BU’s newest advice columnist, Dear Denise

The Daily Free Press has everything that anyone could ever want from an independent college newspaper: a crossword puzzle, an ad for Anna’s Taqueria, Dilbert, and funny, entertaining, witty columns, which are chock full of blatant sexual imagery, violence and barnyard animals — oh, and there are also articles, photos and a sports section.

However, the Free Press lacks one simple ingredient, which, in my opinion, keeps it from hurdling over the Herald and achieving silver medal newspaper glory as the second largest publication in Boston.

But Denise, you wonder, what could possibly crush the second best, second-rate newspaper in Boston? Advice columns.

Let me explain. I went on a quickie jaunt to my hometown this weekend. In the 26 hours that I was home, I spent 16 of those hours sleeping, 2 taking a hot shower sans flip flops and singing the Supremes’ greatest hits at the top of my lungs while I conditioned my hair and then rinsed and repeated, and the rest of the time, in between stealing Easy Mac out of the kitchen pantry, bopping around the house to my mother’s Harry Chapin collection and pilfering cash from my father’s wallet, I perused my hometown paper.

The 30-some odd pages of my hometown rag are comprised of advertisements, the oh-so-scintillating school lunch menus (if you were worried, pudding cups will be available on Friday in the high school), the obituaries and the occasional article on fascinating subjects — for example “how to avoid amputation while using power saws” or “how to seal your deck to avoid water damage.”

The only section of the paper of any literary merit are the advice columns. Advice columns are a cross between a flashing beacon and heroin. First, they draw the discontented, unsuspecting, I-can’t-take-another-day-of-making-Shake ‘n Bake-and-Uncle-Ben’s-for-dinner housewives into the paper’s clutches with their bright blinking slivers of gossip. Then WHAM — these floor-mopping moms become addicted and hit up Dear Abby more than that junkie in “Traffic” hits up her crack pipe.

So if Dear Abby’s dope-like effects can turn around my hometown paper, then an advice column could definitely pick up readership in the Free Press.

Besides, I think “Dear Denise” has a nice ring to it…

Dear Denise:

I went online to order a shirt from jcrew.com, but they all looked so SMALL in those pictures! I don’t think they would ever fit me! What should I do?

Signed, Confused and Bewildered

Dear Stumped in SMG,

Obviously you are drinking too many double mocha lattes at Starbucks. Switch to light foam and make sure your cappachinos are extra skinny. Those little shirts will fit you in no time.

Dear Denise,

I’m in quite the predicament, and I need your help. My friends have played a prank on me, and I think they took it just a bit too far this time. When I was walking home late one night, my friends used knock-out gas on me and bound and gagged me. They then blindfolded me and airlifted me to a desert, leaving me just my wits and a bag of strawberry gummies. I eventually found this carrier pigeon and decided to use it to ask you for help.

Signed, In The Desert On A Horse With No Name

Dear In the Desert,

I am returning to you my dry cleaning bill via your stupid carrier pigeon. What do you feed that thing? Do you know how much it costs to clean cashmere!

Dear Denise:

Why does everyone hate me?

Signed, Underjoyed and Overpaid.

Dear Chancellor Silber,

Perhaps everyone hates you because you have squandered millions of their tuition dollars funding the construction of a new luxury hotel in Kenmore Square, while they are left to live in dorms that are rat-infested, paint-peeling, former halfway houses. Or maybe everyone is just suffering from a huge case of sexual frustration due to your guest policy.

Dear Denise:

I’ve heard that Free Press columnist Grant Myers is really a three-foot tall, pierced, platinum blonde, Hush-Puppy wearing, bastard love child of President Westling and Cher, is this true?

Signed, Anonymous

Dear Guys that live next door to Grant,

BU PR man Colin Riley refused to answer my calls and comment on your very serious allegations. Consequently I had to go quote another source. Luckily there was an equally reliable one readily available in my bottom, left-hand, desk drawer — my Magic Eight Ball. You will be happy to know, “The evidence strongly points to yes.”

Dear Denise:

In light of your last column, I realize that those pills we found on your dresser weren’t really just an elaborate mint case. Perhaps you should give me a call and clear up this whole mess before we officially disown you, put your stuff out on the street, and turn your room in a den.

Signed, Worried at home

Dear Mom,

How many times do I have to tell you to stop writing to the paper. Do you know how embarrassing this is? As for the mint case, did I forget to tell you about the time I caught Tom and David with the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition? Or the time you went to Grandma’s house and Dad forgot to feed us for four days …