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March 16, 2009 | by  | in Opinion | [ssba]

Sando Saves

Hello and welcome to Sando Saves, a weekly topical help symposium of stuff. Last week I taught you how to become some sort of aberrant man rhino using the magic that is mince. Today I’ve decided to help you people out more directly by solving life’s little problems. To whit, let’s answer some reader mail. The first letter comes from a “Worried Wool Woman” of Invercargill. She writes:

‘Dear Nic,

My son has managed to spill “white correction fluid” all over the front of his woolen school blazer. It’s now quite hard. Will anything remove it?’

Dear Worried Wool Woman,

While it seems that there is no doubt that your son is a complete waste of otherwise good carbon, trace elements and water, and although it is a pleasing idea that he should be put to death for soiling his nice clean school uniform post-haste, this is not the case. Has it ever occurred to Your Woolen Majesty that maybe, just maybe, if they made uniforms in a way that didn’t involve becoming rock hard on contact with “white correction fluid”, it would be a better world everywhere?

Do you not realize, that while you are ensconced in your high, fuzzy, lanolin-scented tower, that maybe your son is a hero, and maybe even a martyr, struggling with a blazer covered in a generic “white correction fluid”? Maybe instead of being a flinty bint you should realise that the day you had to offer your son love, support and guidance wasn’t today or even yesterday, but a thousand yesterdays ago. Do you not comprehend this? He needs you even more now, during these hard, hard, throbbingly rock hard, hard, oh God yes! Hard! Years. Is it really his fault that you as his mother failed him? I think not.

In fact I am ready to wildly assert that you knew exactly what you were doing sending him to that HOMOEROTIC single-sex boarding school. I bet secretly you loved it every time he came home sad and bruised, crying into his Saturday morning cereal knowing that these two days are his only taste of freedom before returning back to the hell hole that is Saint Philburt’s Boarding School and Kennel. And you make him do the lawns. Damn you to hell, you sadistic dominatrix of fleece. Damn you. To. Hell.

And in answer to your question, mixing detergent and mineral turpentine and gently dabbing it on the stain should soften the jersey somewhat. Once again, keep parallel-importing broken dreams into the Warehouse of our souls and damn you to the fiery pits of Tatarus or wherever evil rams and ewes go to die. Quite possibly a kebab shop.

Our next letter, dear friends, and indeed readers also, is actually one of the electronic variety. One of those so called “E-Mails”, these are things sitting on the cusp of the bra of new technology and are something that I hope to not only foster, but one day embrace at my website (, much in the same way my life partner has embraced these so called “Huntly and Palmers ‘super wines.’” Here’s what Rhys states:

‘Dear Nic,

I just ate three Double Bacon Cheese Burgers from Burger King, and I have a strange inkling that I will be going back for more. Is there a way to limit this foul addiction?’

Dear Rhys, or Greasy Rhysy, as I hav e decided to humiliatingly name you,

Burger King is a fine establishment filled with such top-rate entertainment as juke boxes, hapless teenage staff and (chuckle) arcade games. However, this doesn’t have a lot to do with your problem, does it?

Just the other week I saw my dog pawing through my neighbour’s garbage, trying to get access to the sweet oh-so-sickly-sweet meat treats held within. Now I could have stopped the dog, but like you it was just trying to feed its addiction. Another example of addiction is the noble heroin addict; a dying breed, alas. Every time I get mugged on the streets of Wellington, I hope—no—I pray, that my assailant is a heroin addict who is just trying to fuel his addiction.

For you see, every time the pusher man yanks up the price, poor “Needles McCoy” has to go out and roll even more university students, monocled tycoons and single mothers just to afford the same hit. Note: it isn’t actually the fault of poor old Needles who just can’t afford his scooby snacks, you’d do the same thing too (though, he isn’t doing it—it’s the drugs operating his arm), if you needed the sweet release of a narcotic jouissance jaunt.

Rhys, to be blunt, you are on the same path with your burgers. I predict that your grease soaked fingers will soon soak the grip of a paintball gun full of ball bearings and onion rings. You are too weak and grease-sodden to successfully become burger capable now. What you need is a way to keep the money and burgers rolling off the the counter and into your mouth.

So, I say unto you, go back and eat until your poor stomach can’t fit another slice of overpriced cheese down your gullet. Then sue young man, sue for all you are worth. Because in this get rich society of ours stores like Burger King should have a disclaimer about what their burgers can reduce a man to. Keep reaching for the stars Rhys, reach for the god damn stars.

Hmmn, I didn’t so much answer your question as just go on a tangent. Ah well, it’s all for the best. Next week: chimp-anzees: sister species or just really ugly and hairy old men?


About the Author ()

Nic Sando is a god amongst men, fifteen fathoms high he be, with strange and wyrd powers at his disposal. Only a fool won't harken his ears to the east when he hears The Sando man stumping his way.

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