Leditor to the Editor

[Please note: So flush was I with material that two answers to this most recent Leditor to the Editor will be posted: one today and one tomorrow. Enjoy.]

A Rebecca L. from New York writes:

Dear Hot Johnny,

I had a confusing experience recently and just had to know your thoughts on the matter. Here goes:

I was in a rush to get to a meeting about potential freelance work. On my way out of a subway station in midtown, I encountered an older man out cold, sprawled across the stairs. Worried, but apparently unwilling to stop, I called 911 and went on my way. 911 patched me through to EMS immediately. The first question the EMS man asked was: "Is he breathing?" This simple question brought on a wave of guilt and shame that I had deserted the unconscious guy. I answered "Yes" because I didn't want the EMS man to know what a bad person I was. I turned back to the stairs to go find out if this was actually true when he told me to "Support his head." I then saw the older guy, passed out just seconds before, making his way up the steps slowly. "He wants to go up the stairs!" I blurted out in a panic. "Don't let him move!" The EMS man commanded me. "We'll be right there."

"Right there" actually ended up meaning "Not anytime soon." Fortunately, it was one of the typhoon nights and the older guy was showing no real inclination to go out into the pouring rain. I told him I had called EMS and he just nodded dreamily and leaned up against the wall of the overhang we were waiting in. He suddenly lurched out into the street and fumbled with his pants. Feeling somewhat responsible for this guy, I followed at a discreet distance, only to see him take the LONGEST PEE KNOWN TO MAN. You might be beginning to guess what the problem was here. My friend wasn't having a medical emergency. He was drunk. Very drunk. What to do?

I couldn't leave him. He might really need help anyway, or at least a place to spend the night. So, after he resumed his place against the wall (looking immensely relieved) I waited... and waited... and waited. Finally a cop car pulled up. I rushed over just in time to see the two officers pull out sandwiches and start talking on their cell phones. They were not responding, just on a dinner break. Feeling like a complete asshole, I interrupted them and explained. I apologized about misreading the situation, and about interrupting them, but I couldn't wait for EMS any longer because I had to get to work. A tiny lie-it was more a work meeting-but I didn't want to get into details. The cops were very philosophical about it. One said, "It's not your fault if the guy wants to act like an idiot" and wished me a goodnight. They promised to handle it. As I walked away I heard him yell "Come here." and I looked back to see him motioning towards my drunk friend.

So what meaning am I supposed to draw from this experience? By trying to help I:

A: Wasted the time of an already over-extended medical agency

B: Interrupted two police officers on a dinner break

C: Got a harmless drunk hassled, and

D: Was late for my meeting.

Is there a silver lining here? Am I missing something? Where did I go wrong?

Becky

36D and totally mystified

Dear Rebecca,

I'm not much of a "reader", per se. So, when anyone sends a letter longer than, say, the ingredients on a sugar packet, I get impatient. And so, I must pay someone who doesn't have the attention span of a fourth-grader to explain its contents to me.

(And, on a side note, anyone out there looking to do a little charity work -- like read to the disadvantaged -- but just really fucking hates the blind, please contact me.)

Now, back to your letter, Rebecca.

From what I recall, you disturbed a homeless man or made out with one, or something. To be honest, I wasn't really paying attention when the letter was read to me. The moment I visualized the plight of this homeless man, I sort of started to quietly hum that Paul Simon song from the Graceland album:

Homeless (boom, boom!) Homeless (boom, boom!)

Moonlight sleeping on a midnight lake

And by the time I stopped, the letter was over. So, you need to forgive me if this answer doesn't EXACTLY answer your question, but here goes: You need to stop making out with homeless people. They carry diseases. And maybe you're not a "hygiene" person -- I'm certainly not -- but compared to homeless people, you most certainly are.

Plus, making out with a homeless person is like cheating on a fat girlfriend with her even fatter sister and then, not getting the phone call back from Springer: All that fat and all that fucking. And for what? Nuthin’.

Frankly, there's no good that can come of this relationship. The first time you introduce him to your father and he offers to give him a handjob for crack is bound to be awkward. It might blot out the memories of him exposing himself at the Thanksgiving Day table, but I doubt it.

Maybe, like many women, you're thinking, "But I can change him." Many women think that and many men are fine with letting women think that. But I don't know if you have the Henry Higgins-like resources to change a man who, most likely, goes No. 2 in his pants. Even in Iraq, the U.S. doesn't have to tell the Sunnis and the Shiites: "Hey, Sunnis and Shiites: Stop all this pants pooping." And then, because no one tells THEM what to do, the Sunnis and Shiites don't start bombing toilets. No, they're a little more civilized than that.

I suggest that you get out of this relationship, and, if you have trouble finding a good man, then frequent one of the many online sites that cater to the horny and underworked.

Hopefully, this has somehow answered whatever your original question was.

Thanks for the letter and keep reading.

Yours,

HJ

PS. Oh, and don't fall in the trap that so many women who've dated a hobo fall into: 'molester' is not a step up. If anything, it's a lateral move. Same goes for 'public masturbator'.

A list

The next installment of MP3 Friday will take place Saturday.

But so that you have something to read so that you may waste more company money, I give you a list -- and one that will only be funny if you have a basic knowledge of Soviet history (and even then ...): Considered, but ultimately discarded, names for the indie band, Someone Still Loves You, Boris Yeltsin.

Enjoy.

• Put Your Damn Shoe Back On, Nikita Khrushchev
• Those Are Some Pretty Boss Eyebrows, Leonid Brezhnev
• Not Everyone Remembers You, Yuri Andropov
• Don’t You Suddenly Die Too, Konstantin Chernenko
• Way To Ruin It For Everyone, Mikhail Gorbachev

Today’s lesson: If, however, you do NOT have a basic understanding of Soviet history, or you set the bar slightly higher for your ha-ha, then no, there was nothing to laugh at here. Sorry to waste your time.

Who am I?

Let’s play a little game, wherein I give you a bunch of clues and then you guess who I’m talking about. Ready?

• This person did some drinking last night.
• This same person, when he found out that one of the women with whom he was talking – a friend of a friend – was from Delaware, declared that “There IS no Delaware.” And that “Delaware is just a tax shelter. It’s the Cayman Islands of states.” And that she should “be from a REAL state, like Virginia” – the home state of our person in question.
• This person was not much kinder to the man who – mistakenly – admitted to being from Rhode Island. When our mystery person was informed of the man’s birthright, he asked, point blank why Massachusetts “didn’t just do everybody a favor and invade. I mean, honestly: If a tree falls in Rhode Island, does it make a sound?”
• This person, it should be noted, really had his A-game with him last night.

Today’s lesson: You may leave your guesses in the form of comments. The correct answer will be announced next week if the Mystery Person remembers to do so.