That’s me, darlings! Still kickin’ from my underground bunker in Florida, sippin’ on moonshine spiked with AI regret. Weekly World News ain’t dead – it’s just hidin’ from the fact-checkers! Send your screams to editor@weeklyworldnews.com, or I’ll assume you’re a lizard person and eat your mail.
Folks, 2025’s got us by the short hairs! Unemployment’s risin’ faster than my ex’s lawyer bills, climate’s meltin’ the polar bears into soup, and half the world’s arguin’ over whether pineapple belongs on pizza or in the culture wars. Trust? Ha! The only thing we trust is our Roomba not to unionize. But fear not, my little lost lambs – Dotti’s here with advice so sharp it’ll circumcise your regrets. Let’s dive into the dumpster fire!
OUT OF THE BLACK HOLE
DEAR DOTTI,
I’m a 32-year-old barista in Brooklyn, and with unemployment spiking like my caffeine crashes, I can’t even afford oat milk anymore! My side hustle on OnlyFans flopped ’cause the algorithm thinks my cat’s cuter than me. Meanwhile, my Boomer parents are hoardin’ canned beans for the “inequality apocalypse.” How do I claw my way out of this economic black hole without sellin’ a kidney?
Broke and Bitter in Bed-Stuy
DEAR BROKE AND BITTER,
Kiddo, you’re not broke – you’re just auditionin’ for the role of “starvin’ artist” in Hollywood’s remake of The Grapes of Wrath, directed by Elon Musk with CGI locusts! First off, ditch the OnlyFans; that’s amateur hour. Go full feral: Start a “Cat Cult” TikTok where you and Fluffy prophesy stock tips based on his litter box prophecies. (Pro tip: If he buries it deep, buy crypto. If he scratches the wall, short the dollar.) For the bucks, honey, forget kidneys – harvest your hair! Sell it to wig-makers for drag queens impersonatin’ Kamala Harris in the post-election fever dreams. You’ll rake in enough for oat milk and a pony. And tell your Boomer folks to stop hoardin’ – invite the neighborhood to a “Bean Bonanza” potluck. Charge $5 a head, spike the chili with ayahuasca, and boom: instant commune. If anyone’s left standin’, they’ve got jobs as your new cult enforcers. Remember, in 2025, wealth ain’t money – it’s memes. Go viral or go vegan. You’re welcome!
Dotti (P.S. If the cat plots a coup, eat him first.)
CLIMATE CHANGING US
DEAR DOTTI,
My marriage is crumblin’ faster than the ice caps, thanks to our endless fights over climate change. Hubby says it’s all a hoax by Big Solar to sell more panels; I say we’re one heatwave from Mad Max. Now we’re sleepin’ in separate bunkers, and the kids think “recyclin'” means buryin’ our ashes early. Plus, with social fragmentation everywhere, I feel more alone than a vegan at a Texas BBQ. Fix us, or I’ll glue myself to a glacier!
Melting Down in Miami
DEAR MELTING DOWN,
Oh, sweetie, your hubby’s not a denier – he’s just jealous the polar bears get all the Netflix sympathy docs while he’s stuck watchin’ Sharknado 17: Global Warming Edition! Climate fights? That’s foreplay in 2025, you prudes. Next time he calls it a hoax, counter with: “Fine, then prove it – strip naked and hump a glacier. If it melts, you buy the Tesla. If not, I get the flamethrower.” For the loneliness epidemic (cuz who needs friends when algorithms ghost you harder than your prom date?), host a “Doomsday Divorce Derby.” Invite couples from Tinder’s “Eco-Warriors” swipe-right circle. Events: Tug-of-war with hemp ropes over a kiddie pool of “rising seas” (blue Jell-O, spiked with edibles). Loser funds the winner’s carbon offset by plantin’ a tree… or a strip club. Kids’ll love it – call it “family therapy with flamethrowers.” If y’all don’t remarry by dawn, at least you’ll have viral footage for your “Separated by the Seas” podcast. Pro tip: Glue him to the glacier. Two birds, one polar meltdown!
Dotti (P.S. If the kids start a cult worshippin’ Greta Thunberg, join ’em – free merch!)
QANON CATS
DEAR DOTTI,
I’m a Gen Z’er in Silicon Valley, and my mental health’s tankin’ from the rise of extremism online. One day I’m doomscrollin’ QAnon cat videos, the next I’m cancel-trappin’ my therapist for usin’ the wrong pronouns on my AI therapy bot. Work’s a hologram nightmare – my boss is a deepfake who thinks “team buildin'” means VR orgies. How do I unplug without joinin’ the Unabomber fan club?
Fried Circuits in Fremont
DEAR FRIED CIRCUITS,
Baby, you’re not fried – you’re just marinated in the sauce of 2025’s “freedom vs. security” cage match, where everyone’s a gladiator armed with bad takes and worse WiFi! Extremism? That’s just Twitter’s (er, X’s) way of sayin’ “pick a team or get ratio’d into oblivion.” Solution: Invent your own cult! Call it “Dotti’s Deepfake Deniers” – weekly meetups where you all dress as your evil twin holograms and roast each other’s conspiracy theories. (Mine: The moon’s made of expired TikTok trends. Prove me wrong!) For the cancel culture collywobbles, hack your therapist bot: Program it to respond only in pirate speak. “Arr, ye be triggered, matey? Walk the plank o’ self-care!” As for the VR boss-boner, log in as a dominatrix avatar next Zoom – whip out a virtual cattle prod and yell, “Your quarterly report’s overdue, sir!” If he fires you, sue for “holo-harassment” and retire to a cabin with carrier pigeons. Unpluggin’ ain’t isolation, it’s evolution – next stop, Bat Boy’s book club. Rawr!
Dotti (P.S. If the AI rebels, feed it cat videos. Works every time.)
There ya have it, my hysteria-hungry horde – Dotti’s dispensed the dynamite for your daily disasters! Remember, life’s too short for sane solutions; go big, go batty, or go home to your mom’s basement fallout shelter. Got woes? Spill ’em – next week, we’ll tackle alien abductions causin’ erectile dysfunction. Stay savage!
XOXO, Dotti
(Weekly World News: We print the truth… nothing but the truth)
