Tag Archives: Letters To The Neapolitan Mastiff

A Quarterly Mental Health Review By Therapist Dr. Cas Uist

October 22, 2010

Dear (The) Neapolitan Mastiff,

Below please find my quarterly assessment of your growth as an individual and the state of your mental health.

With this document, please find attached, another copy of your outstanding balance, which will need to be settled with Nina before your next visit.

Mr. The Neapolitan Mastiff, to speak generally, I believe you’re making strides. I’m not quite sure if they’re the healthy strides, but you’re certainly moving a quite a pace, which is a drastic improvement from the summer quarter of 2009, when  you professed to have sat dormant on your couch for months, doing nothing, but sweating, calling yourself Jose Antonio Toussant and redrafting the Declaration Of Independence.

Reviewing your goals for 2010: A second quarter review

1. Vowing to go to the grocery store more in 2010 was a good idea, but if you found yourself going and only buying cured meats and alcohol. You haven’t met your resolution you’ve compromised.

2. Having decided that you were going to the grocery store and then having gone only to find you bought copious amounts of vodka led to another resolution in March of 2010. The resolution was to stop buying vodka at the grocery store. A, what you referred to as serendipitous, repercussion of this decision was a newfound love of wine. Instead of purchasing copious amount of vodka, you now say you’re a wine collector. Sadly though, most of your collection doesn’t make it through the weekend. Your original excuse? “It’s not vodka and what am I going to eat all that jamon serrano with?” It’s true, wine isn’t vodka and a man can’t be expected to eat jamon serrano with a glass of milk, but this is yet another compromised resolution.

3. Your final pledge of 2010 was to drink more tomato juice. Upon discovering a love of tomato juice, you found yourself thinking, “God, wouldn’t a stalk of celery and one point five ounces of vodka go nicely with this.” Previously, you claim to have only drunk Bloody Mary’s on airplanes, now you drink them in your living room. Today you’re drinking more tomato juice than ever, but you haven’t really met your goal. You’re drinking an obscene amount of Bloody Mary’s. You’ve made a compromise and the compromise lead you back to drinking vodka.

I find you to be a compromised individual and despite your effort and our weekly meetings, I feel the odds of you reaching any of your other goals (besides “Do not run for President) are so unlikely, they aren’t even worth mentioning.

I hate ending with my patients on a negative note, so I won’t berate you anymore for failing to meet any of your aforementioned resolutions. What I wanted to tell you and I couldn’t at the office, is I’m having a Halloween party on the 29th and I’d like you to come and meet my daughter, Bethany. She’s charming, a senior at Loyola Marymount and I think the two of you would really hit it off. Please come in costume. Vodka will be provided.

Sincerely,

Dr. Cas Uist

enclosure

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Letters To The Neapolitan Mastiff

Dear (The) Neapolitan Mastiff,

Yesterday I went to the salon to get a pedicure. I’m going to Vegas next weekend and I wanted to clean up for the flip-flop scene at the pool. While I was there I observed some females getting their nail done, hair done, every thing done.

I happened to get seated next to a devil in a tight dress and I couldn’t help, but say, ‘Oh you fancy huh,
You you fancy huh.’ She gave me a sort of strange look, but not exactly a discouraging one and then said, ‘huh?’ I thought she was on the same page as me so I naturally I continued with, ‘Well aren’t you a breath of fresh air,
From all these superficial gold digging bitches in here.’ Well, apparently she wasn’t picking up what I was putting down because she spit on the floor and said, ‘What the fuck is your problem?’ I was so taken back, that I didn’t have time to adjust my next thought for her change in mood so I said,  ‘Girl you got it,
Let em know everything big.’

Barefoot, I was escorted out. On my drive home I started to wonder: is there anything to be gained by showering women with compliments instead of champagne and purple Bentleys? What do you give a woman that has everything?

Should I give props to a girl that’s a homeowner when I don’t own home? How do these women that are  spending hours in salons on (their) hairstyles,
in the mall steady racking up the air miles, afford to buy homes, clothes and eat bowls of baked ziti?

Loyal Reader,

Lamar Wilcox

Greetings Lamar,

I’d like to preface this by saying that there’s nothing wrong with being fancy. The Queen of England is fancy, but that’s because her country affords her the luxury. However, there is a difference between being a Queen  and taking out a new credit card so you can temporarily afford to fill your closet with Alexander McQueen. What Drake et al either don’t realize or don’t care to mention, is they don’t know where Tammy’s purple Bentley came from. They know she’s a homeowner, but not how she paid for it. It’s women like Tammy who caused the Subprime Mortgage Crisis. It’s simple; they bought extravagant homes with adjustable-rate mortgages in places like Fresno, Inland Empire and Phoenix at the height of the market. They overpaid and continued to get their nails done, hair done, everything done because their interest-only for five years mortgage was the same amount as renting a one bedroom apartment with a view of a strip mall.

I hate to place blame, but these women, with the encouragement of men like Drake and T.I., are almost entirely responsible for the boom and burst of the housing market. Now, I like a woman that’s I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T, but the question is, does Drake know what that means? Webbie knew. She had her own house and her own car, but she also had two jobs and that’s why she was a bad broad! Drake’s girls are spending their days in front of mirrors with flat irons and nail files as opposed to working.

Tragically, Drake’s anthem led America into the housing crisis that we are currently in. If Webbie were more influential, our country might be in an entirely different place.

-The Neapolitan Mastiff

All advice is given from a place of understanding comparable to “in a perfect world.” Rather than using that exact phrase, which is absolutely hammered, Exchanging Pleasantries works from a different school of thinking brought about by a Southern and avante-garde rapper, Lil Wayne. We posit all advice from the premise, “What if Lil Wayne actually did fuck every girl in the World?”

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Letters To The Neapolitan Mastiff

Dear (The) Neapolitan Mastiff,

I know from your banner that dating isn’t one of your specialties. If it was one, your banner would probably read: Specializing in Dating, Alcoholism, Patriotism and Fishing, but I didn’t know where else I could turn.

When it comes to dating, I’d say I’m like a horse in one of those roundabout competitions. I get to the arena, “I met her in the club.”  My kicks are fresh, my general appearance is dapper if not, dope. I mean, I’m doing everything right, like YG says, “Then I said wassup,” believe me, I say what’s up. I may even offer to buy her a drank, but then things go askew. I don’t take her to the crib and though, later on, I may go home to fuck/cut (radio edit), it will be a solitary act. That is to say, the lady in question didn’t “toot it from the back and you know she made it clap,” at least not with me. This seems to make the most important part of the toot it and boot it routine hard. How can I boot it, if I haven’t tooted it? Can I just boot it? Is it better to boot and toot? Can you boot without the toot and vice-versa?

Loyal Reader,

Lamar Wilcox

Greetings Lamar,

Dating, Alcoholism, Patriotism and Fishing? Lamar, please. That sounds like the 24 hours with Levi Johnston and Bristol Palin, not the banner of a scholarly journal such as Exchanging Pleasantries.

Per the transition from entering the club to swapping salutations to bringing her to the abode and consummating the relationship, I believe you have taken YG’s summary of his own execution too lightly and too literally. This is a courtship we are talking about, as brief as it may be.

One: YG is two men. Two-on-one in nearly any setting (think of an odd man rush in basketball) is going to be easier than one-on-one, so the first lesson: power in numbers.

Two: YG offers more than a drink. I quote: “I can supply the pipe.” Take note Lamar, YG plumbing cleans house without ever getting under the proverbial sink.

With that in mind, another point to consider is the action of tooting and booting. You can, “do it all day only for one night (sic), and after that you gotta go cuz (sic) you aint (sic) my wife.” This is an example of YG’s Victorian prudery. Sure, he wants to practice a bit of hedonism, who doesn’t? What’s of note is that even though YG wants to dabble in sin he does not want to live in sin. Thus he toots it and he boots it.

Historically though, tooting and booting is dangerous. Toot and boot too much with strangers and you’ll end up on the cocktail for the rest of your life like one Not-So-Magic Johnson. Toot and boot too often with the same partner and you’ll end up with a scenario similar to the America/Mexico Immigration question. For decades the American government has essentially tooted Mexico for it’s cheap labor and resources and booted it’s citizens at the end of the financial quarter/lettuce picking season, but eventually, you/America will have to put the metaphorical ring on it.

Godspeed,

The Neapolitan Mastiff

All advice is given from a place of understanding comparable to “in a perfect world.” Rather than using that exact phrase, which is absolutely hammered, Exchanging Pleasantries works from a different school of thinking brought about by a Southern and avante-garde rapper, Lil Wayne. We posit all advice from the premise, “What if Lil Wayne actually did fuck every girl in the World?”

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Letters To The Neapolitan Mastiff

Dear (The) Neapolitan Mastiff,

It’s that time of the year again. Time to swap out the hoop-dee (1989 Toyota Tercel, gray on gray interior, manual, 210,300 miles, drives great $650 OBO) for a new whip! I was thinking about getting myself a “Beemer, Benz or Bentley.” It’ll probably be midnight blue with vanilla/cherry interior, a 4,500 horsepower minimum and a sunroof so I’m not chronic smelly when I stumble out of the tele/my Beemer, Benz or Bentley.

In your humble opinion, does the pleasure of vehicular fellatio outweigh the financial consequences of crashing my (future) Bentley?

By the way, when Lloyd Banks says, “My jeans are never empty,” is he referring to the fact that he has a lot of things he keeps in his pocket (like pens, Subway sandwich gift cards, prophylactics, and parking validation tickets?) or is he perpetually aroused or is he bragging about gaining weight?

I’m at a loss: Beemer, Benz or Bentley… they’re all fiyaaaaaa.

Loyal Reader,

Lamar Wilcox

My Dear Lamar,

Lloyd Banks is single-handedly slaughtering the American car industry. He should be detained at whatever the current equivalent of Guantanamo Bay and tried (or just detained) as a terrorist/saboteur for his unabashed endorsement of European automobiles.

Now I don’t particularly like Detroit as a city, but that doesn’t mean I would drive (no pun intended) a stake through the heart of its economy for a more refined interior, smoother ride and better gas mileage! Lloyd Banks is trying to deflect profits from good Americans like Joe Six-Pack and Jason Stackhouse into professionally manicured foreign hands.

Gone are the days when a Top 40 singer would endorse a Kentucky sour mash bourbon and a little red Corvette.

I have reason to believe that Mr. Banks never worries about the financial repercussions of driving and enjoying the company of a young woman. Based off of what I’ve read (his lyrics) he employs a driver (an undocumented worker who sends money back to his family in Elba) and his insurance policy covers driving whilst high or receiving an HJ or both.

-The Neapolitan Mastiff

P.S.

In the future, please to do not bombard our readership with any advertisements (save it for Craigslist).

All advice is given from a place of understanding comparable to “in a perfect world.” Rather than using that exact phrase, which is absolutely hammered, Exchanging Pleasantries works from a different school of thinking brought about by a Southern and avante-garde rapper, Lil Wayne. We posit all advice from the premise, “What if Lil Wayne actually did fuck every girl in the World?”

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Letters To The Neapolitan Mastiff

Dear (The) Neapolitan Mastiff,

Ima be, Ima be, Ima be, honest. I’ve been in the club lately and I’ve been getting a pretty good amount of swerve on. I’m afraid of getting too much swerve because of what the results may be. I was also wondering, what’s the worst kind of crunk/drunk?

Loyal Reader,

Lamar Wilcox.

Greetings Lamar,

The worst kind of drunk one can achieve is Abu Ghraib drunk. You will wake up in an undisclosed location filled with sadists and a hangover so atrocious you will, without a doubt, swear off drinking… and we wouldn’t want that.

Good Day,

The Neapolitan Mastiff

P.S.

Nazi Germany drunk should also be avoided.

All advice is given from a place of understanding comparable to “in a perfect world.” Rather than using that exact phrase, which is absolutely hammered, Exchanging Pleasantries works from a different school of thinking brought about by a Southern and avante-garde rapper, Lil Wayne. We posit all advice from the premise, “What if Lil Wayne actually did fuck every girl in the World?”


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When People Aren’t On The Internet: A Study

Hugo De Naranja and yours truly hit the town last night investigate a little bit of what happens when people aren’t on the internet. The following events transpired in a nearly linear fashion.

To kick things off, Hugo and I sat down to talk a little of what Mary Poppins likes to call “shop.” Almost immediately we came to the conclusion that women should be given the right to vote. And not just half-votes, whole votes. Equality should be granted at the polls regardless of gender. The fact that this wasn’t addressed during the last Presidential elections really blew my mind. But that’s another story for another time.

Our next move was to hit the street. Under the moonlight, whilst strolling through Edendale, I recalled a conversation I had heard overheard between a very intoxicated transient man and woman regarding the exact location of infiltration during the sexual position, which canines frequently practice.[i] The debate was over port of entry.

I was relaying this story to Mr. De Naranja when we crossed the street and practically walked into a demonstration and the very same debate, which I had overheard that afternoon. Luckily, the transients in questions were fully clothed. Unfortunately, having heard the conversation twice, I am emotionally scarred and for a brief instance, I even debated a life of celibacy.

This was as good of a start as any citizen of this nation could hope for on an eve of research. Libation after libation was consumed. Hugo enchanted the barmaid into comping his tab. I had had enough. We changed venues.

The streets of Edendale can be confusing regardless of how familiar one is with the area. Needless to say, approximately two blocks away from where I get my “shut-eye,” I was lost.

The next thing I knew I was drinking out of a mason jar in what looked to be a loft blown up to the size of a warehouse. While assessing the situation some debauched and damaged damsel tried to woo me with tequila. Despite my lack of interest in her as a person, when the tequila calleth I beckoneth.

Fast forward, three minutes and the worst swing dancing you’ve ever seen is transpiring in the middle of this wholesale mattress dealer sized loft. She wasn’t friendly. Hugo said she was an asshole. She also, for reasons unbeknownst to me, kept trying to rub her cheek against mine; I thought it would be best to leave. The damaged damsel talked and talked and I can’t recall one concrete detail of what amounted to be a soliloquy. I don’t think I missed much.

Because I was on assignment, to see what people do when they’re not on the internet, I felt we should change venues. Mason jars, swing dancing, conversations without content, weird cheek rubbing, I was pretty sure I got the gist. Hugo on the other hand thought because I was on assignment I should arm myself with contraceptives and let this girl prove that what she lacked in dancing and conversation she could make up ten-fold with handcuffs and a Rodney.[ii]

We changed venues. Hugo cooed sweet nothings to the barmaid who continued to ring up his drinks as gratis. I was starting to come to the conclusion that despite being away from computers, everyone was still very much on the internet in a cellular way. I was started to think this whole assignment was for naught. I was thinking that everyone is perpetually on the world wide web so people don’t act any differently away from it because it’s inescapable. It’s basically like the Matrix only Laurence Fishburne and Johnny Utah get to wake up in thermals with plugs in them in a submarine. We never get to do that. It was slightly devastating, like learning Santa Clause is German and probably of Aryan descent. [iii]

One door-to-door trip from a man in a yellow car with two other strangers Hugo had befriended and suddenly I’m on the back patio getting called “not American!” Call me a podiatrist! Call me a misanthrope! Call me the worst ever Russian to English translator of Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment! But do not call me “Not American”![iv]

It all started with an exchange between a girl (read 28 year old woman) with a drawl and myself. She spoke with such a Southern twang that I couldn’t help, but wonder if she was in Edendale pursuing a country-western singing career. I wasn’t really listening to the sentences, but more the words and the weird shapes and sounds that came out in her version of English. Her portly friend came along and asked whom I knew at the party. I said I came with Hugo and two anonymous gentlemen I met in a taxi. She gave me a ‘hmm.’ I returned my attention to the future country-western balladeer and waited for a word to come out.

“How old are you,” the portly friend asked in her bland and not even remotely twangy or Southern intonation.

Being a gentleman, a theorist on assignment and drunk, the only reasonable response I could think of was, “I’m not going to dignify that question with an answer.”

Age doesn’t bother me. It changes often and in most cases regularly, but she was portly and if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a portly girl in Edendale.[v] A few other things were said. She didn’t like my career choice of “baggage thrower” for SouthWest Airlines.[vi] Then suddenly she cut me off mid-sentence.

“Wait. You’re not American, are you…”

It was a blood curdling statement. Speaking of blood, I thought about telling her my favorite colors were red, white and blue, but I couldn’t remember if blue was a primary color or if white was a color at all so I abandoned that approach. Instead, I said nothing. I turned around and made my exit stopping only briefly to bid adieu to Mr. De Naranja who was in the depths of some sort of philosophical conversation regarding sex and the Olympic sport of curling.

Not American! Ha! I’d like to see her try and prove that in a court of law. I was out of there and back on the sweet streets of Edendale. I thought a little bit more about divorcing the human race from the internet, but it may be too late for that.

When I saw Hugo at the car wash this morning[vii], he didn’t look like he had slept much. He mumbled something about Martin Sheen’s son before I interrupted him to ask how his night had ended. He seemed hesitant about sharing the details, but he said he was almost positive that we were in an internet free-zone at the end of the night. [viii]

This got me thinking. Does a lack of internet drive people to hysteria? Does the inability to get totally and completely www cause women to call patriots “Not American”? These are just a few of the many questions I am still pondering after a night of trying to figure out what people do when they’re not on the internet.

The Neapolitan Mastiff


[i] Doggy Style

[ii] Erection http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=rodney

[iii] Exchanging Pleasantries does not consider Santa Clause a scientific racist, but we respect the opinions of those who do.

[iv] Possible double negative. Duly noted. Passion occasionally and hierarchically surpasses grammar.

[v] The views expressed in this article do not reflect those of Exchanging Pleasantries. Exchanging Pleasantries can sympathize though not emphasize with a dislike of portly girls in Edendale.

[vi] This is a profession I often claim while in the presence of people with low intelligence. If I ever tell you I “throw bags” at the airport, it’s because I think you are stupid. Now you know.

[vii] Hugo owns a chain of coin-operated car washes. He taught me how to “jimmie” the machine so I can get free soap and water rather than paying the two dollars so now I wash my car every day of the week that has the letter “T” in it.

[viii] Some parts of Edendale have notoriously poor reception. Rumor has it that James Dean was in the middle of a phone call that fateful night he crashed into Jack Nicholson’s house and died. Supposedly he was calling Jack to open the garage door when the call got dropped and he crashed. Lindsay Lohan was the first one on the scene.

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Letters To The Neapolitan Mastiff



To Whom It May Concern @Exchanging Pleasantries:

I recently met a girl and I really like her, but I’m not sure how to tell her, “Call me Mr. Flintstone, because I can make your bed rock,” . To be perfectly honest, the only thing I’ve managed to tell her is, “We don’t buy no drinks at the bar, we pop champagne because we got that gold.” She looked at me kind of strangely, and then asked who “we” was. Anyway, my real concern is that I really like her and the only gold I have is a Sacajawea dollar coin. I am also pretty sure I could make her bed rock. What should I do?

Loyal Reader,

Lamar Wilcox

Dear Lamar,

I’m glad you brought this up. First, I would like to address your Sacajawea. It’s not a gold coin; it’s a gold-plated coin. Secondly, does the young lady in question ‘have that good, good’ or in other words, ‘is she Michael Jackson bad’?.  Personally, we at Exchanging Pleasantries would recommend holding off on ‘making bed rocks’ because, being traditionalists, we believe, “if you like it you should put a ring on it.” Call us old-fashioned.

Be forewarned, often young ladies, when approached with such a question are likely to respond with something like, “you ain’t going to tie me down,” or something slightly closer to Standard Written English, which excludes ‘ain’t’. Those women are either intelligent or floozies and this is taken on a case-by-case basis.

-The Neapolitan Mastiff

All advice is given from a place of understanding comparable to “in a perfect world.” Rather than using that exact phrase, which is absolutely hammered, Exchanging Pleasantries works from a different school of thinking brought about by a Southern and avante-garde rapper, Lil Wayne. We posit all advice from the premise, “What if Lil Wayne actually did fuck every girl in the World?”

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