An annoying debutante writes:
Dear Brian, how much beer, is too much? luv tiffles
And Dr. Brian responds:
Good gawd, woman, why the hell would you ask this question? Are you serious? There is no reason to worry about the limitations on beer, real or imagined or put forth by the voices in your head. There are natural laws of nature that will take care of this issue for you. Just keep drinking. Eventually you will either pass out and awake in a strange bed, or you will die of alcohol poisoning. You are wasting valuable drinking time by even bothering to ponder the implications of your actions. Order another round.
Instead, let's focus on other issues that are more important and screamingly clear in your email. First, you've got to drop the "tiffles" angle. Obviously this is not your real name. No decent parent would ever mark a child with such a pathetic cattle brand, no matter how many episodes of "Dharma and Greg" they have seen, or how many Hallmark cards they may have pawed at Walmart. Stop pretending. If you must take on an assumed name, go with something firm and constructive like "Studebaker" or "Propane". This tells the world that you own your life. "Tiffles" tells the world that you might wet yourself if the milk expires.
Second, let's talk about the grammar. Or better yet, the appalling confirmation that you have no idea what this might be. Yes, I have tremendous insight, and realize there was an incident in the sixth grade where your Dr. Pepper Bonnie Belle Lipsmacker application device malfunctioned, and you spilled the syrupy concoction on your English textbook, thus sealing the pages together for three semesters and you were held back a grade. This is no excuse. You were fixated on your lips, instead of attaining proper communication skills, and you must own the oversight and take steps to rectify the situation. Sign up for classes immediately.
Besides, I can tell by the way you signed your name that the boy you THOUGHT you might be attracting with your wanton lip-prepping had no interest in you. Yes, I am talking about Pete. I can visualize him by the way you parted your hair in the employee ID photo from the time you worked at Casual Corner. Pete did not want you and your glistening beauty products. He wanted to join the wrestling team, and relished the thought of having access to the boys' locker room. I cannot say any more without violating the sanctity of doctor/patient privilege.
So, Miss Studebaker, thus ends our virtual session. Drink more, apply less, and try to act like English is not your second language. Everyone will benefit.