Ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, you guys.  Yours truly is now getting letters from celebrities.  Real [except for the part where they aren’t], live[-ish] celebrities [impersonated by internet loners].  Professor Classypants has arrived!

I always suspected I was destined to give bad advice to the rich and famous.  I do plenty of it when I role play with my old Barbies, one of whom is a Princess Leia doll circa 1977 who lost her hand in a tragic bike wheel accident (and her hair in a Me accident) and now walks like Gerry from The Facts of Life.  She is my plucky heroine who waits at home while Western Barbie stamps autographs for sycophants in Weeble Village and Rocker Barbie bangs the Luke Skywalker doll, who has sported an aqua halter-top jumpsuit since we lost his Jedi robe in 1979.

Wait.  What was I talking about?  Oh yeah.  Some fake famous people wrote me some fake letters and now I’m going to fake advise them.  Enjoy!

Hi Professah Classypants.
I just wanted to see if someone could tell me if I still have what it takes. Do I still have the goods, or did I burn out years ago? Living in Malibu, I don’t get a lot of real answers from people.

I just need to know, because my agent didn’t invite me or my family to his daughter’s bat mitzvah. I mean, who does that? We go to the same temple! It was in the bulletin!!

Anyway, thank you in advance for your help.
~F. Drescher.

She is on a fainting couch because she can’t believe how lucky it is that I picked her letter.

Dear Ms. Drescher:

Why hello, Fran Drescher, formerly of The Nanny fame now of “Hey, Nickelodeon is still on the air.  But where are Plus and Minus?” notoriety.  Nice try, using an AOL account.  I figured you out, Missy.

To your question:  women of a certain age are finding it harder and harder to stay relevant in Hollywood.  That age is four, after which you’d best be married to Judd Apatow or you can forget it.  But I’m sure you still have it, assuming “it” is “A certain Rita Rudner quality until you begin speaking.”

Regardless of your career being on–shall we say–a less meteoric rise, it is still unforgivable that your agent failed to include you in the celebration of his daughter’s bat mitzvah.  Especially since I’m certain he knows how much you love baseball.  The nerve of some people. – P.C.

Dear Professor:

My cowrokers (sic)  don’t take me seriously.  They’re polite enough to my face but they clearly don’t think I’m smart enough to engage in chit chat about work.  Plus, they rarely invite me to lunch and, when they do, spend the whole time explaining references they think are sailing right over my head.  Help!

-Discouraged

Dear Discouraged:

When I encountered the typo in your letter, I almost didn’t answer it.  In fact, I printed it out just so I could ball it up and toss it over my shoulder into a wire wastepaper basket a la Bert and Ernie.

But then I read between the poorly articulated lines and understood what you were trying to do in spelling it “cowroker.”  And let me tell you, if those fools don’t know how bright and special and brilliant you are, screw them.  You’ll have the last laugh. – P.C.

Dear Professor:
Whenever I call you friend, I begin to think I understand.  Sweet love’s  showin’ us a heavenly light.  Have you ever seen such a beautiful sight?

-Kenny

Dear Kenny:
What an honor to hear from the Kenny Loggins.  And believe me, I’m flattered.  You could have emailed anyone:  Stevie Nicks.  Messina.  But you chose me, Professor Classypants to inexplicably send cryptic references to your super swinging seventies sound.

I’m at a loss for words so I’ll simply paraphrase the words of a great man (you):  heaven helps the man who STOPS SENDING ME WEIRDO SONG SNIPPETS.  – P.C.

Dear Professor:

Colleague to colleague, how do you cope with always being overlooked by fellow academics?  I’ve been at this for decades, have published in countless scholarly journals, and my reputation is above reproach.  But do they ever invite me to happy hour?  Never.  Do they ever include me in the pool for Secret Santa?  No.  And if by some miracle I do get picked when they play basketball after work, it’s always, “Fine…I’ll take all the rest.”  At best, I’m the next-to-last pick.  Poor Mary Anne.

What should I do?

-Roy Hinkley

Dear Mr. Hinkley:

First, let’s cut the crap.  We are not peers.  We are not colleagues.  You, sir, are a high school science teacher.  Never underestimate just how much Nick at Nite that faux online advice columnists watch.

Next, I am sorry that your little friends leave you out of their games.  If memory serves, you were the only castaway that ever got close to getting laid.  Mind you, you couldn’t pull it off even when you were one of only four options including a stoned simpleton, a diabetic sea captain, and Mr. Magoo.  But be thankful for what you have, keep fixing that radio, and the next time someone lands on the island, immediately chain yourself to his or her ankle.  HOW DO YOU LET THEM KEEP LEAVING WITHOUT YOU? – P.C.

Dear Professor:
What is the most you ever lost on a coin toss?

-Friendo

Dear Friendo:

Well, aren’t you nice!  Hello to you, too, Friendo!  Now, before I answer your question, I just need to look under this door jam.  Someone is walking down the hallway very slowly… be right back. – P.C.

Happy writing! Thanks for stopping by to live, love, and learn. Be sure to join us next week. And remember: Act Classy and you will be classy. Ish.

Have a question for Professor Classypants? Feel free to use our magical form that lets you enter information into rectangles. When you hit SUBMIT, the form sends electronic mail to Professor Classypants with your message. Great… now we’ve over-explained things.