Diver: The Wildcat
Interesting facts: One more level-up before the Ultracat upgrade…something Falker can only dream about.

Dear Diver,
I work in an office full of cackling women who quite frequently share way too much information. They also have mouths that would make a trucker blush. As the token young single male, I am often appalled beyond belief.  “Ear muffs” only do so much - please, diver, help me find my happy place so I can cope.
– Office boy

Dear Up the Office Drama Creek,
I’m sure you’re already aware that, no matter what, you will be wrong. Anything you say to these ladies will be brushed off as ignorant drivel, and anytime you choose not to vocalize your “lost cause” opinion, you’ll be ridiculed for your wimpy silence. It’s a lose/lose situation. When a flock of ladies gather to soil the air with topics that make “how our bodies grow” books look like kindergarten literature, remember “STMRTYCTOARLH” (Say The Most Ridiculous Thing You Can Thing Of And Run Like Heck). For example, stand up and loudly exclaim, “I don’t see why women make such a big deal about childbirth,” then make a mad dash for the door before the swirling vortex of vexed vixens catches you and reams you up one side and down the other. After they curse you with doom upon your swift exit, they’ll be so angry that they will not even talk to you when you come back. Just avoid the laser-death-glares aimed at the back of your head.
– I’d rather be dropped in the middle of a pack of hungry velociraptors, the Diver
Dear “Diver,”
I’m not sure why this column is entitled “Dear Diver” anymore. It seems like well over half of the people utilized in the column are not even in the food service industry. As a kitchen dude, I feel rather offended that the Telegraph would not rely exclusively on the intelligent, yet overworked, dish-washing workforce that is the backbone of our community. Two questions: 1. are you an actual diver? 2. If you aren’t an actual diver, do you feel ashamed of yourself for stealing someone else’s rightful job?
– Thanks, Rick

Dear “Your name rhymes with what I think you are, can you guess what it is?”
My parents had five dishwashing machines when I was a kid. My four siblings and me. I grew up with my hands in the suds. Dish diving was a way of life. If the dishes weren’t clean, we lost our TV privileges for the evening. No “Star Search.” No “Wheel of Fortune.” No “Rambo: First Blood Part II.” I’m not a sell-out. I didn’t jump in on the corporate dish-diving ladder. I don’t clean dishes for money, like a one-trick-pony show. I clean dishes for love. So go home and cash that soapy paycheck, Rick. Cash it with your greedy, hard-water stained soul.
– I won’t be a part of your system, the Diver

Dear Diver,
Help! I signed up for the Iron Horse last winter and have not gotten off the couch since. My friends, who also signed up, have been training religiously for months. I need a quick excuse to get out of riding to Silverton - it’ll be the death of me.
– Slacker Sue

The diver’s policy has always been “honesty or silence.” You can tell your friends that you suck, and that you’re bailing on them because you’re a shell of a human being with no will power. Or, you can order another case of Twinkies and an instant-play movie account from the Internet, draw the blinds, disconnect your phone and ignore your friends’ attempts at communication. This is probably the best choice, because you get Twinkies, and your friends are obviously better off without you.
– Win/Win,
the Diver

In a sticky situation?

Seek help from the master of the In-Sinkerator. The diver has the solutions to life’s little messes. Send your problems to, “Ask the Diver:"
- 1309 E. Third Ave., Room 25 Durango, CO, 81301
- fax (970) 259-0488
- telegraph@durangotelegraph.com