All right you high and mighty spoiled brats! I’ve had about enough of your durn belly-aching and juvenile questions for one semester. But since the old man and I are saving up for an RV and need a new toilet plunger, I guess I better keep the pennies rolling in, ‘specially now that it’s tax time and that blasted Uncle Sam’s leaving us high and dry, bleeding the hard-earned cash right out of our money belts for the umpteenth year in a row.

Dear Mrs. Gramps: My boyfriend is so cheap he refuses to pay for anything. He only takes me to the crummiest restaurants and won’t even so much as buy me a drink. To him, going to the movies means going to his house and watching HBO. I love him, but if he doesn’t stop being so cheap, I may break up with him. What should I do? And if I do decide to break up with him, what should I say?

Sincerely, Bored and Unfilled.

Well now, just a cotton-picking minute, you greedy little yapper! It’s all goods and riches with you blasted big spendin’ youth, ain’t it?

Why, when I was an eligible young gal growing up in Podunctville, Oklahoma, the only dates I ever went on was down to the lake to catch crawdads. Didn’t have movies or any of these fancy-schmancy restaurants like you high falluting brats. We didn’t fall all over each other drooling and snuggling the way you younguns do, lapsing into a drunken stupor and getting all feely, like you was Siamese twins or something.

And forget all this nonsense about sharing feelings and whatnot. You young na?ve little spitfires worry so much about what to say, but you’re too gosh darn drunk to articulate anything more than vomit and jibber-jabber.

But take it from me, honey, with louse of a husband as I got saddled with, I say end it while you still can. It don’t matter lick, what the heck you tell the poor lad, but for land sakes, don’t start blubbering! I just don’t understand y’all. Don’t want to neither.

Dear Mrs. Gramps: My husband thinks he’s an absolute wizard around the house and tries to fix everything himself. He refuses to call out for help, even though he only makes things worse and never actually repairs a single thing. Do you have any advice?

Thanks, Broken Home (Literally).

Well, if that don’t beat all! Deary, you’ve come to the right place with this one since I’ve been trying for years to get Mr. “Fix-It” Gramps to stop trying to patch up all the durn things he breaks. Just this week, my ol’ Gramps threw out his index finger unclogging the toilet and has taken to bed a-yip-yippin’ like a wounded prairie dog, ‘specting me to wait on him at his every beck and moan. Wish I could say that’ll teach him to go tootin’ off pretending he’s strong and burly just like he was one of them superhero fellers, but the truth is, there’s just no such hope with lads or geezers like these ‘cept let them feed their fool-hearty egos.

Well, that’s all I got for now, kiddies, but keep those questions a-coming. The good Lord knows Mr. Gramps ain’t going to be good for nothing for a good week at least, so I better keep myself busy. Y’all’s problems gives me a good hoot and holler that can only compare with the sight of Mr. Gramps after he douses his sideburns with a can of Silver Fox No. 2, thinking he’s such a spry young looker.