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The Ghoulish Guidance Archive
Dear Ghoulfriend,
I woke up the other day and found myself living in a small town in the South and teaching at an even smaller Christian college. Whose life is this?
Sincerely,
Confused
Dear Confused,
Oh my! This is very alarming. I've heard vague, unsettling whisperings that these things have been occurring, and your letter is confirmation that the rumors have been accurate. I recently had a note from a man who claimed to have suddenly found himself cloistered in an enclave of Druids with a penchant for self-flagellation and nude square dancing. The imagery was so banal that I thought it was a joke and I didn't dignify his letter with a response. I'm feeling rather guilty about that right now.
You have obviously fallen prey to a tasteless extraterrestrial prank. It is common knowledge that transmissions from our television shows have been traveling into space for many years and this recent rash of unexplained events is a direct consequence of the glut of bad "reality" programming.
Here's what probably happened:
You were abducted, surgically implanted with a small receiver and dropped into your new life in that small town solely for the amusement of a pack of socially inept E.T.s who live in their mothers' basements and have too much time on their hands. The alien implant is designed to induce amnesia, and deviant thoughts and behavior. You are probably experiencing abnormal compulsions to commit certain atrocities such as prank-calling Paris Hilton's cell phone, stealing coins from the collection plate and randomly perusing - and reveling in - the negative feedback of complete strangers on eBay. Resist these impulses if you're able!
I have done some investigation on your behalf and compiled a dossier based on your previous whereabouts. We determined your identity from your fingerprints and DNA in your saliva on the envelope in which your letter arrived. Please allow me to fill in some of the blanks for you. You were born Trixie DuPont, heir to the vast DuPont fortune -- the Elmer DuPont Oil Change and Radiator Repair™ fortune, that is. You left your cushy digs in Arkansas in the early 70s to strike out on your own and gain independence from your tyrannical father. In 1975 you changed your name to Frida, tattooed a black unibrow above your eyes and moved to Pittsburgh where you met and married a man masquerading as an orange-robed Hare Krishna devotee, panhandling at the Monroeville Mall. He fell prey to a ravening horde of undead in 1978 and hasn't been seen since. You resumed your formal education and graduated cum laude from the prestigious North Versailles Technical Institute where you naturally excelled in diesel mechanics and lube jobs. The documentation gets a little murky here and it's unclear when you became addicted to clove cigarettes or why you began affecting a French accent in public. I wish I could tell you more, but the paper trail ends rather abruptly in 1990. If any of this seems the slightest bit familiar or enticing, buy a map and find your way back home. From the sound of things, though, you may be better off where you are.
Hey, it could be worse; you could have been probed.
Love,
Ghoulfriend
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