Like a washed-up, over-endowed stripper with chronic back pain, a couple things have been weighing heavily on me that I need to get off my chest. So here goes…

*My Chinese/American relations are a bit strained right now. Besides the sweet and sour chicken, one of the best things about a Chinese restaurant is the fortune cookies, which I’ve always truly believed. I tend to save them, as I find them quite uplifting. Recently one said, “You’re almost there,” and I got pretty excited, but later thought, “But almost where?” Destitution? Dementia? It wasn’t specific, but I can’t help but think it referred to a good place.

I misplaced it, but my latest one said something to the effect, “You will have a happy and prosperous retirement.” Yeah, right! On Sunday, a woman delivered my latest court summons for a financial judgment. How dare they deliver such things on the Lord’s day? A different credit card agency actually called me during the Super Bowl.

I seldom answer the landline phone since I know it’s “one of them,” but this time I fought the urge to pick up and yell, “Congratulations, stupid! Because of your own thoughtless, inconsiderate actions, you have now moved to the back of the line.”

So I have no pension, no savings, precious few job prospects, and this little slip of paper tells me how cozy my golden years are gonna be? It will go down as the day my innocence died. How will I ever trust a fortune cookie again?

*Like I wasn’t sufficiently depressed already, a trip to my doctor last week amped up the volume. Oh, I’m fine; my wild thyroid fluctuations seem to be leveling out finally, and the statin meds have settled my cholesterol down to a manageable 242. I can live with that. But it was the pre-doctor preliminaries that have me feeling sick.

The nurse weighs me, then backs me up to the wall chart and announces, “Five six and a half.” WHAT? I’m not an old man; I can’t be shrinking already! After exaggerating my height to 5’-8” when I’m really only 5’-7” my entire adult life, now I have to start exaggerating just to be 5’-7”? Outrageous! I’m thinking of going to a different doctor for a second opinion.

*I feel a little foolish about it at this point, but as long-time readers know, I used to have a huge crush on a blonde, willowy, leggy Fox News newscaster named Laurie Dhue. The stunning beauty was all over Fox, even having a weekly segment on O’Reilly called “The Dhue Factor.” When she suddenly disappeared from the airwaves, I googled Laurie (and I’m not bragging) to learn she’s taken an indefinite hiatus after a hidden, serious drinking problem was uncovered.

Well, that did it for me. I mean, I just can’t be with someone who’s dysfunctional! And in retrospect, I now understand how delusional and unhealthy my Dhue obsession was. It’s crystal-clear now that I’ve fallen deeply in love with tall, raven-haired, leggy Kimberly Guilfoyle. She’s been a federal prosecutor, ex-wife of ex-San Francisco mayor Gavin Newsome, and one day she’ll be mine! Hey, maybe that’s what the cookie meant.

*I read about the 29-year-old, Moroccan suicide-bomber that was foiled by undercover operatives a few weeks ago. Amine El Khalifi from Virginia was taken into custody after being tricked into thinking he was working for al-Qaida. The naïve sap was given what he thought was a suicide vest that he would strap on and detonate to blow up the Capitol building.

I just worry that this young man might be really depressed, maybe even suicidal now after such a miserably failed attempt, He needs to be put under suicide watch and encouraged to keep his spirits up.

Speaking of al-Qaida, why is “al” not capitalized, and why is there no U after Q? I was always taught there must be a U after a Q. Nothing makes sense anymore.

*I’m really sick of our English language — specifically our percentage perspective — being disrespected. What’s part of “100 percent is as complete as it gets” don’t people understand? American Idol is one of the worst offenders: when voting, Jennifer Lopez will say, “Yes. 150 percent yes!” Then Randy — as if he’s trying to out-dumb her — says, “I’m gonna say 500 percent yes; you’re going to Hollywood!”

By the same grammatically-inept token, when rating a hot woman, guys will say “She’s a 12.” That’s ridiculous. Kimberly Guilfoyle is not a 12; she’s a 10, and that’s 100 percent as good as it gets. All I’m saying is: Learn to talk more better, people!

*In light of my Valentine’s column about my big date, I’m sure many of you think me pathetic since my love-life these days consists solely of TV women and pets. Well, maybe you’re just jealous because I never get yelled at and you do!