All right, listen up, you over-educated little monsters. This is Gramps talking!

I’m the one-lung, false-hip, glass-eyed, silver-haired fox you may have seen ’round the neighborhood.

Amanda Whachamacallit at the Sundial asked me to do some kind of advice-whachamacallit to help you little mongrels with your short attention span-damaged lives. Personally, I think your boat’s sunk, listenin’ to your Hipity Hopity music and dancing like someone’s about to give birth. But Amanda Whachamacallit is paying me cold-hard American cash (can’t tell you how much — let’s just say the Friday-night-bingo crowd is in for a rough evening.)

So, I got two things to say to you. First, keep the hell off my yard! And second, send me all the whining-little-complaints you call “issues” and I’ll give you the straight scoop — Gramps style!

Dear Gramps: I’m a 21-year-old student with a full-load of classes and no time to work. My girlfriend is losing her patience with my poverty. I’m completely unhappy. What should I do?

Signed, Poor (college-educated) Boy.

Listen up, Poor Boy. You sound soft to me. When I was your age, I was smoking two packs of cigarettes a day (Chesterfields, unfiltered), drinking whiskey out of a flask in my pocket (it’s still there), and making 15 cents an hour pulling out pig intestines at a slaughter house (the best years of my life).

Quit your yappin’ and get a job, you worthless bum! Ever heard of the graveyard shift? What’s wrong, Yellow-Yale-Tail? Too good to say, “Welcome to 7-Eleven, care for a Slurpie?” And life is not about happiness, it’s about … Hold on, I gotta take a swig off my oxygen tank.

What was I saying? Oh, yeah, nobody cares about your happiness, junior, just you. If it makes your weak heart feel any better, Mrs. Gramps ain’t smiled at me since she had all her own teeth, (which was in 1956). So, don’t worry. It gets worse!

Dear, Gramps: What’s up with the attitude?

Signed, Young and Irritated.

Dear, Young and Irritated, What’s up with the attitude? What’s up with the crackage? Maybe ol’ Gramps has gotta little attitude problem cause every time I leave my house I get an eyeful of the first four inches of your bumsuckle. Hell, even the gals are sportin’ plumber’s crack (good work if you can get it).

Are ya’ tryin’ to give me a sty in my eye? I got one thing to say about your exposed-arses: No two are alike — and that ain’t right!

Dear, Gramps: My boyfriend is emotionally dishonest. All he ever says to me is, “Yeah? Cool.” I want to have a real, honest conversation. How can I get him to open up?

Signed, In Love but Seeking the Truth.

Can’t help you there, Snookums. I haven’t told the truth since 1956. Yep, lie, lie, lie and then have a whiskey sour, cheese sandwich, a smoke followed by a long, uncomfortable nap, wake up — and lie some more! Beyond that, me and Mrs. Gramps have a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy when it comes to “communicating.” She don’t ask me why I always sleep with one (bad) eye open and I don’t tell her she looks like her late-father in a housedress. And it’s worked out. Hope that inspires ya’!

That’s it for now, kiddies. Gramps needs a nap. But while I’m snoozin’, remember — Keep off my lawn! And if you got a problem, don’t ask for professional help — Ask Gramps!