Rosie: I’m going to write an advice column, and I need your opinion.
Mitch: (opening a beer) An advice column? Advice for who?
Rosie: Lovelorn dogs, unhappy dogs, etc. Here, I’ll read you some letters, and my responses, and you give me your thoughts.
Mitch: You’ve already gotten letters? You haven’t even started the column yet!
Rosie: And what do we do in cases like this?
Mitch: (sigh) We just go with it.
Rosie: That’s correct. Here’s the first letter. ‘Dear Rosie: I am a standard poodle, living in substandard conditions. My master makes me sleep on a dog bed on the floor, instead of letting me sleep on his bed. I’ve got this funky haircut, and I have to wear a pink ribbon in my hair. What can I do? Signed, Pathetic.’
Mitch: That doesn’t move the dial for me.
Rosie: What are you saying?
Mitch: I’m saying, that dog’s got it pretty good, all things considered.
Rosie: Here’s my response: ‘Dear Pathetic, who are you calling ‘My Master?’ Listen sister, you are the master of that household, and don’t let him forget it. The only reason I let Mitch share my home, is because he can turn a doorknob. In fact, when I think ‘Mitch,’ I think, ‘doorknob.’
Mitch: That’s…real nice.
Rosie: ‘Good luck, and thanks for writing.’
Mitch: When you think ‘Mitch,’ do you really–
Rosie: Here’s another letter. ‘Dear Rosie, When I was two, I learned that the dogs who share my home, are not my real parents. Now, I’m on a mission to find my family. Do you think my life would make a good reality TV series? Signed, Searching.’
Mitch: What the hell kind of question is that?
Rosie: ‘Dear Searching,’ Absolutely! I’d make my life with Mitch into a reality show, but I’m afraid Mitch’s lifestyle might be too low-brow for reality show fans.
Mitch: (chokes on his beer, blows it out his nose)
Rosie: Thank you for making my point.
Mitch: (wipes his shirt) Can’t wait to see this in print.
Rosie: ‘Good luck, and thanks for writing.’
Mitch: How about this one? ‘Dear Rosie, I’m a very patient man, with a very demanding dog. She never misses an opportunity to make me look like an idiot, and she insists on having her way in every conceivable situation. What should I do? Signed, Mitch.’
Rosie: Well, that proves he’s an idiot–he signed his own name.
Mitch: (sigh) Are we done, here?
Rosie: Almost. ‘Good luck, and thanks for writing.’ Now we’re done.
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