BURNING BENJAMINS
DEAR DOTTI,
My husband just announced he’s quitting his job to become a “full-time Trump shaman.” He’s wearing a red tie as a headband, burning $100 bills “to cleanse the aura of fiat currency,” and keeps screaming “THE STORM IS COMING” at the Roomba. We have three kids, a mortgage, and a golden retriever that now hides when he enters the room. How do I exorcise this Q-dipped demon before he sacrifices the dog to Pepe the Frog?
Married to MAGA the Gathering
Dear MAGA Wife,
Sweet Jesus on a jet ski, you didn’t marry a man—you adopted a 5G conspiracy in cargo shorts! Burning Benjamins for “energetic cleansing”? That’s not shamanism, that’s foreplay for bankruptcy court. Here’s the ritual, babe: Stage an intervention called “Operation Golden Shower of Reality.” Invite his Discord cult bros over, then swap the sage with skunk weed (legal in 24 states now, look it up). While they’re coughing up a lung and seeing demons that aren’t just Hunter Biden’s laptop, roll in with a priest, a rabbi, and a drag queen dressed as Marjorie Taylor Greene. Have the drag queen slap him with a rolled-up foreclosure notice while chanting “The storm is your credit score, bitch!” Next, hide his phone in a Faraday cage (aka the microwave—unplugged, I’m not a monster). Replace his X feed with nothing but puppy videos and OnlyFans refund pages. When he starts shaking for dopamine, hand him a job application for Spirit Halloween—he’s already got the costume. If he still won’t snap out of it, tell him Melania filed for divorce again and the only way to “save” her is to get a W-2. Works every time. And the dog? Rename it “Deep State” so every time he yells at it, he sounds like the lunatic he is. You’re welcome, mama. Dotti just saved your 401(k) and your fur-baby.
HODL BRO
DEAR DOTTI,
I’m a 28-year-old crypto bro who lost $400k on some meme coin called $CUMROCKET right when the SEC finally admitted Bitcoin ETFs are basically unstoppable. My girlfriend left me for a guy with a 401(k) and “emotional availability.” Now I’m eating instant ramen in my mom’s basement while Elon tweets rocket emojis. How do I get rich again before my balls fully retract into retirement?
Satoshi’s Sad Sack
Dotti’s Sad Sack,
Listen up, HODL-cuck, you didn’t lose money—you performed a $400k charity donation to a liquidity pool run by a 14-year-old in Estonia. Congratulations, you’re basically Mother Teresa with worse cope. Step one: Stop calling it “rugpull,” start calling it “tuition.” You just paid the most expensive semester at Degenerate University. Step two: Shave that rat-tail, put on real pants, and launch the ultimate revenge coin—$EXGF (ticker: DUMP). Marketing slogan: “She left you for stability? We’re going to zero anyway, might as well moon first.” Airdrop it to every heartbroken crypto bro on X. You’ll print money faster than the Fed on a bender. While it pumps, film yourself eating Wagyu out of her old Tupperware collection and post it with #SheRegretsItNow. When it inevitably dumps (because of course it will), blame “deep state whales” and pivot to selling NFTs of your own tears. Limited edition—only 69,420 available. You’ll be back in a Lambo by Valentine’s Day, and she’ll be crying into her boyfriend’s Roth IRA statements. Pro tip: Never date anyone who knows what a Roth IRA is. They’re basically financial dominatrixes. Stick to strippers—they at least pretend to like you for two songs.
AIRPORT HELL
DEAR DOTTI,
Chaos at the airport! IndiGo flights grounded nationwide—8.5% on-time? More like 91.5% “screw you” to schedules. I’m stranded in Chennai with a toddler, a dead phone, and dreams of home, while Putin-Modi oil hugs promise “uninterrupted” everything but my sanity. With global grids flickering (Cuba’s blackout bonanza) and my marriage on meltdown, how do I jet-set through this airline apocalypse without throttling the gate agent?
Delayed in Delhi
Dear Delayed,
Darling, you’re not delayed—you’re detained in aviation Armageddon! IndiGo’s flop? That’s karma for skimping on goat sacrifices to the flight gods. (Civil Aviation’s “normalize by Saturday” pledge? Ha—like Putin’s “endless oil” to Modi won’t leak like a sieve.) Stranded with a screamer? You’re basically Lost meets Lord of the Flies, minus the smoke monster (though your toddler’s close). Cuba’s grid fart-out proves: Modern life’s one blackout from barbarism. Survival serum: Ditch the throttle fantasy; channel it into “Gate Agent Voodoo.” Sketch hex dolls from barf bags, pin ’em with pretzel sticks—whisper curses in Sanskrit for extra zing. For the kid, invent “Tarmac Tantrums”: Teach her to juggle luggage tags while howling sea shanties. Marriage meltdown? Text hubby nudes captioned “Wish you were here… to change diapers.” Instant thaw. When wheels-up finally hits, smuggle hot sauce in your undies—spike airport slop into “fiery vindaloo” that’ll make Delhi delays feel like a spa day. Dotti’s crystal ball (cracked from too many prophecies) foretells: You’ll land a hero, or hijack a rickshaw revolution. Either way, fly fierce— and tip your gate goblin in grudging gum. Bon voyage, you magnificent mess!
NOTH POLE ADJACENT
DEAR DOTTI,
My HOA just banned Christmas lights because they “trigger migraines and climate change.” Meanwhile, our Karen-in-chief spent $12,000 on a 40-foot inflatable Santa that runs on a diesel generator 24/7. I found the bylaws written in Comic Sans—COMIC SANS, Dotti. How do I burn this suburban cult to the ground without getting sued into the Stone Age?
Jingle Hell Neighbor
Dear Jingle Hell,
Oh honey, you’re not in an HOA—you’re in a pastel-colored North Korea with better landscaping. Comic Sans bylaws? That’s not governance, that’s a hate crime against retinas. Counter-attack, Christmas Commando style: Wait until 3 a.m., dress in full Grinch chic (green fur, no fingerprints), and rig Karen’s diesel Santa to blast death metal versions of “Silent Night” at 140 decibels. Bonus points if you sync it to strobe lights spelling “MATTHEW 6:5, KAREN” across her McMansion. Next, file 47 anonymous complaints that her generator is actually a Bitcoin mine powering a Chinese spy balloon (use the phrase “national security threat” a lot—HOA boards cream themselves for that buzzword). When they inevitably fine her into oblivion, show up to the meeting wearing a Santa hat made of shredded bylaws and whisper, “He sees you when you’re fining…” Final move: Rebrand the neighborhood “North Pole Adjacent – Zero F*cks Climate Zone” and sell bootleg permits for the most obscene light displays imaginable. We’re talking nativity scenes with laser raptors and a 60-foot Baby Jesus riding a Cybertruck. Monetize the rebellion, pocket the cash, and watch Karen’s head explode brighter than any LED reindeer. Dotti’s prophecy: By New Year’s, she’ll be the one moving. Probably to a cave. With no generator.
XOXOX Dotti
