Reader mail 2020 edition

The afterlife goes full Caligulan crazy during presidential years downstairs, especially when Cleveland pols think about tossing their hats into the ring. Bob Bennett's sex dungeon gets boring. You can only watch Casey Coleman descend naked from a ceiling chandelier into Margaret Bourke White's waiting love canal so often.  So Old Dot needs a break. My faithful readers to the rescue!

Dear Dottie,

My husband wants to run for president, but everyone is ignoring him because he's a prancing fraud. Having a Pulitzer, I'm also a queen of Cleveland journalism, but you, of course, are my north star. So I was wondering if you had some narrative shaping pointers to supplement my online addiction of hitting refresh on my Twitter mentions. Help!

Yours,

Connie Schultz, Pulitzer

Dear Pulitzer,

It's funny. Your name never occurs to anyone up here in eternal salvation, so I sent Tom Brazaitis to visit the "other place" and ask around. Guess what he said. "Who?" Yeah, I know, #youtoo. Anyway, Brazaitis came back from Hades, covered in the reeking bodily fluids of Art Modell, angry at me, so I had to give him four hours in the sack to soothe his manhood. After letting Brazaitis pump my loins, Tom tells me between puffs on a Lucky Strike he hears you've got a reservation down there. Don't worry, sweetheart, there's still time for you to redeem yourself before we throw a party to celebrate your descent into the mouth of Biealzebub to be chewed upon for eternity. Tell your husband to say hi to Sam Miller for me.

Dear Dottie,

Iowa is rough for an Ohio kid talkin' yoga votes. All that corn. Anyway, the skeletons in my closet are starting to rattle. How do I overcome that my entire life is an unending fraud, and become president? 

Yours,

Congressman Tim Ryan

Dear Tim,

I put Betty Cope into a downward dog position and plowed her with Ghoulardi's left foot for a few hours to think about your question. In walks Jim Traficant with a bottle of Four Roses, feels left out, starts pouring liquor down my throat. Three hours later, Traficant's layin there in corpse pose with a grin on his face, chanting "Possess me." Don't know what to tell ya, Timmy. Not seein' any "yoga votes" out there. At least your potential candidacy has brought Traficant's wild side out for Ol' Dot to wallow on. Yeah. Thanks for that.

Dear Dottie,

My online media property has to cover not one, but two NEO presidential hopefuls. How do I fit that into my business model of 24/7 listicles? I've figured out how to get the local NPR idiots to fellate me once a week, got the Citadel of Free Speech in my pocket, but I can't seem to crack this nut. Please advise.

Yours,

Chris Quinn, Advance Communications

Dear Chris,

Betty Cope threw a Hanukkah party last night, so in between Nev Chandler and Joel Rose daisy chaining across her oriental rugs, I managed to ask her about your issue. "PBS died with me, Dottie," she says. Can't argue with that, so instead of giving you another moment's thought, I crotch dove Betty the way she likes, then took a nap.

Which reminds me, that's enough reader mail for this eon. Ohio presidential candidacies just ain't what they used to be.