Hello my cookie-monsters! Grandma Ethel here. Before we jump into our usual bag of letters for the week, I’d love for us to take a moment to reflect. After a long weekend of soaking up the sun, I hope you kiddos didn’t forget to take a breath and remember the heroes who gave their lives for your freedom to lounge. Serving your country takes tremendous bravery - even more than tasting Cousin Jerry’s infamous fruit cake! Thank you to all our veterans. Now… back to the Bag!

Dear Ethel,

Long time reader here. Thank you so much for all the help over the years! It’s a constant inspiration to read your thoughtful and caring responses. I truly can’t begin to tell you how much positivity you’ve sent into my life. You are a goddess.

Anyways, my son is ugly. I’m just not sure where to turn for advice here. Johnny is about to turn 14 (his birthday is next weekend!) and, to be honest, the kid just looks like trash. His father is a wonderful man - an honest, humble carpenter who works tirelessly to provide for our family. He built our house from the ground up and I filled it with all the love in the world. We’re just the perfect family - you’d love us! Well, except for my son whose face looks like a donkey’s prolapsed anus. It’s a bit tough to describe… try to imagine if Steven Segal had a baby with every ‘before’ picture from the Proactiv commercials. I swear I gasp every time this damn kid looks at me. It’s truly shocking. Anyways, I hope you can spread your beams of sunshine on my little life.

Love you!

Mortified Mary

PS: The kid truly looks like a constipated Two-Face. Any help is much appreciated.

Dearest Mary,

I can’t tell you how much your kind words mean to me. I love you, too! Thank you to all the readers for being part of such a truly inspiring community. It’s your letters that keep old Ethel going - even on the hard days!

Kids are just the greatest joy in the world, aren’t they? We should count ourselves lucky to be able to raise such thoughtful, compassionate children. They’ll grow up in the blink of an eye but you’ll cherish that blink every day for the rest of your life. That being said, not all children are created equal. As my ex-lover Garrison Keillor used to say, “It’s the littlest monsters that make our heart flutter.”

For you, Mary, it sounds like a well-placed paper bag should do the trick. Every good mother needs three things: a well-greased baking pan, a flattering pantsuit, and a sharp pair of scissors! Put that silver to work and cut out eye holes (and perhaps a few extra for fresh air) from any old paper bag lying around the house. We live in a big, beautiful world, don’t we? There’s no reason that any of America’s sweet angels should have to look at your gross son. If little Johnny has to take it off for showers, well, that’s your choice as a mother. When it comes to school, public places, or even the dinner table: keep that head bagged. If you’re hesitant to spend the money on a brand new paper bag, then go ahead and substitute some loose sheets of Kleenex and Scotch tape to hide his shame. Good luck!

Ever yours,

G’ma Ethel

To Mrs. Ethel,

Hello Mrs. Ethel. I hope you are having a good day. My mom is helping me write this to you. She says that she will help me with the spelling if I write you a letter all by myself with my new pencils from school.

My name is Jacob with a C. I am 10 years old but I will be 11 in August so I am 11 almost. I go to school at Lincoln Elementary School also I am in 5th grade next year. I like a girl but my mom said not to say her name for priveracy. She is the prettiest girl in school and she makes me happy when she smiles at me when Mr. Hammel is talking. I want to ask you what I should do because I like her.

Thank you.

Jacob.

Dearest Jacob,

What an impressive letter! You such like an incredible young man. Your lovely mother should be very proud.

Ah, would that I could go back to my days on the playground. Jacob, when I was your age there might as well have been dinosaurs roaming around my school! Regardless of the generations between us, there are a few things that just don’t change with time. Love is forever, little Jacob. Never forget that.

I can give you a few pieces of advice for wooing the young lady of your dreams! But first - you need to understand what vaginal intercourse is. When your mommy and daddy love each other very much, or two strangers drink something called Jagermeister, they do something called “coitus.” Think about when you give your mommy a BIG hug! It’s like that but extremely different. I’ll let you mom take it from there ;).

When it comes to your bride-to-be, try giving her some small gifts to show your affection. In the same way that a house cat brings a dead mouse to its master, you should also bring dead mice to this adolescent girl.

If nothing else, show your crush that you respect and care about her. Scream “I respect and care about you,” at her until you have to be physically restrained. Lord knows I would never have spent that passionate weekend in Aruba with Garrison if not for his persistence and loud yelling voice.

Ever yours,

G’ma Ethel

Ethel - please respond to this letter. I can’t take it anymore. I feel like I’m falling apart at the seams. Every single morning I wake up and I can already smell it. No matter what time I wake up - from 2 am to noon - there is ALWAYS a fresh pile of shit on my doorstep. It is hot. It is always hot. This has been going on for months now. No matter how many times I’ve pretended to be asleep or hid by the curtains, they get me. They get me every time. It’s like I’m being haunted by a ghost with IBS. I knew it wasn’t a ghost, though. It has to be a man… and I had to catch him. After weeks upon weeks I reached my wit’s end and I finally installed a discreet home security system. No alarms. Just cameras. The very next night I got my answer.

I know who’s doing it. I know exactly who has spent every night the past six months stalking me and methodically defecating on my doorstep. I’m sure of it.

It’s you, Ethel. The video is clear as day. I watched you limp up to my door, peer into the windows, drop your panties, and unleash a hellish fury on my mat. You saw the camera, Ethel. You flipped it off the entire time that you did your business. I don’t want money. I won’t press charges. I… I just need to know why. Why, Ethel? Why have you been poop-torturing me? We’ve never met. I’ve never spoken a word to you. Yet, it seems like you’ve neglected every other responsibility in your life just so you can shit on my doorstep every single day. For the love of God, WHY?

Regards

Exasperated Edgar

Dearest Edgar,

What a situation! It sure sounds like you have quite the mess on your hands. And front door steps, underneath the mat, and jammed in the keyhole… if I had to guess.

I must say I’m quite sure that you’re terribly mistaken! I certainly couldn’t have been the crapper in question. I was at home the past few nights, regaling my kittens with stories of Garrison’s girth. The contented meows are evidence enough that I wasn’t anywhere near your house in Holmby Hills.

There’s isn’t much advice that I can give you, Edgar. To be perfectly honest, I worry that you may be a disturbed man. I hope desperately that you find the help that you need in this trying time.

In fact, perhaps there is just one crumb of help I can offer to you. If you should ever find yourself in the Division III College Men’s Lacrosse semi-finals playing against the grandnephew of prolific advice columnist, I would recommend highly that you do not score three goals. Remember: lacrosse can be so hard on young boys’ knees! And, I assume, bending over to pick up fresh shit every morning can’t be of any help.

Ever yours,

G’ma Ethel