Dear Doctor Schrödinger,

My boyfriend talked a lot in his sleep.  Usually he just blurted out Zippy-esque non-sequiturs like "I didn't know she was your sister!" or "Hell, I don't mind cottage cheese in my glove compartment!". 

But every year around this time (March, to be specific) his ravings got more intense.  For instance, just last week he woke me up as well as the neighbors yelling "I'm not wearing pants to class because I'm going to fuck each and every eraser in the room!  You gotta problem with that?". 

He then tore the house apart and tried to insert his penis into everything.  He finally stuck it into a light bulb socket and died from the electrocution. 

My problem is that his wife wants him to be buried with that lamp, seeing as how he loved it so.  This lamp has been an heirloom in my family for years and I don't want to part with it. 

What should I do?

- Sleepless in Memoriam

The coming of spring can be very disturbing psychically. See Dean Phillips’ dissertation on sleep related disorders.

Before I continue, please accept my condolences on your loss, you crazy fucking bitch. I hate to tell you this, but your boyfriend didn't have a tragic sleepwalking mishap he offed himself to get away from you.

Shit, I started cutting myself again after reading your first fucking sentence.

Where the fuck do I start?

Using two hyphenated words back to back in a sentence? What the fuck is wrong with you?. While the ultimate holy grail of language is the appropriate use of a double motherfucker sequence, a double hyphenated word sequence is just fucking pretentious.

Trust me, I know pretentious. I’ve used the phrase “My favorite street in Paris” to start an un-ironic sentence. It don’t get any more pretentious than that.

Goddamn, if I found out I was banging some slut that made a Zippy the Pinhead references; I'd also be looking for some high voltage lovin’. Fucking Zippy the Pinhead, fuck you whore.

Let the wife have the lamp. Not only does she have to deal with the whole dead husband thing but she has to come to terms with the fact that you were a better alternative in the fuck department than she was.  I'm surprised she hasn't dug her twat out with a spoon.

Just because the lamp was used to beat your mother when she was thrown out of the Mexican whorehouse where she worked, and you were spawned, for being too diseased does not make it an heirloom.

What should you do?

Take a bath in kerosene and play with some road flares.

Put on some blackface and go to a Baptist church in a bad part of town.

Try to fix your dripping syphilitic facial sores with a running branch chipper.

I don't give a fuck just don't ever talk to me again. I have to go find some fucking band-aids.

P.S.