Welcome to the inaugural installment of my advice column, Ask Papa. “Where do you get the balls to write an advice column when your own life is an unmitigated disaster,” you might ask if you are my mother or an ex-girlfriend. Well, just because my existence thus far has been an ode to underachievement, it doesn’t mean I haven’t picked up a few bits of applicable knowledge here and there. Besides, who doesn’t like telling people how to live their lives? It’s so much easier than straightening out your own. Without further ado, I present Ask Papa.
Q. Papa: My 21-year-old son still lives at home. He’s going to community college, where he majors in computer design, and he makes a decent amount of money selling his work via the Internet. He isn’t rich by any means, but he has enough to go out to dinner quite often and afford a Taurus SHO. How do I get him unlatched from the teat he’s been suckling for 21 years and out of the house?–Sore Nipples in Saskatoon
A. Dear Sore Nipples: I hope you don’t mind me saying you’re from Saskatoon for the sake of alliteration, because it’s apparently an essential aspect of dispensing advice. Also, Saskatoon sounds funny.
As for your son, well, living at home sucks. Trust me. I’ve bounced in and out of my home for more of my adult life than I should feel comfortable publicly admitting to, and, every time I’m home, a piece of my soul dies.
Nothing motivates a young man quite like shame and the questioning of his manhood. The next time you see your son, ask him, “When is the last time you made love to a woman or even touched a pair of breasts? I know it hasn’t been recently, because our walls are so thin I can hear you blink your eyes through them, and I definitely haven’t detected any feminine moaning in ages.”
This will cause one of two things to happen: Your son will break down in tears and exit your house forever immediately, or he will belligerently state that he has, in fact, been getting laid. This is where you take the time to remind him that, while roomy, a Ford Taurus SHO still pales in comparison to the sexual comfort of a room of one’s own. And, if that fails to get him out the door, hop on his bed and begin urinating on it like an angry cat while hysterically screaming, “Get out! Get out! Get out!” Hope this helps.