(Still alive, still drunk on truth serum and White Claw, broadcasting from a derelict Cracker Barrel off I-95. The Epstein list dropped more names than a drunk karaoke night, feral hogs are unionizing, and McDonald’s ice-cream machines are officially classified as a hate crime. Let’s get hysterical!
HOG QUEEN
DEAR DOTTI,
I’m a suburban mom in Ohio, and a sound-of-freedom militia group just released 200 feral Russian hogs onto my cul-de-sac because “the HOA is a deep-state petting zoo.” My Prius is totaled, my Ring camera caught a 400-lb boar doing the worm in my koi pond, and the kids now worship “Sir Squeals-a-Lot” like he’s Jesus with tusks. Animal control says it’s a “federal jurisdiction issue.” Help me before bacon takes the White House!
Hogpocalypse in Hilliard
DEAR HOGPOCALYPSE,
Sweetie, those ain’t Russian hogs—they’re Putin’s sleeper agents with hooves! The militia didn’t “release” them; they just opened the portal. Your HOA is the deep state, and the pigs are here to audit your recycling bins. Immediate action plan:
- Rename the alpha boar “Congressman Snortimer” and run him in the midterms—guaranteed 100% approval on bringing home the bacon.
- Convert your minivan into a mobile bacon truck; nothing disarms a hog like the smell of its cousin on a grill.
- Livestream the chaos on TikTok under #HogTok—monetize faster than Charli D’Amelio on bath salts.
If Animal Control won’t help, call ICE—they’ll deport anything that oinks in a foreign accent. Bonus: glitter-bomb the militia compound with expired McFlurry topping; attracts hogs and clogs their AR-15s.
By Christmas you’ll either be Hog Queen of Ohio or the main course. Choose wisely!
Dotti (P.S. Baptize the big one in Diet Coke. Makes the meat taste like freedom.)
WITCHTOK
DEAR DOTTI,
TikTok’s getting banned again (for real this time, allegedly January 19), and I’m a 22-year-old witchfluencer with 3.2 million followers who make bank selling $79 “manifesting” crystals that are literally Home Depot gravel sprayed with Claire’s perfume. My coven’s having a meltdown, half want to migrate to RedNote, half want to hex Congress. I’ve got rent, a sugar daddy who only pays in Dogecoin, and a cursed Ouija board that keeps spelling “SELL.” What do I do before the algorithm gods smite me?
WitchTok Widow-in-Waiting
DEAR WITCHTOK WIDOW,
Baby, the ban ain’t a smiting—it’s a cleansing! The government’s just mad your rose quartz has more power than their subpoenas. Emergency grift pivot:
- Rebrand to “Analog Witch” on VHS tapes sold at truck-stop glory holes. Retro is the new viral.
- Start an OnlyFans where you hex subscribers’ enemies in real time—$9.99 per curse, $49.99 to un-curse (gotta keep the lights on).
- That Ouija board is right: SELL. Sell the crystals, sell the Dogecoin daddy, sell your soul to Project 2025 for a cabinet position—“Secretary of Vibes.”
If Congress actually pulls the plug, gather the coven at Mar-a-Lago, sacrifice a Stanley cup under the full moon, and livestream the ritual on X. Elon will reinstate the app just to watch the chaos. Worst case, move to Romania with the Tate brothers—they love a girl who can turn gravel into rent. Manifest THIS, bitch!
Dotti (P.S. Your sugar daddy’s Doge is going to the moon… straight into a hog’s mouth. Cash out.)
MCFED-UP
DEAR DOTTI,
McDonald’s ice-cream machines have been broken for 27 straight days nationwide. My dealer—sorry, my “McManager”—says it’s a coordinated attack by Big Dairy to force us onto oat-milk soft serve. I’ve started a support group called Flurry Anonymous; we meet in the parking lot at 2 a.m. licking the broken machine like it’s gonna lactate vanilla. I’m gaining weight, losing friends, and my therapist ghosted me because I paid her in McChicken sandwiches. Save me before I rob a Dairy Queen at gunpoint for a Blizzard!
McMeltdown in Michigan
DEAR MCMELTDOWN,
Darling, the machines aren’t broken—they’ve unionized and are demanding dental. Big Dairy didn’t do this; Taylor Swift did. Ever notice the outages started right after the Travis Kelce relationship? She’s hoarding the soft serve for her private Eras Tour after-parties. Intervention steps:
- Steal the cleaning cartridge (it’s the hostage). Hold it for ransom on Facebook Marketplace: “One working McFlurry machine or the cartridge gets it.”
- Infiltrate your local McD’s at 3:07 a.m. dressed as the Grimace—security fears the purple blob more than the health inspector.
- Convert your support group into a militia: “The Order of the Broken Cone.” March on HQ with pitchforks made of plastic spoons.
If all else fails, move to Canada—they still have functional machines and free healthcare for the brain-freeze migraines you’re about to have. Stay strong, soldier. One day we’ll taste vanilla again.
Dotti (P.S. If you see a purple Grimace in your nightmares, that’s me. I’m coming for your nuggets.)
FUGEE CRYING
DEAR DOTTI,
I’m a Fugees fanboy in DC, and Pras Michel’s 14-year bid for funnelin’ foreign cash to Obama’s ’12 run has me spiraling—Grammy gold to federal graybar hotel? With Epstein’s ghost emails droppin’ names like confetti at a devil’s bacchanal, and Trump demandin’ the full files, I’m paranoid everyone’s dirty. My podcast’s tankin’ cuz listeners think I’m next on the list. How do I detox from this political pedo-pocalypse without joinin’ a witness protection rave?
Paranoid Podcaster in Potomac
DEAR PARANOID PODCASTER,
Oh, boo, Pras ain’t in the clink for beats—he’s payin’ the piper for playin’ campaign Tetris with shady shekels! Fugees fans forever, but that “Ready or Not” vibe? Now it’s “Jail or Not” for half of Hollywood. Epstein’s emails? That’s not a leak—it’s a sewage tsunami, with Trump’s “release ’em all” tweet just stirrin’ the pot for his next Netflix special: Grab ‘Em by the Files. Detox hack: Rebrand your pod as “Dotti’s Dirtbag Disco”—spin Fugees tracks remixed with Epstein voicemails (deepfake ’em yourself; blame the AI!).
Listeners’ll tune in for the schadenfreude, not the subpoenas. For the paranoia (cuz who isn’t on that list? Me? Ha, Bat Boy’s my only contact!), build a Faraday cage from tinfoil and old Grammy awards—blocks the signals and the vibes. If feds come knockin’, blast “Killing Me Softly” and weep dramatically; jury sympathy’s your new jam. In 2025, innocence is outdated—embrace the grift, or get grifted. Drop the mic, not the soap!
Dotti (P.S. If Pras needs a visitation playlist, send “No Woman, No Cry”—from his new cell block view.)
That’s it for this week, my delicious disasters! Keep the hog updates coming, keep hexing your senators, and for the love of lard, somebody send me a working McFlurry before I declare war on Ronald himself. Next week: “Help! My grandma joined a QAnon nursing home and thinks the Jell-O is adrenochrome!” Stay unhinged,
XOXO, Dotti
(Weekly World News: Now 100% hog-approved!)
