Awesome Advice Central goes a little buggy

Dear Awesome Advice Central,

Help! I’m so depressed I can barely drag myself out of my bed to write this letter.


I loved him, yeah, yeah, yeah….RIP, little Ringo!

You see, my pet beetle, Ringo (my fave, he was so dreamy and ca-yute!), got sick a few weeks ago.

He began displaying flu-like systems, and I worked around the clock to nurse him back to health, feeding him tidbits of teriyaki turkey and morsels of Mars bars, his favourite foods in the whole world. It was a slow recovery but we persevered together, and I thought he was getting better.

Night after night, I soaked his little feet in thimbles of hot water, put mustard presses on his wee little chest and blew his adorable little proboscis with aloe-infused tissues.

He seemed to be perking up and actually looked pretty chipper, when suddenly, he went kaputski and popped his tiny clogs last night while we were watching Oprah together.

I sprang immediately into action: I administered CPR and gave Ringo the Kiss of Life but he just would. Not. Wake. Up.

To say I am devastated would be an understatement. I am crying constantly, wringing my hands over Ringo’s fate; I keep remembering all the special moments we shared together, and wondering at the cruel fate that has separated us forever. I’m in such emotional pain, I spend most of my time in the fetal position.

Except when I’m writing long, heartfelt odes to my wee beetle on my Facebook page, that is.

To honour Ringo’s life, I put up a picture of him on Facebook, with a little black band to signify my deep mourning. And I’ve dedicated a poem to him, entitled “My Brave Little Beetle.”

I wrote it myself, while watching his 6 little legs twitch their death dance during the commercial break on Oprah:

My Brave little Ringo
Death has got you beat;
You’ll get to heaven quickly
Because you have 6 tiny feet.

I miss Ringo so much. To add to my emotional torment, I’m getting rude comments from evil so-called Facebook friends, who insist they never knew about Ringo, and cannot understand why I’m making such a fuss now. They act like I’m lying or something.

But seriously: I wouldn’t write a poem for an imaginary animal, would I? No, I would not.

Should I keep these friends or dump them? I feel like they’re not sympathetic to my loss, and I hate to think what they’ll say when my pet flea Fred finally hops along to his giant Sheepdog in the Sky.

To help me overcome my grief, I’m also thinking of writing condolence cards for those whose entomological offspring have gone over the Rainbow Bridge. Would you like to invest in this? You’d be coming in on the ground floor. I really think there’s a market for this, don’t you?

I remain, with utmost sincerity,

Campbell Firetong-Smythe

Dear Campbell,

Well. This is really a new one on us. We’re at a bit of a loss, in fact.

Because honestly, we cannot think of a single occasion on which someone’s Facebook friends have ever doubted the depth or sincerity of their grief following the loss of a beloved pet. It really does lead us to ask what kind of “friends” you have.

In our experience, Facebook friends are far more likely to pile on the sympathy whenever they suspect that a fellow-traveller might be in any sort of emotional distress.

Comments usually range from “so sorry for your loss” to “you’re such a strong fellow, we’re sure you’ll get through this, because God never gives us more than we can handle, and this is actually just His way of testing your devotion, so chin up, old chap, and keep a song in your heart, because when He slams a door in your face it’s usually because he’s about to pry open a sixth-story window and toss you out, but that’s just part of His grand plan for your life.” Or some such.

We suspect your unfeeling so-called friends must have a screw or three loose, if they’re not offering you this kind of useful condolence in your time of need. We say “ditch the lot and start over.”

As for your business proposition, we’re intrigued. Let us know once you’ve got a business plan in place, and we’ll have our respective lawyers do lunch, all right?

Oh, and our condolences re your beetle. Life’s a bitch.

Awesome Advice Central





  1. I am seriously interested in your business proposition. Of course, I would like all the details and your five year plan sent to me as soon as possible. Any and all pictures you have of Fred (and Ringo) would be appreciated. I want to be the first ‘in on the ground floor’ so I await your response with baited breath.

    Carol @ Battered Hope

  2. Girls. You are batshit crazy. I love you.

Talk back to us!

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