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August 22, 2010 Edition

Dear Max:

Do you think your Mommy would ever be interested in writing a book about supernaturals where you could be a small side character?  You are a bad-ass talking dog after all. Would you like to be in one of her books? :)

- Super K

Dear Super K:

Great idea, but you’re aiming a little too low. A small side character? Not even a big side character? I’m a star. You can’t expect me to stand in the shadows just because my faux reality show was canceled or I’m divorcing my mentally challenged husband or my plastic surgeon just plummeted off a cliff while he was tweeting.

Whoa… that was weird. I don’t know what possessed me there. That really was supernatural. Suddenly I feel so… artificial.

Actually, I’ve already written a supernatural book starring my favorite subject: me. It’s called Team Max: I’ll Show You Whiny Vampires What A Bite Really Is… Oh, And Could You Just Scratch Behind My Ears Real Quick? Right There. Yes, That’s The Spot. Just Keep Going. Oh, That’s Heaven.

It’s 250 drool-covered pages of me fighting all sorts of hideous, vile, scream-inducing monsters, from vampires to werewolves to the Real Housewives of New Jersey.

Mommy was kind enough to pass it along to her agents, who must really love it because she said it’ll be published “when hell freezes over.” With all the climate change going on, that could be any day now!

Dear Max:

You’ve given me hope to woo your Mommy (or a reasonable facsimile), but I still lack sufficient funds.  Can you recommend any surefire get-rich-quick schemes?

- Mr. Confidence

Dear Mr. Confidence:

First off, you say I’ve given you hope to woo my Mommy, which makes me think I should have been a little less candid in a previous column about her even-greater-than-average susceptibility to Rohypnol. I tell you, any freak on the street can hand her a Coke and she’ll drink it, no questions asked. It’s like giving candy to a baby.  Don’t worry, I’ve apologized to her. Granted, she was unconscious at the time.

Anyway, you want to take a shot at Mommy, and yet one breath later you’ll settle for a “reasonable facsimile? There is no reasonable facsimile for Mommy. Maybe when they perfect cloning, dude, but not until then.

As for surefire get-rich-quick schemes: I’m writing an online advice column, so I’m the wrong canine to consult. (I’ll never forgive myself for turning down those Air Bud movies.) That said, I hear Ponzi schemes do well, as long as you don’t mind living out your golden years in a country that doesn’t believe in extradition.  I hear Rwanda’s lovely this time of year.

Dear Max:

I have two cats, one of whom has a penchant for peeing on my favorite shoes when she’s upset or protesting the state of her litter box. Any idea of how to get her to stop? Otherwise I’m going to send her to live with you and your mom.

- G

Dear G:

Much as I hate to turn down a free dinner, I think you’d better hang on to your cat. We only have so much room here at Casa Max. (And yes, I am referring to room in the fridge.)

I appreciate that you’re dealing with a tough issue here. Cats are complicated, and when I say complicated I mean insane, and when I say insane I mean evil. I don’t mean evil in a bad way. I just mean evil in a vindictive, cruel, malicious, destroy-your-most treasured-possessions-just-to-get-back-at-you way. As opposed to dogs, who have no malice in our hearts. We only destroy your stuff because we’re bored.

I don’t know what’s upsetting your cat in general, although as a species I know the felines are pretty pissed that they made another of those awful Cats and Dogs movies. (The canine coalition is none too pleased either.)

As for the litter box—it sounds safe to assume you haven’t been changing it as regularly as you could. Let me ask: If you had to rely on someone to flush your toilet, and this person only got around to it every three or four days, how pissed would you be? The cleaner and drier you keep the box, the cleaner and drier you keep your shoes.

Alternately, you could just keep your shoes somewhere your cats can’t get to them. For example, if they’re really nice and expensive you’re a Size 9, now you have something you can send to Mommy!

Dear Max:

I noticed you’re wearing a tux in that one pic.  Did you Mommy make you wear that? Did you have a fancy date?  Wondering if it paid off for you?  Do you think your Mommy would be impressed if I wore a tux and ordered a “vodka martini—shaken, not stirred?”

- Dressed-Down Dude

Dear Dressed-Down Dude:

Did my Mommy make me wear that? Don’t be ridiculous, Triple D. I’m a dog. Mommy can’t make me do anything. Except go out and potty when she tells me to. And eat when she says it’s time to eat. And stay off the furniture and not shred paper towels and show her what’s in my mouth when I really don’t want to show her what’s in my mouth and when she’s trying to pry my jaws apart to see what’s in my mouth but I don’t really want to her to know where her missing bracelet is and how yummy it tastes (because it’s, you know, bracelet-flavored) and okay, so maybe Mommy can make me do a few things. Like sit quietly in the corner while she goes out to buy a new bracelet.

I actually wear a tux every single day. It’s a matter of personal choice. I read sometime that you should dress for the job you want, not the job you have. And I want to be bartender at weddings, bar mitzvahs and other special occasions. (I don’t know about shaking and stirring, but if you can lap a martini out of a bowl, I’m on the case.)

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