Sweet Daddy Lovedrops has risen from the grave to help you pick out the appropriate underwear for Valentine's Day

[Ed note: If you're reading this at work, you might want to stop. Just saying.]

But get this straight: Sweet Daddy Lovedrops is not a “zombie”. He does not hunger for your brains. He does not terrify the populace with the grotesquerie of his grim visage, worms and maggots crawling from his empty eye socket and gaping, fleshy holes where his nose should be and whatnot. He does not even smell unpleasant. No! Sweet Daddy Lovedrops smells like the rosemary and hyssop bubble bath he likes to use! And he is as handsome as ever! And he only hungers for a plate of foie gras, not your brains! Sweet Daddy Lovedrops is vehement in his disdain for your brains, not only their taste, but also their quality!

Eating your brains would only make America’s premier advice-dispenser and pop psychological authority incapable of performing his duties as an arbiter of truth and fount of plain-spoken common sense. No, the sad fact is that your brains lack the subtlety, taste, and discernment that Sweet Daddy Lovedrops demands in his meals. Were you to serve them with capers and a fine Bordeaux, I would still push them away as a small baby might push away a plate of corned-beef hash. And, since Sweet Daddy Lovedrops is not a small baby, you could not hope to wear down his steadfast resistance with gentle cooing, stuffed llamas, and threats of no pudding! Fuck you and your pudding! What can pudding possibly mean to a man who’s studied at the finest correspondence schools in Austria? How can pudding succor a man who has strived for decades to bring all the miserable, yearning masses the light of Unquestionable Truth? Pudding can’t succor such a man. And neither can your brains.

No, no: Sweet Daddy Lovedrops does not want to eat your brains. He wants to make them less pathetic.

But before I do that, allow me to share the story of how I died. It is a tale of simple, noble patriotism and it would tickle my fancy if it was made into a feature-film one day. You see, there exists in this world an anti-Sweet Daddy Lovedrops, a man whose very existence makes a mockery of everything Sweet Daddy Lovedrops stands for. This vile wretch takes transcendent wisdom and turns it into trite, homespun cliches; he takes thought-provoking ideas and turns them into treacly pap; he takes the Mighty Truth of the Ages and turns it into A Load Of Silly Horse-Hockey.

Some of you might have already figured out that I’m talking about “Dr.” Phil.

Yes, “Dr.” Phil, that Texas-twanging, bald-headed, country-mustached, multimedia celebrity piece of post-Freudian flotsam! How I despise him! And, dear advice-seekers, rest assured that Sweet Daddy Lovedrops is not the man to sit idly by and watch the Yearning Masses be succored by a pied piper who can only bring them suffering and shame. Just the other week, on his “television show”, I watched the gibbering homonculus tell a girl who had been stealing from her mother’s purse “To quit with all the what-have-you and get yoursef’ a job!”. And the audience applauded! Wildly! For something like two minutes!

Sweet Daddy Lovedrops would never lay a turd like that. He would tell that little girl that, yes, stealing is a moral transgression, but it is one which is but a feather in the wind compared to the hurricane of evil that is our lowly modern state. To say “do not steal” is as self-defeating as saying “do not breathe”, since just by living we take part in a grim charade of corruption, abuse, and misery. So, little girl, I’d say, take whatever you want from your mother’s purse, take the whole purse, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. We are all just chalk-marks on a blackboard left in the asbestos-lined basement of hell’s elementary school.

After hearing that, do you think the audience would cheer? No, no they wouldn’t. They would sit and silently ponder and, in quiet solitude, decide that I am right.

This is the essential difference between me and “Dr.” Phil. And that was all I wanted to tell him when I traveled to his lair deep in the bowels of an abandoned salt mine somewhere just north of the Rio Grande. You see, I was naive back then and I thought that my accursed enemy would just shrivel up and vanish once he was confronted with his despicable charlatanism.

In this I made a tactical error.

After voyaging through miles of passageways, into and out of millions of dead ends and false paths, I began to feel like the mythical Jason in the labyrinth, pursuing my own personal Minotaur of Falsehood. But, just as started to grow weary of the chase, I found myself in his opulent study, a room of such grandeur that it made the grand palaces of the Turkmen empire seem like the dorm rooms of stoned college sophomores. At the sound of my footsteps resounding through the high-ceilinged chamber, the loathed villain raised his enormous, overripe melon head from his correspondence and sneered the way you’ve probably seen him sneering from the covers of a million vapid hardcover books piled high in the entryway of your local Barnes and Nobel.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked me.

The nerve, I thought. But I was dignified, even in combat. “I am Sweet Daddy Lovedrops, your avowed foe. Where I bring light, you bring darkness. Where I dispense wisdom, you vomit wicked lies. While I serve the truth, you serve only the Dark Lord Baal. Prepare to taste my fiery sword of universal judgement, you wretched beast!” I said, my soaring oratory echoing all over his gussied-up cave.

He rose up from behind his desk made of skulls and came towards me with his hand extended. “Pleased to meet ya,” he said, with the disarming “charm” that all who have done battle with him have commented upon.

“Touch me not, foul rapscallion!” I cried out and he just smirked. On his outstretched hand, a gristly finger curled, beckoning me to follow him. He turned his back on me and started towards a door set in the vaulted walls of his lair. “Where are you going?” I demanded.

“Got somethin’ to show ya,” he said, and he threw open the door. On the other side of it, there was only darkness, a darkness from which a curious shaking sound came, softly at first, but growing ever-louder as our standoff continued.

I crossed my arms over my chest in my steadfastest way and asked him, in such a way that suggested I wasn’t the least bit curious, “What’s in there?”

His grin then was something that will haunt all my worst nightmares for years to come. “Bunch ‘a rattlesnakes,” he said.

“I don’t believe you,” I told him.

“Got a buncha rattlesnakes. You scared of rattlesnakes, Wee Baby Lemondrop?”

“Sweet Daddy Lovedrops is not scared of rattlesnakes! The mere suggestion is absurd!” I declared.

“Come over here then!” “Dr.” Phil taunted, “These ones is special. They done glow in the dark...”

I must admit here that my curiosity was aroused. Herpetology has long been a pet fascination of mine, and–while I understand this is not the time nor place to boast of my accomplishments in that field–it is commonly accepted in most zoological communities that the Zimbabwean Reticulated Pit Viper has been given its own phyla category thanks to my tireless letter writing campaign. So you can imagine that my interest was piqued at the possibility of seeing the legendary “luminous” rattler.

I laid aside my natural caution and strolled straight up to the open door. In my mind I was scoffing at “Dr.” Phil’s awesome ignorance of the natural world. Didn’t he know what a biological find he had right there in his closet? Didn’t he understand the significance of it? What a fool, I told myself, what a poor, moronic fool. I wasn’t afraid to say it out loud, either: “You carpet-munching ingrate!” I called out as I peered into the darkness beyond the threshold, “Don’t you know these should be in government-accredited research facilities?”

“Yup!” “Dr.” Phil chuckled, and with one meaty, hairy palm he swatted me into the dank closet. Only it wasn’t a closet at all, but a very deep pit. And the rattlesnakes at the bottom of it didn’t glow in the dark at all. Not even a little bit. Oh, but how enraged they were when America’s foremost arbiter of knowledge fell upon them! And I wasn’t even wearing the special fang-proof boots I like to wear when I visit the desert Southwest! What a hideous oversight on Sweet Daddy Lovedrops’ part that was!

Suffice to say that what happened to me then did sting some.

But I did not come here to tell you a story of pain and defeat. I came here to criticize your panties. Because, truth be told, they just aren’t sexy enough. You might think they’re sexy, but–let’s face it–you have no idea what sexy is. You think that just because something is tight or soft or pink or revealing or whatever it must then be sexy. I’m sad to say that this isn’t true. It’s a damnable lie, in fact.

But don’t fret, my precious, for Sweet Daddy Lovedrops is here to tell you what sexy is. Sexy can be defined as the particle interaction between (a) the Barthesian “perfect observer” as laid out in the theory of semiotics; (b) a vector quadrant that operates in Euclidean geometry as a curved line, but can better be understood as a transverse operating arc in quantum space; and (c) naked bits. Put plainly, sexy is a positive value relation between an operant icon and a textual space within which certain identity discourses receive “encoded” signifiers.

Now, knowing that, it becomes perfectly clear that these are NOT acceptable underwear to wear on an evening when a young lady might plausibly expect romance:


It staggers Sweet Daddy Lovedrops’ imagination to think that any woman would want to cover her nether-pieces with something that can only be described as “doilyesque”. Look at the little bows, look at the frilly detailing running along the lateral perimeters, look at the swoony floral pattern this pair of underwear gives us in place of genuine substance. . If Sweet Daddy Lovedrops was engaging in the act of physical congress with a lady clad in this monstrosity, he would feel duty-bound to rise up from his expert lovemaking and–gently, yet firmly–request that she go into the lavatory and change into a pair of knickers more conducive to eroticism. Because, and not to put too fine a point on it, those are the sorts of underpants that can make the soldier in the purple helmet stand down.

This next pair is just as bad:



Ladies, heed Sweet Daddy Lovedrops’ advice: if you have a philosophy of life, or even just a witty “catchphrase”, you don’t need to have it embroidered in silk and riding on top of your cooter. You can just have it tattooed on your ankle or something. Because after Sweet Daddy Lovedrops removes your slacks with his teeth, the last thing he wants to be confronted with is the written word. Of all the things Sweet Daddy Lovedrops wants to apply to the flower of your womanhood, literary analysis is not one of them. If you have any bloomers of this sort, you should burn them immediately.

What follows here is a little better, but still not acceptable:


Here Sweet Daddy Lovedrops takes issue with the fabric. Sweet Daddy Lovedrops is of the opinion that clothing, even intimate clothing, should not be shiny. Cars are shiny, spaceships are shiny, modern windmills are shiny, neon lights are shiny, fiberoptic cables and salamanders are shiny, but love should not be shiny and neither should passion. These are solemn things, and they demand respect. It is clear that the proper obeisance cannot be found in underthings that look like something Rocky might wear.

Plus, as an aside, the color yellow reminds Sweet Daddy Lovedrops of his overactive bladder problem. And nothing kills the romantic impulse deader than an overactive bladder. You might just have to trust Sweet Daddy Lovedrops on that one.

Now, I realize that, at this point, you may be gnashing your lovely teeth together in anxiety because you feel you have no knickers to wear on Valentines Day. “Oh woe is me!” I can hear you crying, “I was sashaying around in these goofy pieces of intimate-apparel and the whole world was looking at me like I was a fool!”

There, there, sweetheart. We all make mistakes. Even Sweet Daddy Lovedrops. What’s that you say? You want to tell me about a mistake I’VE made? Goddamn it, I just got done telling you about how “Dr.” Phil threw me into a pit of rattlesnakes, didn’t I? How much more do you want me to abase myself? How much longer must I suffer? Can’t we just talk about YOUR problems for once? Can’t we just stop making everything about ME all the time? Is that too much to ask?

Now you’ve gone and got Sweet Daddy Lovedrops angry.

But, because Sweet Daddy Lovedrops is a mature, functional human being, he isn’t going to let his simmering rage interfere with his quest to improve your life. Ladies, listen to Sweet Daddy Lovedrops for once. Listen to him when he assures you that “undies” such as these are guaranteed to fill all your coital partners to the brim with unbridled, irresistible groin-centered lust vibes:

Mmmmmm! I wish you could see Sweet Daddy Lovedrops biting his knuckles at the sight of those puppies! Whooooo! Damn!

Sweet Daddy Lovedrops is generally a sober, erudite professional, but there are some things that can his get his blood up like nobody’s business. One of the things that can get the goopy prostate secretions flowing around in his vas deferens is the sight of a pair of baggy, ruffled, chastely-white ladies-pants! Oh, and don’t get me started on the beautiful bow! I call it a love knot, and I often wile away the quiet hours imagining myself tying and untying that sweet, silky pink ribbon as my fair consort whispers to me my favorite lines from the collected works of Eugene Ionesco. And, while this incredibly sensual tying and untying is going on, in the distance, a small man (but not a dwarf) is playing finger cymbals (but not castanets) and humming the melody to several famous Hebrew tunes (but not “Greene Koseene”). And maybe clouds will float by in the shapes of all my passed-on ancestors and descendants to be, clouds with big puffy smiles on their faces for the deep and abiding love my and my baggy-pantied sugar-muffin share. And maybe there will be a platter of broasted chicken nearby, in case we get hungry.

Now that’s what sexy is, my sweet readership. Shall we get another look at those mystifying, alluring underpants? Shall we? I think we shall! Here goes:


Hava NAGILA! Those are hot! Tell me if this is “too much information”, but Sweet Daddy Lovedrops has been forced to find a new position in which to sit, as the one he was in previously was the source of much discomfort due to the tangling of his pants with his sudden, uncontrollable erection!

It is getting to the pont where Sweet Daddy Lovedrops might need three minutes or so to himself. But, before that, allow Sweet Daddy Lovedrops to dispel the notion that he’s some sort of “sexist creep” with “fetishistic tendencies” who just “wants to put up pictures of ladies’ drawers on the internet”. Because nothing could be further from the truth. Sweet Daddy Lovedrops understands that both the sexes are in need of guidance when it comes to the question of romance. Men, actually, are in need of more. This is due to their innate stupidity.

However, they do have a much easier time when it comes to underwear shopping. Gentlemen must only remember one simple rule. When you’re in Wal-Mart, for God’s sake don’t buy this:





but buy this instead:



Because–take Sweet Daddy Lovedrops’ word for it--there isn’t a woman in the world who isn’t turned on by the sight of a man strutting across the bedroom in a fresh (or even not so fresh) pair of “tighty-whities”. This is a universal truth. This is one of the few matters where both science and religion are in perfect accord. I don’t know why it is so, I only know that it is so.

Now, if you’ll pardon me, Sweet Daddy Lovedrops has a hot date with the back of his hand and a vat of cooking lard.




[A note of explanation and apology from your regularly-scheduled blogger: First off, I am sorry. Second, if you’re new to my website, let me direct you to the previous installments of the Sweet Daddy Lovedrops Saga here and here. At first, I meant him to be a fairly straight parody of certain famous pop-psychology hucksters, but instead he became a kind of clearinghouse for my bad taste tendency. Don’t let him ruin your Valentine’s Day. Let the knowledge that Valentine’s Day is a fake holiday created by the florist/chocolate/fancy restaurant/greeting card cartel ruin it instead...]