SHUTDOWN CITY
Dear Dotti,
With the government shutdown dragging on like a bad acid trip, my paycheck’s vanished faster than Elvis at a sighting convention, and my kids are demanding Fortnite V-Bucks while we eat ramen flavored with regret. How do I keep the family from mutiny?
— Starving in Shutdown City
Dear Starving:
Oh, honey, a shutdown? That’s just the aliens testing our resolve before the mothership lands in the Rose Garden! First off, forget the food stamps—raid your neighbor’s bunker for canned Bat Boy stew (it’s got that extra half-human zest). But for real survival, channel your inner Kendrick Lamar: stage a “pop-out” concert in your living room using pots and pans as drums. Sell tickets to the HOA Karens for $5 a head—boom, V-Bucks funded! If that flops, pray to the Yogurt Shop Murder ghosts for a cold case miracle payout.
Remember, in 2025, desperation is the new crypto—mine it, or become Bigfoot’s next chew toy. Stay savage, Shutdown City!
SWIFTIE OVERLOAD
Dear Dotti,
I’m drowning in Taylor Swift’s October avalanche—The Life of a Showgirl dropped, the Eras Tour film’s anniversary is haunting my dreams, and now Chappell Roan’s belting anthems that make me question my entire wardrobe. But my boyfriend calls it all “overproduced noise” and won’t even stream “Standby.” Is our relationship doomed, or can I convert this hater?
— Swiftie in a Speak Now Spiral
Dear Spiraling Swiftie,
Darling, if your man’s immune to TayTay’s reign (Red anniversary on the 21st? Blink and you’ll miss the re-recordings!), he’s either a Russian spy or possessed by John Bolton’s grumpy ghost—indicted and salty as ever. npr.org +1 Stage an intervention: Blast Midnights at midnight while you two watch the Wicked American Girl Doll collab unboxing (pink means fierce, after all). If he snores through “Karma,” slip a love potion from Dolly Parton’s new wellness line into his pumpkin spice latte—it’s got more magic than a Zelenskyy-Trump missile summit.
Worst case? Trade him for an Addison Rae stan; girl’s already headlining Coachella by October’s end. Shake it off, Swiftie—you’re a cruel summer away from solo Eras bliss!
DIDDY DO DO
Dear Dotti,
Diddy’s sentencing has me paranoid—parties turning into FBI stings, hidden cameras in the punch bowl, the works. With celeb scandals popping like Orville Peck’s new fighting bod (obsessed!), how do I throw a bash without ending up in headlines next to a yogurt shop cold case solve?
— Party Pooper in Pasadena
Dear Pooper:
Oh, pumpkin, Diddy’s drama is just the appetizer—wait till the Black Phone 2 sequel drops with Ethan Hawke phoning in from hell to collect bad-vibe partygoers! To scandal-proof your soiree, invite the Victoria’s Secret angels as bouncers (their Fashion Show’s back, wings and all—October’s gift to thirst traps). Serve “Iranian Transition Punch” (gender surgery chasers on the house, per the headlines—keeps things fluid).
For surveillance? Line the walls with tinfoil and Bat Boy decoys—they scare off feds better than a Gavin Newsom Fortnite stream. If ICE crashes (they nabbed a school super this week), blame the Chupacabra caterer. Your bash will be legendary, not litigious—now go wild, Pooper!
HIT THE FAN!
Dear Dotti,
I think something is living in my fan. Every time I turn it on it just makes a cracking noise. I’ve taken it apart, I’ve cleaned it up, but it still makes that noise. When I put pressure on it, the noise goes away. Still it’s woken me a few times during the night. I don’t know if it’s a faulty fan or something is inside it, could you please help me Dotti?
Kind regards, Elijah
Dear Elijah, You Nocturnal Noise Ninja,
Oh, sweet Elijah, darlin’! A cracklin’ fan that’s got you boltin’ upright in the witchin’ hour like a vampire catchin’ sunlight? Honey, I’ve seen it all—from Bigfoot’s midnight munchies to Elvis’s ghost jammin’ on a jukebox—but a possessed propeller keepin’ you from dreamland? That’s a scandal straight out of my tabloid playbook! You brave soul, takin’ it apart like a mad mechanic on moonshine, only for that infernal racket to rise again. And poof—pressure shuts it up? Sounds like your fan’s playin’ hard-to-get, or worse, harborin’ a tiny tenant with a tap-dance fetish. But fear not, my sleepless sidekick! Dotti’s divin’ into the depths of domestic demonology (and a dash of good ol’ common sense) to exorcise this auditory abomination.
First off, let’s rule out the wild ‘n’ woolly: Could be a rogue cockroach colony throwin’ a conga line in the blades—those buggers love a breeze! Or, gasp, a poltergeist part-timer, cranky from all the dust bunnies you evicted. But shh, between us gals and gents, the real culprits are sneakier: loose screws rattlin’ like maracas in a mariachi meltdown or that mountin’ plate wobblin’ wilder than a tipsy tornado
And since squeezin’ it silences the symphony? Bingo—somethin’s slippin’, beggin’ for a tighten-up or a love tap from your toolkit.
Here’s Dotti’s Devilishly Simple Salvation Plan, step by scandalous step:
- Unplug the Beast (Safety First, Sugar!) Whip that cord outta the wall like you’re dodgin’ a disco ball of doom. No zaps for my favorite Elijah!
- Hunt the Loose Luscious Losers: Flip that fan tummy-up and eyeball every screw, bolt, and blade bracket. Tighten ’em with a screwdriver firmer than a Southern belle’s handshake. Start at the base where it meets the world—those sneaky canopy screws love to loosen and loosen your sanity.
- Blade Bonanza Check: Give those propeller petals a once-over for bends, warps, or cracks—twisted like a politician’s promise. If one’s off-kilter, balance it with a fan kit (grab one at the hardware hive for pennies) or swap the wonky one out. While you’re at it, dust ’em again—ghosts hate a clean house!
- Lube the Love Machine: Ah, the motor’s moanin’ for mercy! Pop the hood (gently, darlin’) and drizzle a smidge of light machine oil on the bearings—think 3-in-1, not your grandma’s fryin’ pan grease. That friction’s fightin’ like feudin’ felines; a little slick ‘n’ slide quiets the buzz and crackle faster than a librarian shushin’ a stampede.
- Pull Chain Peril Patrol: If it’s got a danglin’ chain for speed sorcery, inspect that switch for wobbly wizardry or worn-out wires. A faulty flick can click like castanets in a flamenco frenzy.
If these tricks don’t tame the tempest, Elijah, it might be bearin’ bad news—those spinny bits wearin’ out like an old showgirl’s heels. Time to summon a pro handyman (or fan whisperer) before it spins into full poltergeist mode. In the meantime, stash it in the garage for a “time-out” and borrow a buddy’s breeze-box till the dust settles.
There now, my midnight marauder—sweet dreams await, sans the cracklin’ chaos! Write back if that fan fights back; Dotti’s got garlic, holy water, and a wrench with your name on it.
In whirlwinds and whispers,
Dotti
(P.S. If it is a critter, name it Fan-Fang and charge admission for the midnight show—tabloid gold!)
Send Dotti your letters and questions – and let her tell it like it is: editor@weeklyworldnews.com
I thought Dotti died years ago.