocks out to some mixture of:

The sound of Girl Scouts being skinned alive / Nickelback / a million fingernails raking across a million chalkboards / Kathie Lee Gifford / incessant farting / Air Supply / Rachael Ray / cats meowing / Kenny G.

Which means you have your work cut out for you. Here’s my answer, in all sincerity (why not, ‘tis the season): He doesn’t expect you to like all the things he does, any more than you expect him to like all the things you do. In a healthy relationship, you should be able to be honest with each other about what you like and what you don’t.

So tell him, in a friendly way. Don’t say his music is awful (though I’m sure it is). Just tell him it’s not your thing. Own up to a few of your favorites that you know he won’t like, to even the playing field. You might find there are a few areas where your interests overlap. If so, boom, there’s your together-time soundtrack.

And if that doesn’t work, do what I do when I hang with my bitch: Put in your noise-canceling earbuds and crank up your iPod. Bow wow wow, yippie yo, yippie yay.

$\"QQ\"$ Hey Max,

My dogs wonder what is going on while I am reading Family Affair. Since they do not understand or read English too well, I was hoping that you might do an audiobook in Woof so that they could also enjoy the story. Any chance Caprice might do an audiobook? Thanks for being there.
Jay

Dear Jay:

Your dogs “do not understand or read English too well?” How about Spanish? Hopefully they’ll be able to understand the Taco Bell Employee Manual, because “yo quiero” is about all they’ll be qualified for if you keep letting them fall behind in their language studies like that.

Come on, Jay! Dogs in India are learning six different languages by the time they’re two years old. (Granted, that’s like 14 to you humans.) Dogs in Japan spend twice as much time designing microprocessors as they do barking at the squirrel in the driveway. And dogs in Korea are…well, dogs in North Korea are getting eaten. Let’s just not discuss North Korea.

Anyway… I would love for Mommy to do an audiobook, because reading glasses tend to slide off my snout and I can only listen to Ayn Rand and Danielle Steel so many times (don’t hate me for my guilty pleasures). But here’s what she tells me: You have to be asked to do an audiobook, and Jay, sadly, you’re the first person who’s ever asked.

So, hold your water. I’m sure that eventually, you and your canine companions will be able to enjoy my Mommy’s brilliant work recited to you everywhere you go.

Well, everywhere but North Korea. The only dog to make it out of there alive recently is Bill Clinton, and he’s got mad game.

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

Who should say “I love you” first?

- In love but scared to say it

Dear Scared:

I know how you feel. Every moment you’re apart, you feel that yearning. You know you’re perfect for each other, that you’re fated to be together. All you want to do is to show how you feel, that you’ll say anything, do anything, be anything to capture your one true love’s heart. And then she eats a lipstick she finds in the purse, pukes it up, and then eats the puke. And you think that’s just adorable.

What’s that? Oh, I’m sorry. I guess we weren’t talking about Tinkerbell Hilton. Sorry, my bad.

So you want to say those big three words, huh? Funny how those words get people so crazy. The only thing I can compare it to is the three words my mommy says to me that get me in a frenzy: “Are you hungry?” (The answer is YES!)

Here’s the thing, if you’re scared to say it, there’s probably a reason. If you’re really in love, you probably already know whether he/she feels the same way. That said, tossing out the ol’ “I love you” is the best litmus test of all. But is that something you really want to find out now, before the holidays? You might consider seeing how things go — this time of year is a pretty good relationship litmus test itself — before dropping the “L” bomb.

But what do I know? Feed me, rub my belly, feed me, let me sleep on the bed, feed me and show me between 1 to 7 hours of attention every time you come home, and you won’t ever doubt that I love you.

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

They say all babies are beautiful but really… all babies are not beautiful. What do you say to parents when they introduce you to their ugly baby?

Signed,

Baby Horror

Dear Baby Horror:

Interesting question. This situation hasn’t come up often, as many parents seem loath to get their newborns too close to a Shih-Tzu with a Shihtzy attitude.

Of course, word might have gotten out about the last aggressive, tail-grabbing baby who crossed my path. Suffice it to say, when his parents play “This Little Piggy” with him these days, they run out of piggies to count at “roast beef.”

You do have a point about ugly babies, though. And notice there’s no such thing as an ugly puppy — plus, we’re born in litters, so you’d expect at least one Carrot Top in every bunch. Nope, we’re all adorable, and some (such as yours truly), just get better over time. Much like Benji before he started hitting the sauce — but that’s a story for another time.

Regardless, you can’t very well tell parents their new baby is ugly. You have to B.S. harder and faster than Tiger Woods on Valentine’s Day. I don’t care if that kid is the unfortunate progeny of the Elephant Man and Susan Boyle. Act like that baby’s going to grow up to be the next Halle Berry/Johnny Depp/Tinkerbell Hilton.

(What? So I have a thing for Chihuahuas. Sue me.)
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December 6th, 2009 Edition
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$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

Is it just me or do those Kay Jewelry commercials scare you?

-Kill also begins with “K”

Dear Kill:

Commercials don’t scare me. I’m like everyone else. I’m scared of the usual things. You know, bigger dogs, loud noises, Rachael Ray.

Sure, the “Every kiss begins with Kay” jingle is a bit strange, considering we know most kisses actually originate with vodka martinis or Mind Eraser shooters.

However, Kay’s tagline is better than “He went to Jared,” which brings to mind Jared from the Subway commercials. It’s never romantic to think of a man who lost 240 pounds, yet appears no likelier to get laid now than he did before.

I’ll assume you’re referring to the new Kay “Love’s Embrace “commercial with the couple hanging out in the dark cabin in the woods. So I guess you noticed that:

·           The man resembles Jeremy Sisto, who has acted in films with titles such as The Dog Killer (not cool, buddy), Dead & Breakfast and The Heart Is Deceitful Above All Things.

·           His voice sounds like that of Buffalo Bill from The Silence of the Lambs.

·           And while lotion and baskets are never discussed, the commercial does include the line “Now you can surround her with the strength of your love.” Like you, I expected the line to end with “the strength of your duct tape.”

Does this scare me? Of course. But only because, like everyone else, I’m terrified of commitment. And retail prices.

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

Why is it appropriate to be drunk before noon in Vegas but when I try to use this logic with my boss he tells me I’m fired?

- Drunk and Unemployed

Dear Drunk and Unemployed,

The issue is not that you’re drunk. Everyone knows the only way to handle the constant stress and tedium of most jobs is to do them drunk. Just ask any of the characters on Mad Men or my Mommy’s friend Dave, the school bus driver.

Here’s the problem: You tried to use logic with your boss. This is not something a boss can handle. Logic is for people who accomplish things.

And about your boss: In all likelihood, he/she already was drunk on scotch/vodka when you told him/her that you’d indulged in a shot/liter of bourbon/lighter fluid. Unfortunately, your boss also is a mean drunk, which is why Russell Crowe/Amy Winehouse no longer employs you.

Be consoled that you’re doing the right thing: The pain of being unemployed and eventually homeless is greatly alleviated by whatever bottom-shelf booze you can still afford.

And remember what my Mommy always says: I’m not a drunk. That’s past tense. I’m a drinking.

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

I’ve been dating this girl for only a few months and what do you know…the holidays are here. I’m feeling pressure to get the right gift. I want it to be something special that says, “Hey, I dig you a lot and I put some thought into this.” But I don’t want it to be too over the top since we’ve only been dating for a few months. What should I do?

- Holiday Pressure Cooker

Dear H.P.C. (Sorry, bud, that abbreviation sounds like an STD),

There’s nothing more beautiful than young love. Well, unless it’s between ugly people. In which case, pretty much everything’s more beautiful than young love.

You’re dealing with an age-old problem: How do you show her she’s not like every other skank you used and tossed aside when you got bored, without making her think you’re a needy, co-dependent freak who’s terrified of growing old alone with no one but your Hump Me Elmo?

(What? You can tickle Elmo all you want. I’m a dog, dammit.)

Here’s my advice: Dump her. This not only removes the pressure on you to buy her a gift; it also frees up your dough for a fresh batch of Xbox games.

She’ll be upset, certainly, but she’ll be upset anyway. You can’t win. No one ever does. The golden rule to life is that no matter where you think you two are in your relationship, she thinks you’re somewhere else.

If you get her something she thinks is nice, her self-worth will skyrocket, she’ll decide you’re not good enough and bang your brother. If you get her something she finds unimpressive, she’ll think you didn’t care enough about her, so you certainly won’t care if she bangs your brother.

See? No matter what you do, you’re screwed. Just like Elmo.

$\"QQ\"$ Dear Max,

Even though making fun of Ed Hardy clothes is now as unoriginal as Dane Cook people still seem to wear them with zero shame whatsoever. What gives?

- Ashamed of Society

Dear Ashamed,

We live in a world where millions “read” James Patterson “books” - in public, even. They kept “According to Jim” on a major network for eight seasons. They listen to Nickelback, and no one even knows what that nickel’s worth, because it’s Canadian. And they are willing to spend hours on Twitter ensuring that #uknowimmaplayacuz is a trending topic.

Anyone who’s halfway coherent knows these activities range from inane to insane. But here’s the thing: People are stupid. Maybe not eat-your-own-body-hair stupid, or screw around with a multitude of social climbers when you’re the world’s most famous golfer stupid, but stupid.

Think of it this way: Most people on earth have an IQ around 100, perhaps a little above or below.

These are the worst people on earth.

Smart people are fun, because someone has to create awesome apps for your iPhone. Dumb people are fun, because someone has to appear on VH1 reality shows.

But the Middle Majority? Worthless. They’re just smart enough to think Ed Hardy clothing is cooler than, say, Dickies, without being smart enough to see how shallow and obvious (and over) it is.

So what can we do? Nothing. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Face it, when you can lick your own privates, what more do you really need? I gave up enjoying anything esoteric, challenging or even vaguely interesting long ago.

Now leave me alone. Leno’s coming on.
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