Dear Meryl in Connecticut – Hon, I suppose you could be nominated every single year, but you’re not this year. Dress all your past trophies in evening gowns, make a giant bowl of popcorn, pour a big glass of scotch and watch the festivities in the privacy of your own den. This way you can make the large, rude gestures without fear of being photographed.

Dear Tommy in Texas – If you go to the ceremonies this year, after missing the last one, please try to smile at least a little bit when the camera trips over your craggy face. You tend to look like you’re pooing your pants when the close up camera zooms in on you.

Dear H in DC – You’ll find plenty to do, hon! You’ve got a couple of books to write after you’ve caught up on your sleep, which will probably take at least a year. Maybe some reconnecting time with your scandalous hubby? I know about that, no doubt! Whatever you do, make sure you spend some quality time at the hairdressers, now that you have it. Just a thought.

Dear Roger in L.A. – There’s a reason it’s called denial, hon. And you are living in the thick of Egypt right now. It’s not about church if you’re all worried about liability. Even if Jesus had been sued by the Rock Distribution Company for interfering with their commerce at the stoning of the prostitute, I don’t think he would have given a rat’s ass. It’s obvious that children are considered collateral damage by the church. But they do grow up to be tithing churchgoers. Or not.

Dear Director in Hollywood – Perhaps another five-minute wait would be a good idea before filming a commercial product on the Newtown shootings. I know there are closets full of scripts about generic school sniper shootings sitting in development turnaround closets, but it would be nice for once, if Hollywood could at least wait until the bodies are cold.

And as a closing note, our rock and roll legends are growing older and passing on to join the heavenly jam session. I’d like to give a God Speed and RIP to Reg Presley, who indeed made my heart sing in my wanton youth.

Tell Mrs. Crabby all!

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