Sometimes snow, and rain, and heat, and gloom of night, and ennui, and achy feet, and trichinosis, and cable tv, and startling quantities of beer stays this courier from his appointed rounds.

The mailman is drinking heavily and unable to cope with the petty problems of the yahoos that write in to Annie’s Mailbox. Next year he may crawl out of bed to tackle some of the more egregiously vapid letters he previews on his route, but not this year. Not this year.

Dear Annie: My son has been invited to a party celebrating the birthdays of two children. These children are not related. The parents said that because the children’s birthdays are within a week of each other, it was easier to have a combined party than to expect guests to attend two parties in the same weekend. The party is at a national chain restaurant, where I expect my child will receive one slice of pizza, one soda and one piece of combined birthday cake. Am I wrong to feel that because the cost of one party is being split between two families, I should split the cost of one gift between the two birthday children? — Party Pooper

Dear Pooper:

How nice of these people. They make it sound like combining the parties is a service they’re providing. Go to two parties? Impossible!

Parents are insane. These kids’ parents are insane for thinking they can get away with half the cost of a party while receiving a full complement of booty, and you’re insane for letting it get to you. But because you’re writing Annie instead of these other people, I’m on your side.

Here’s what you do: get two gifts for the two kids, using the amount of money you’d normally use, because it’s not their fault. Get them five pounds of silly putty apiece or tiny remote-controlled racecars or something, it doesn’t matter, it will all be thrown away or tossed into the furthest reaches of a closet inside of a week.

Next, go to the party with your kid and exact your vengeance. Vengeance depends on living and eating well; starve your child the morning prior to the party so he has a raging hunger on. It won’t hurt for you to eat one less danish that morning either. When the pizza comes, I want you all to eat like CARE has just supplied your benighted drought-stricken village with a stack of buffalo wings and egg salad sandwiches. Pay no mind to the disgusted looks of the other parents; remember, they’re insane. They may counter by speeding up their own consumption, but you can minimize the impact by paying no attention to your sodas until every last scrap of food is gone. When blindsided like you’re blindsiding them, even the wiliest parent won’t realize he’s falling behind by sipping on his Dr Pepper until too late.

With luck, will, and a strong quartering tailwind, you’ll have horked down two entire pizzas before the other party-goers know what’s hit them.

Good luck to you.

–Annie’s mailman

Dear Annie: My friend, “Irma,” is dating “Floyd,” a man she cares for deeply. About a month ago, I was talking to her and Floyd got on the phone. He was quite crude and graphic about what he was going to do with her in the bedroom, and what a nymph she is. He continued, saying if he and Irma ever broke up, and if I was lucky, he would do the same to me. I told Irma this was offensive to me and disrespectful to her. I said Floyd owes both of us an apology. Irma, however, thinks his comments were perfectly fine, because he was joking around. I don’t understand why Irma believes it’s OK for her boyfriend to speak of her as if she’s a common tart. What do you say? — Concerned for My Friend

Dear Irma’s friend:

Shits like Irma and Floyd are a dime a dozen. What you do with a dime-a-dozen friend is drop her like the steaming turd she is before she and her idiot boyfriend creep farther into your life and make your existence a daily trip to hell. “But she’s my friend!” you say. “If only she wasn’t going out with that Floyd creep, everything would be swell!” you say. I got news for you, sister: EVERYONE seems nice until you get to know them. Then it’s only one out of ten who you find out is really nice and a pleasure to be around. Irma isn’t turning weird because she’s with Floyd; she was weird to the core already. You just didn’t know it. That’s what dime-a-dozen friends are.

Stalin baked pies and told funny jokes for all his friends; he was a peach! Then– late at night the gibber the creeping knife twisted into small of back eyes poked out with sharpy irons! This is where you’re at with Irma and Floyd. They baked you pies, now they’ll pop you into the cauldron if you just give them the chance.

I’m surprised you haven’t run into this before. My guess is that you probably have, you just don’t want to admit that this is it again. I’ve got news for you: this IS it again. Time to close out the tab and go to the next bar, put a dime into the next jukebox and try to get a decent song out of it.

–Annie’s mailman

Dear Annie: I read the letter from “Daughter-in-Law in Louisiana,” whose father-in-law was spending a fortune on mail-in contests. My mother was spending $400 to $500 a month on these contests until I wrote to Mail Preference Service, Direct Marketing Association (dmaconsumers.org), P.O. Box 643, Carmel, N.Y. 10512, and asked to be removed from direct-mail solicitations. It takes about three months, but will substantially decrease the amount of mail received. — Lawrence, Kan.

Dear Communist:

Years ago, when I was a boy, I’d sit in a tree in my father’s front lawn on hot summers’ mornings. A gnarled mimosa, purple and pink and heavy with flowers, the drone of delicate things buzzing and chirping, living and dying all around me and below me. A bottle of Barq’s cooling my hand as I scanned the horizon.

And always the Mailman. Blue shorts, light blue short-sleeve shirt, a pregnant bag slung over his shoulder, he’d come strolling around the corner down below me at the end of the street, strolling up to each house in turn, whistling, filling each mailbox with miracles. I remember watching him shuffle below me to our front door, then shuffle on down the street. God, what a shitty job, I remember thinking.

Sometimes he’d come at nine in the morning; sometimes it was closer to noon or 4; sometimes he wouldn’t come at all as I remember, especially on really humid days or if the sky was clouded up. So it wasn’t all bad.

Years later, after I was a grown man, after uncounted tears and disappointments and missed opportunities–after I became dead inside–I laid down my hopes and dreams and took up the mailman’s bag. Don’t take that away from me. It’s not much–it’s less than that, it’s nothing, it’s a paycheck, a way to afford cable tv and beer–but it’s all I have left.

Let this man have his junkmail.

–Annie’s mailman

Dear Annie: I am 26 years old. Six months ago, I married a man I’ve been dating since I began college. This is the only serious relationship I have been in. The problem is, I always have had major doubts about our relationship, and if I am forced to admit it, I know I “settled” because I wanted the whole marriage-and-children thing. I am hardly attracted to my husband, and worse, embarrassed by him when we’re out in public because he is socially awkward. We agree on a lot of things, such as parenting (we do not yet have children), but sometimes I’m afraid I made a terrible mistake by marrying him. To compound the problem, I have cheated on him with three different guys. One is a co-worker, and we have great chemistry. I always look forward to our encounters, which happen whenever we get a chance. The relationship is sexual only. A divorce would devastate my husband, who not only has baggage from his own parents’ divorce, but also is very much in love with me. I also don’t want to disappoint my family and his. And if I did leave him, it’s not as if I could be with my co-worker, who also recently married. I’m afraid I will always be looking for affairs. Please help. I have no one to turn to, since all my friends know this co-worker. — Staten Island, N.Y.

Dear Harlot:

Here are the facts as I understand them:

1. you’re married to someone you don’t particularly like.

2. you’ve had sex with three other guys in the six months you’ve been married to him.

3. Of the three guys you’ve had sex with, you’re particularly fond of your coworker.

4. Who’s married.

5. You need to be told that you’re not a shallow person destined to prostitute yourself until you grow old and alone and fond of little glass animals.

You’re in luck, because I don’t think that will happen. What will happen is that you will grow old surrounded by people you loathe, dreading every new day as it dawns, knowing it will be full of lies and hollow of any purpose, other than your secret yearning for little glass animals.

–Annie’s Mailman

Dear Annie: My son is getting married in November. As the groom’s parents, we assumed the cost of the tuxes for the groomsmen was on us, but the bride-to-be says the groomsmen should pay for their own attire, and the money we would have spent on tuxes should now be given to the bridal couple to help pay for the reception. This is our first child to marry, and we are in uncharted waters. What are we supposed to pay for? — Midwest Mom

Dear Mom:

Weddings are an excuse for greedy kids to loot their parents. If someone came up to me and said “Give me ten to fifty thousand dollars for my special day or I’ll hate you forever,” I’d urge her or him to go fuck themselves. “You can go fuck yourself,” I’d say. Maybe that’s not how most fathers would handle it, but they can go fuck themselves.

I’m impressed with how the bride-to-be gave with one hand and took with her other one. “You don’t have to spend all that money on them; give all that money to me.” I’d like to have her on my side, but I’m afraid it would cost me, and I’d be too stupid to see the hammer falling.

But we need to fix your problem. Your problem is that she’s already asked you for the money and you didn’t immediately strike her. Your options have now become more limited. One option that I see is to tactically check yourself into a mental institution until after the ceremony. It’s 90% sure she won’t follow you and your purse into “Garden Havens.” And she’s not likely to take advantage of her deranged mother-in-law-to-be because of societal constraints. Always try to have society come down on your side.

The other option, if you’d rather not be labeled psychotic for the rest of your life, is to take that money you would have spent on tuxes and go to the casino. Lay it all on ‘black.’ If you win, you can turn over half the cash to the greedy little urchin without it putting the slightest dent in your pocketbook. If you lose, you can start treatment for your gambling addiction. Even the greediest of brides is likely not to ask too much of a mother-in-law who’s receiving treatment for a gambling addiction.

–Annie’s Mailman

Dear Annie: I am a retired naval officer. Two weeks ago, my 16-year-old daughter had a date with a young man I had never met. My wife, a teacher at the school, said he was a good kid. When the young man showed up to get my daughter, he sat in the car and honked the horn (strike 1). I went out and told him she was not ready, and he should come in the house. He did, and then proceeded to call my wife by her first name (strike 2). When he tried the same with me, I very sternly said, “You can call me ‘Sir.’” Finally, when my daughter came down, he blurted, “It’s about time” (strike 3). At this, I blew my stack. In military fashion, an inch from his face and speaking loudly, I proceeded to tell him that I will not allow anyone to come in my house and treat my family this way. I grabbed his coat and threw it outside and informed him that unless he also wanted to end up on the ground, he would walk out and never see my daughter again. My daughter cried, as expected, but my wife has not spoken to me in two weeks. She says this is the way kids are now and I should remember that I no longer wear a uniform. She thinks I owe “Junior” an apology. I told her he owes our family an apology for his lack of respect. Tell me, Annie, was I wrong? My wife and I will do whatever you say. — Lost in Laingsburg

Dear Commander:

If Annie told you both to jump in a lake, would you do it? Would you go to work naked? If Annie said it will help? Would you eat bugs? Annie says that both of you should eat bugs.

–Annie’s Mailman

DEAR ANNIE: My sister, “Nancy,” has been dating “Rob” for nearly eight months, and she believes they eventually will marry. My siblings and parents initially welcomed Rob into the family, but in the last few weeks, we discovered that he has several felony and misdemeanor charges pending against him and two misdemeanor convictions, all involving forgery and passing bad checks. Around the same time this information came to light, Nancy discovered that someone had been opening credit accounts in her name. She first accused Rob, but he talked his way out of it and she now believes he is innocent. However, the more we find out about Rob, the more afraid we are that he indeed is stealing from Nancy and will ruin her credit. My family has tried to warn Nancy, but she becomes defensive. Although she knows for a fact that Rob used her debit card without permission, she has forgiven him and actually asked his forgiveness for accusing him of identity theft. Meanwhile, the rest of the family has banned him from our homes, fearful that he may get access to our personal information and financial documents. I am afraid that Rob will plunge Nancy into financial distress, but I also am concerned that as long as she sticks with him, she will be isolated from the rest of the family. We know she has to make this decision for herself, but is there anything we can do to help? We’ve already given her information on identity theft, but she ignores it. Annie, we need your advice. — Concerned Sister

Dear Sister:

Credit fraud, forgery, and check kiting. Haven’t we all been there? These youthful transgressions are a passing thing, and I’m sure Nancy has nothing to worry about.

While we’re on the subject, though, I’ll bet you’ve got several skeletons in your closet, “Sister,” am I right? Am I right? Strange, perverted things that may or may not have been videotaped? Things involving a certain Ace hardware man and keyless manacles? I think we understand each other now. So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop pestering Nancy and me, I mean, “Rob.”

I’m sure Rob could use a nice new car, too, while you’re at it. Something blue.

–Annie’s Mailman

Dear Annie: “Stan” and I have been married nearly 40 years. He has been a wonderful husband, lover and father. Eight years ago, his business division was moved overseas, so he decided to freelance. He has done well. He has a small office, and his clients come from all over. He is booked six months in advance. However, I’m concerned about Stan’s appearance. He wears jeans and plaid shirts everywhere, except to church. I can live with that, but in the last year, he has decided to let his hair grow. It is wiry, and although he washes and combs it, by lunchtime, he has that “mad scientist” look going. I’ve asked him to cut it, but he says his customers are purchasing his brains, not his looks. Stan says people were always forcing him to cut his hair — his mother, the Army and his bosses — and he’s tired of it. The problem is, our son is engaged to a lovely girl whose parents live in another city. We met them last year, before the hair got out of hand. Last week, our son stopped by, took one look at his father and asked when Dad was going to get a haircut. Stan says he’ll get it styled for the wedding, but he doesn’t want to cut off all that growth. What should I do? — At Wits’ End in Los Angeles

Dear Wits’ End:

Here’s what you do: Go to your husband, look him straight in the eye, and tell him “I’m a complete idiot. I don’t know how to gauge my worth except through the eyes of strangers. I’m pretentious and shallow. Your son is also pretentious and shallow; I firmly believe that is my fault. I will hie immediately to a lawyer and begin divorce proceedings, since if I stayed with you and was somehow able to change the way you view the universe, it would be as if I were donating a cold and dead kidney to your otherwise-healthy body.” If you do this, I promise you that you’ll be making the world a better place to live in.

–Annie’s Mailman

Dear Annie: I read the letter from “Not Engaged Yet,” who kept getting asked when she was going to get married. It always amazes me how rude people can be. My response to a question like that is to firmly, but politely, say, “Why do you ask? Do you know something I don’t?” It says a lot while leaving little to be said. — J.S.

Dear J.S.:

Thank you for your input. Although I don’t understand what exactly you’re saying or what you’re leaving out. Are you just being an ass, or what? Listen: people want to know when other people get married. That’s just true. And being engaged is tantamount to saying “Stay tuned to this channel for further updates on our upcoming marriage.” When no updates are forthcoming, people naturally are curious. Now, I grant you, some people could be asking the question expecting a really juicy answer like “We hate each other, the deal is off.” But don’t jump to that conclusion. It hurts baby Jesus when you do that.

–Annie’s Mailman

Dear Annie: I have a group of long-term friends, and we all are in our 30s. One girl, “Hilda,” is extremely insecure and childish. When Hilda disagrees with someone, instead of discussing it face-to-face, she fires off an accusatory, often insulting, e-mail to the person. This seems to work well for her, since she can get her barbs off without having to look anyone in the eye.

After being the victim of several of Hilda’s hurtful missives, I started ignoring those e-mails. However, when I deleted two last week, Hilda went to our mutual friends, saying THEY should talk to me because I am “not communicating with her.”

Needless to say, our friends feel put upon, and all of us have discussed how Hilda drives us crazy and we no longer want to be friends with her. Trying to talk about this with Hilda, in person, only produces more accusations and immature yelling, crying and bringing up events that happened years ago.

What do you advise? — High School Was 20 Years Ago

Dear High School Was 20 Years Ago:

Instead of advising you on how to handle this situation, which I find tedious, I’ll just criticize your writing ability. I’ll do it in a bullet format, too, because I want to convey a certain amount of extra contempt for your skills that would be lacking if I were to use actual paragraphs.

* “Hurtful missives.” Mm hm, mm hm. I’ve got an idea: why don’t you take your be-hooped ass down to the grain mill and fan yourself until Silas comes in from the fields?

* I hate it when people say “needless to say” after setting up what they didn’t need to say with paragraphs of boring, boring background.

* “Hilda,” your immature and childish friend, at least has the balls to direct her accusations and insults toward those who’ve supposedly slighted her, whereas you slap a stamp on yours and use my glorious Service to deliver your anonymous accusations and insults to an advice column. May God have mercy on your unintentionally ironic soul.

–Annie’s Mailman

Dear Annie: I have a 5-year-old autistic son. My wife heard about how dogs will help my son with his speech and social skills, so eight months ago, she bought a Bich-poo. I was against this because I don’t have time to spend with the dog, let alone take care of any pet.

To make a long story short, my son doesn’t understand that the dog wants to play, so he gets very aggravated and starts screaming. Most of the time, he hits and kicks the dog until the dog leaves him alone. I have never seen my son or wife play with the dog or go outside in the yard to help clean up the dog poop.

I suggested getting rid of the dog because the older my son gets, the more force he will apply when hitting and kicking. Dogs need love and attention, and my son needs his peace once in a while. Any suggestions? — Out of Patience

Dear Out of Patience:

Anyone who goes out of her way to buy something called a Bich-poo is all right by me.

–Annie’s Mailman

Dear Annie: Now that the holidays are over, I had to write about the worst case of re-gifting ever. A friend of mine gave me a piece of crystal. She confessed that she was re-gifting and said I should feel free to give it to someone else. The box had her name written on it in ink. Worse, the card she gave me was blank. She said I should re-gift that, too.

Sure gave me a warm and fuzzy feeling about our friendship. I wish she hadn’t bothered. — Disappointed in Torrance, Calif.

Dear Disappointed in Torrance, Calif:

So. I don’t see anywhere in your letter where you ask for advice. That may work with Dear Abby, Mister, but it doesn’t float with the guy who pre-reads Annie’s mail. When you’re ready to ask a real question instead of just relating a humorous anecdote, drop Annie another line. Put a star or a moon or a picture of a loquat on the outside of the envelope so I know it’s from you. Until then, keep your goddamn hands off the stamp booklets and your goddamn Reader’s Digest “Life in These United States” can-you-believe-how-stupid-other-people-are-and-I’m-not homilies to yourself.

–Annie’s Mailman