All right you pampered little mongrels. It’s Gramps here again, ready to listen to your little complaints about why your life is such a total disgrace, even though nobody really cares but you. I got news for you inexperienced twits; life’s a nag and then your hip goes out.

Anyway, I need to keep that bingo cash rolling in. This Sundial cash is making me the popular chap at the bingo room, but don’t tell Mrs. Gramps.

Dear Gramps: My girlfriend and I keep getting into arguments that I just don’t know how to avoid. She says I use a bad “tone” with her, but I don’t know what she is talking about. What is this “tone” she keeps talking about, and what can I do?

Even I can’t help you out with that one, junior. Only reason why Mrs. Gramps doesn’t nag about hearing my bad tone is because she hasn’t heard a sound louder than a bull horn since sputnik was put into orbit. That “tone” will haunt you ’till you’re stiff as a board and your coffin is nailed shut.

Heck, I never heard myself use a different tone on any of my past relationships, including my little rendezvous with the three-armed lady of Barnum’s circus back in ’33, but that didn’t stop her from pointing it out. She used to smack me three at a time whenever I used the infamous tone.

Only thing that saved me was when my hearing turned off when a land mine went off on my right side in the war (WWI that is). Ever since then, I get away with anything I do that emits a sound (lets not give details on that), including when Mrs. Gramps wants to talk about our feelings. Once it gets time to get “emotional,” I just lower my head and pretend I passed out with my whiskey sour.

Dear Gramps: I’m a six- year student and I am about to graduate college in two years, hopefully. But I still don’t have a job set up. I don’t know what I am going to do, and I’m afraid I just wasted six years of my life majoring in underwater basket weaving. What should I do?

You got more whine in you than a fat Frenchman on Bastille Day, kid. After spending daddy’s cash, now you are worried you got to show something for it? Sure, some college saps have to work their way through college, but you sound softer than the cushion I use to sit down since my coccyx gave out in ’74.

What’s the matter sweet-pea? Afraid to grow up and show some responsibility? Try working through a depression. That’ll toughen you up. I used to shovel coal, 3 cents a day they paid me, they did. It made it clear why they call it a depression.

Heck, I’ve never more depressed in my life. That was the year I married Mrs. Gramps.

Oh, but don’t get the wrong idea. She’s a good lady, in fact. Never had any kids though; couldn’t stand those little monsters. Always afraid they’d turn out like something like you — whiny, sensitive, and emotional.

Anyway, you’re a lost case, boy. Only thing I can do is leave you with the advice my grandpa gave before I got married: You are as dumb as a mule, only twice as ugly.

That’s all the advice dear Gramps has for you whiny toads this week. It’s time for me to watch that Matlock guy on the picture radio. Keep those questions coming. Gramps needs cash before that social security thing happens.