DEAR DOCTOR MARY II
Mohicanland's Queen of Quackery, advisor to the lovelorn and terror of the sane world, Doctor Mary, has finagled more column space and a new contract from The Courier. To better understand what it is exactly that she claims to do please read the introduction on DEAR DOCTOR MARY.
Dear Doctor Mary,
I am a well bred Englishwoman in need of your assistance. I realize you are no miracle worker but perhaps you might offer some well founded advice? My problem is rather simple actually. You see, I have had the misfortune of finding myself stuck in this God forsaken frontier with little hope of escape. I have tried to make the best of my miserable situation but alas, I no longer can keep up the happy facade. With no servants, proper tea, tailors, or gentlemen, life here in the colonies has been awful. I feel isolated and have no one worthy to converse with. Nonetheless, I have a strong desire to survive this wilderness hell and return to our beloved mother country at the earliest opportunity.
I have, I am ashamed to admit, taken up with a wild man named Hawkeye as a means to my survival. In the hope that this pseudo-human will at least keep me alive long enough to return to civilization, I have become what one might call a "mistress" to the ape. But dearest doctor, the game has grown old. How long must I bear this grueling, dirty, ill mannered, uncouth, provincial, sorry excuse of a man's company? How many times can a lady be expected to run wild in the forest in search of a beast for supper? How many days must one suffer the stench of water logged, blood stained buckskin? How many squirrel stews must one eat before one dies of malnutrition? And it gets worse! You should see his cabin! I've seen cleaner housing in debtors' prison! I can't bear this lifestyle anymore!
Doctor, all I want is a way out. A way home. Please! If you've any pity at all, GET ME OUT OF HERE! I can pay you handsomely for your trouble.
Civilized Cora In Non-OK Corral
Dear Corralled Cora:
Dr. Mary feels pain -- the deepest, most exquisite sort of gut-wrenching pain -- at your horrible dilemma. Of course, that might just be the possum-eyeball pate she had for lunch. Yes, life in the suburban frontier is a chore, isn't it...all those dreary little lacrosse moms in their pink and green muslins, driving their SUO's (sports utility oxcarts) to the local Starbuckskins to exchange mindless gossip. And then at night to have to surrender your own judgment to the vile embraces of a tanned, ripply-muscled, hairy, tattooed ravening BEAST who rips your bodice from your shoulders with his strong hands and crushes his firm lips down upon your...your... ugh! Never mind. You know the disgusting details of what you must endure far better than I. How well Dr. Mary understands your longing to be with a real Englishman, with a properly concave chest, knock-knees, and skin the color of those wriggly little white things you see on the underside of river rocks. And tea! Lovely black stewed tea, instead of that rude, home-brewed sour mash whiskey...which by the way, Dr. Mary sells in her clinic under the label of "Young Granddad" -- two beaver pelts a cask, and possessing an amusing little piquant skull busting kind of kick, if you're interested.
Well, don't you fret, dearie. Dr. Mary even as we speak is sending you the key to your release from your living hell. She happens to be friendly with the local Huronland travel agent, a Mr. Magua, who will be able to procure a ticket home for you. He's what you might call a...er..."scalper." I'll just send him along for a little t�te-�-t�te with you, and I can guarantee with all confidence that he will put you out of your misery before you know it! And don't you worry about that crude hunk of mindless protoplasm you're leaving behind...Dr. Mary has some ideas in mind for him.
Have a nice trip and don't forget to write!
Big hugs from
Dear Dr. Mary,
You are a true heroine of the Frontier. I particularly admire your ability to whip the most pacific spirits into a frenzy of tortured psychosis, and my admiration for your evil genius and Machiavellian vileness knows no bounds. It is with this in mind that I turn to you for advice on a little problem of my own.
Although the Colony of York has been remarkably quiet lately, I get these uncontrollable urges to track the Maguas to their wigwams and raise havoc in their camps. I want to dodge their arrows and prove my rifle against the vicious riptyles. I want to meet La Longue Carabine on his own ground and show him that there is one woman on the Frontier who can paddle her own darn canoe! I recently donned my buckskins, burned my cabin and set out in my canoe to find some action, but all I've run into so far were some British Customs officers with frilly cuffs and a couple of Hurons with bad aim (I have a fine collection of used arrows in good condition if you know anyone who could use them). I am currently holed up with my canoe on the banks of the Mohawk, suffering sleepless nights and troubled by the musical question "Anan?". How can I find an outlet for my Schadenfreude?
Thank you, thank you, thank you, LL. Dr. Mary would blush prettily if she still had that ability, but alas. Gracious, aren't you full of vim and vigor though! Been hitting the old cooking sherry again, eh? Dr. Mary doesn't know of any outlets for Schadenfreude, but it sounds really dirty, and lord knows she's all for that!
Now Dr. Mary was raised in the Southern tradition, so she is more familiar with ruffles and pantalets, fluttery eyelashes, and saying charming things like "Honey, a big strong man like yo'self could shorely crush that lil ole spider fo' me, couldn't you?" Drool like this is what got Dr. Mary her three-story cabin complete with indoor plumbing and coffers filled with tokens of esteem from grateful patients and gentlemen callers. However, as you prefer buckskins and paddling canoes, a more direct approach would seem to be in order. If you are suffering from sleepless nights, walk up to some rangy, muscular, none-too-bright long- haired specimen; whack him over the head with an axe, and drag him to your lair. Perform that freude thing on him, and he'll be your slave for life. It worked for our Elaine, didn't it?
Dear Doctor Mary,
My dear lady, I am in need of your professional services. A colleague of mine, prior to his most unfortunate death at Massacre Valley, sent a dispatch recommending that I seek help from you. His exact words were, "Get off your no good, lazy, arrogant, British arse and get help! Give whats her name a call, that tramp therapist in Albany ... Mary." After unsuccessfully applying self therapy methods, I now turn the matter over to you.
I am an officer in His Majesty's service. My duty is to make the world England, but I just can't seem to get it right. Every time there is a battle, I find an excuse to not go. Illness, headache, short on manpower, ignorance ... whatever I can think of I use. I have already cost the lives of many men and the loss of Fort William Henry. The colonies are at stake! Yet, I just can't get out there to fight. It's not that I think the French have the nature for war or anything, it's simply that I am a coward. You must understand, however, that it is not my fault. My family has a long history of death. They've been dying for ages, for centuries. Naturally, such a family record has caused me to develop a great fear of illness, injury, or death. Every time I am called forth to fight, I think of all those who went before me. "Where are they all now?" I think. Dead, of course. Well! I don't want to end up like them. So I usually become ill and send off a little note wishing my men all the best. As a courtesy to my fellow officers, I try to add little words of wisdom such as "I advise you to make the best terms possible", or "Go get them, boys!" ... I like to think my words serve as pearls of wisdom, motivation and inspiration.
And so, my dear lady, I hope you do justice to your reputation. Can you help me? I want to live!
God save the King and I!
Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant,
Dear Webbie honey:
Sir, I have already made your acquaintance. Don't you remember the bachelor party at the Patroon's house last August? I was the one wearing the buckskin bikini who came out of the cake and sang the lovely old English folk ballad "It Must Be Jelly 'Cause Jam Don't Shake Like That." How amusing...we discussed your need of my professional services back then, too!
I believe many of your problems stem from a severe mid-life crisis, which causes men of your class and age group to wear ridiculous looking outfits, high-heeled shoes, and ill- fitting wigs that look like dead gophers on their heads. Believe it or not, my Spirit Guide Whasuphomeboy tells me that 220 years from now, in the year 1977, men will be doing the exact same thing!!!! Go figure! Your intense fear of death stems from your pathologic and paranoiac fear of aging.
My advice to you is to buy a new horse ... one of those sporty, low-slung convertible models in silver grey ... and then call up a professional lady of good taste, refinement, and no morals whatsoever. Hmmmm. Webbie, are you still getting those regular payments from the Webb family trust fund?
Dear Doc Mary,
I'm hopin' ye can soothe the soul of a poor worried red-haired lass. Ye see, I'm fearin' I'm damned for all eternity...and considerin' there be no priests for me to find on the frontier, I'm consultin' your psychological wisdom to help me rest easy at night. I'm a poor red-haired lass from the wilds of the Carolina settlement. Fleein' a bad romance, I headed west and ended up in the forests of Can-tuck-ee. Not a hard journey for me, mind ye, because those of my Celtic and East European ancestry know how to survive in the woods.
Ye see, it be the sensual challenges that be killin' me. I stopped at a stream to get a bit o'cool water, and I heard a rustlin' in the trees. Thinkin' it be a bear, I move away slowly, but when I look up from me cover of bushes, I find a buck-skin clothed male vision with long black hair. He sees me and tells me his name is Hawkeye. We get to talkin', ye see, since it's been days since I seen another human, and be tellin' me he's been holed up in a cabin in Can-Tuck-ee with a PMS-havin' wench named Cora. And me not bein' a sufferer of that horrible disorder, I sympathize with the poor loin-cloth wearin', smooth biceped angel.
So it seems that I've become attached to Mr. Hawkeye, he bein' the first resident of Can-tuck-ee to treat me nice (and he is so good when it comes to rubbin' the back of a cramped-up, tired-from-walkin' Carolina wench.) But Doc Mary, somethin' in me Catholic soul tells me it's not right to be enjoyin' me time with this Hawkeye, even though he says he's willin' to stay in the woods with me and leave the PMS-havin' Cora. What do I do? Do I stay chaste as me ma taught me or accept this loincloth-clad angel for the gift of God I believe he is? Oh please do help me, for there's none in these woods to be confessin' to ,and my soul is hurtin' (in between the shoulder rubs...a little over to the left, Hawk...)
I have given your plight my utmost attention...not unlike the attention Doctor Mary gives the underside of the billiards table at Bumppo's after daintily sipping a few too many thimblefuls of Bumppo's Best Corn Squeezin's. But I digress. You are in the midst of a spiritual crisis, so I must tell you with all the love and compassion at my disposal that...you're going straight to HELL!!! HELL, I say!!!... if you so much as bruise that bicep or grope those glutes!! Even now Doctor Mary smells the sulfurous flames a-lickin' at your feet! He's the Devil's Chew Toy, lass, and those black wavy locks are snares to catch YOUR IMMORTAL SOUL!! Leave him to Doctor Mary, snooks -- she has the strength of will, the sense of shining purpose, and the king-sized waterbed with heat and massage units to...er...exorcise him properly.
But fear not! Doctor Mary has a lovely substitute specimen of hunkitude on hand who would just looove to go on sylvan frolics with a flame-haired vixen like yourself. His name is Dweebie Day-Lewis, and he's even distantly related to that buckskin-clad, broad-shouldered, long-leggity Spawn of Satan. Now Dweebie's a tad near-sighted, bless his heart, and a little frail. In fact, instead of leggings and a loincloth he has to wear those big puffy snow pants and galoshes, because if he catches a chill he might get consumption. But I'm sure once you catch sight of him, your heart will melt. Be damned sure he won't catch sight of you because he's blinder than a bat with Raybans on, so you better holler loud to get his attention. No... no...don't thank me, child. It's what I do. Now if you'll pardon me....oooohhh Haaaawkie! Hawkie-poo! Mummy's home!!!
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