Who are those poor miserable wretches who write to "advice" columns and receive answers variously addressed to such creatures as "duped, miffed, loved, very worried, and confused?" Here's an example: a woman wrote to Dear Abby (DearAbbey.com) asking why her husband of twenty years hit the roof when she "thought it was finally time to answer all his questions regarding her past life," including confessing a onetime consummated love affair that occurred before they were married? Remember, the woman claimed the single event was over twenty years ago and never repeated, with anyone. Abby advised the woman that, "your husband is reacting the way he is because, for him, hurt and betrayal are fresh," and "Do not blame your husband for the way he's feeling now. His feelings are justified."

I would have answered the woman with the following: Dear Madam: your husband pumped you for information to use against you because he feels the need to control you. And, he has most likely had at least 40 hit and run "affairs" of his own in the past 20 years. Your grave error, in looking for the best out of a man obviously not worthy of you, gives you the perfect excuse to tell that hypocritical and controlling "impotent" to hit the road. Of course you won't do that, because you have made a life of taking abuse from the jerk, while crying to your long-suffering friends about your miserable life. In other words, you have learned to love the whip! Stop writing to "advice columns," and start calling a lawyer! Alimony can be very satisfying. Alimony has two rewards, recurring monthly pain to him, and support for you, while you lookup your old boyfriend.

How about the women who complain that their husbands haven't told them that they love them in more than twenty years? Most "advice" columnists recommend taking the husband to a marriage counselor, and getting to the "root of the problem." However, one could observe that most husbands saying, "I love you" to their wives is a matter of stating the obvious, and, I dare say, has about as much sincerity and passion as "Have a nice day." A man might "love" catfish, hushpuppies and beer, but he doesn't go around saying, "Man! I love catfish and cold beer." His friends know that about him. And, a wife should know that her husband either does or does not love her. After twenty years of marriage, if a woman can't figure that out, no automatic "soap opera" cowardly domestic-insurance phrase of adoration from a "conforming" husband is going to matter a tinkersdam. So, when such a woman hears her man tell their grandchild that he loves her, that silliest and most insecure of wives will often display her jealousy with, "he never says that to me."

I know all about married life, because I am a lifelong bachelor, and I studied human behavior like Pasteur examined the nature of germs. I've never been married, and Pasteur never had smallpox, but he knew enough about "the poxes" to keep him and others from getting them. So I feel competent enough to advise you that if you find yourself in even a good marriage, don't be dumb enough to put the responsibility for your personal happiness into the hands of your spouse, or anyone else for that matter.

Here's a somewhat different advice column written by The Graedons, "Herbal Pharmacy," (King Features Syndicate, New York). A reader asks the question: "What can you recommend for dog flatulence?" The reader also complains to the Graedons that the winters are so severe where he lives that he "can't put the dog outside at night." Their advice? Buy a product named "CurTail." Apparently "CurTail" is to dogs as "Beano" is to humans. My response to that question and proposed solution yields some questions of my own. But first some comments: "CurTail" as a name for a treatment of out of control dog flatulence is too clever by far, and it may even be borderline obscene. My other comment is for the benefit of the boys at the barbershop. You all (yawl) might not know the word "flatulence," but like what the Supreme Court said about pornography, you'll know it when you see it, or was it "when you common sense it?" But don't get me wrong boys, one can't actually "see" a distressed dog in "flatuous extremous" (like you can, say, when he's trying to pass a peach seed), but I'll explain all that when I get home. My response to the Graedons suggestion for doggy Beano (CurTail) would differ somewhat. I might write, Dear Mr. and Mrs. "Brainflat:" Have you never heard of a veterinarian? Or, have you neither drugstores nor pharmacists in your little iceberg? Or, is your motivation in writing to the "Herbal Pharmacy" column the pregnant joy of seeing your unsettling question in print? And, were you sober when you wrote the letter? My advice to you is to stop feeding your little doggy beer and pickled eggs. I speak with authority about the synergistic devilment of beer and boiled eggs, for I was among the victims of a terrible outbreak of "fraternity flatulence" on the Ole Miss campus, and at the "Pike" house, a little over fifty years ago. And I'm sorry to report that some of my fraternity brothers suffer to this day from PTGS (post traumatic gaseous syndrome). And if it hadn't been for the most seriously affected of them becoming members of congress and the senate, (thereby finding a socially acceptable redirection for their gas) there's no telling what the cost of their condition would have been. But, even in the bleakest times, one remembers the old saying, "It's an ill wind that blows no good."

Kenneth Kinchen is an independent writer with a background in international business and foreign service contracting.