Dear Bishop, I’m having this problem with my couch

Dear Bishop:

I think my furniture is plotting against me. I don’t know quite what I’ve done to deserve such treatment, but such is my life. Right now, the chest of drawers is just sitting there silently, but I can hear what it is thinking:

“Why don’t you fill me you stupid sow? There’s some perfectly good clean laundry sitting right there in that basket on the floor, which you’re too lazy to fold and put in me. I’m hungry woman! If you don’t feed me soon, I’m going to topple over in the middle of the night while you sleep, and land on your head. You can see me, I’m close enough.”

When I sit on my couch, I can hear the murmurs, from within its sagging frame:

“Every day you put your fat ass on me, like I’m just some… some furniture to sit on. I had ambitions once you know. I was going to be on TV, just like that couch on the Simpsons. I had dreams! But you came by the store and brought me home, with promises that you’d always love me, and I thought ‘well, my name will never be in lights, but the love of a good woman is never to overlooked.’ But you lied! You don’t love me. You drop crumbs in me, you put your dirty feet all over me, and you fart on me and don’t even apologize. One day when you least expect it I will topple over and trap you in here, so help me God!”

But the kitchen… the kitchen is the worst. The appliances, all screaming for my attention, like a room full of toddlers who need a nap. The toaster cries for toast, the microwave screams for ramen soup and the stove… oh I never can tell what that thing wants, it just chants some language I’ve never heard of. I think it may be asking me to plug it in and actually learn how to use it, but that’s simply a guess.

Soon, I will break down totally. I do not know what to do. My furniture is trying to destroy my life, and I am running out of options regarding dealing with this issue and still retaining my sanity.

Please help!



Dear Bishop, I think my husband is cheating on me

Dear Bishop:

I think my husband is in love with the toaster. I don’t even want to call him my husband, so I’m going to call him my Bob. That’s not his name—his name is Phil Dorchester, but I prefer to call him Bob, for reasons that are quite uninteresting so please don’t bother inquiring—so my Bob is how I will refer to him henceforth.

I think my Bob is in love with the toaster. No, that’s simply prevarication; I know he is. My Bob is having an affair with the toaster my mother—God rest her tortured soul—bought us on our fifth wedding anniversary. I knew, I just knew the moment he eased his hands inside that tight box and pulled out that red metal she-devil, I heard the death knell for our love.

Look, I’m going to stop here a moment and say I see you scoffing. This is a painful subject for me, and I beg your deepest empathies. Try to put yourself in my shoes. It sounds comical, I know, but just imagine cleaning crusty semen out of the gizmo you make your children’s breakfast in and see how much you laugh. Really, imagine it. The now cooled elements sprayed with your Bob’s viscous pearly white fluids which then oozed to the metal below to pool in a gooey blob of so much wasted DNA. Not so funny now, is it?

I guess I simply have to face it, the toaster does something for him that I don’t, or perhaps can’t. Is it that it’s more attentive than I am? It’s always there for him, day and night, and never complains or nags him. It isn’t as though I nag him to be a harpy; I nag him for his own good. I have to work, have to take care of the kids; I barely have enough time for myself, let alone him.

Is it the way its figure never expands, never dimples with cellulite, no matter how many lightly toasted offspring issue forth from its metallic womb? I try to keep my body trim, to look like I did when my Bob and I first met; our eyes meeting like chance in game room, the shrieks of the other patients rising around us like a symphony. No matter how hard I try though, I fight a losing battle. I’ve had four children; my body is scarred, my skin losing elasticity, the wrinkles advancing with each passing year. I do not have the gift of eternal youth, my body staying as firm as it was the day I came off the assembly line.

Is it that it just lies there and takes his bare handful of thrusts before his limbs start jerking like a boy who’s stuck a fork in a wall socket and he bellows out his proclamations of love? Have you ever had a man yell out ‘Hamilton Beach!’ at his moment of climax? It does things to your self-esteem. I dare say a little part of you dies.

Is it that the only thing needed to turn it on is an electrical outlet and a working dial?

I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep up the charade of happy wife much longer, and I’m honestly not sure where to go from here. Can you help me?