Dear Bert,
I feel there's a gap in my life and, therefore, I've climbed the mountain to seek guidance. Here's the problem:
Mrs ISK seems to think there's something wrong with me because I don't know "what she really means" despite the fact that she won't tell me when I ask her to tell me. Am I odd?
Yours in hope
ISK
Dear ISK,
Well, you may have noticed it's taken me quite some time to respond to this question. You may think I've merely been neglecting my duties to Bertfans everywhere, but you couldn't be further from the truth. Truth is, this question has proved thorny even for the all-knowing John-John. For weeks now I've been sitting around with my chin atop my fist, a bit like that Rodin statue only more stooped over. It's real difficult, this. And I'm sure you're well aware of the cause of the difficulty. You are asking me to try to fathom THE FEMALE MIND.
Just you think about it. What do Plato, Rene Descartes, Friedrich Nietzsche, Immanuel Kant, Jebus H. Christ and John-John Connolly all have in common? Aside from being smart bastards that knew tons of stuff, every single last man jack of them DIED SINGLE. Well, except the last one, but that's only a matter of time. Why is this? I'll tell you why. It's because they all realised women were fulla shite and eternally confounding, and so they just cut their losses and stayed out of it.
Now, if all these clever fellas independently came to the conclusion that the female mind was beyond the comprehension of man, don't you think you should follow their example?
It's clear to me that she's employing the age-old trick of using her feminine wiles to attempt to create an air of mystique about herself in order to ensnare gullible males, who will happily bang their heads off this wall of shite like a bird that's got trapped in your living room in exchange for the odd ride now and again. Well, don't you stand, for it, son.Tell the stupid hoor to pack it in with the attention-seeking and the cod-mysticism, 'cos she's fooling nobody, and you're not going to run after her buying her frivolous pish and putting dado rails up in your house and all that shite just so you can dip your wick now and again. Her face'll be a picture.
To think I've spent weeks of my life trying to second-guess this dumb shitehawk on your behalf when she probly doesn't even know what she's on about herself. It's an outrage. No, ISK, you tell her Uncle John-John's wise to her game, bin the hoor, and model yourself from this day forth upon the great men mentioned previously. If you've any trouble getting hold of a black leather skirt in your size, I know just the place...
Yours piously,
Bert
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