"what kind of gay shit is this?"

Dear Irby and Ian,
Can you tell me the proper etiquette for a man to clip his fingernails?

irby: it's been pretty well-documented that i have a thing for manly men. i like bossy dudes with armpit hair whose private parts smell like freshly seared beef. most of the notches on my bedpost came courtesy of barely-literate linebackers with 26" necks who preferred to grunt and point rather than engage in actual conversation. oh i know, who wants some mouth-breathing neanderthal with food in his beard? but most of them were all impeccably groomed and fastidious in their efforts to remain that way. so, because i don't know shit about keeping your balls clean, i emailed/texted the least retarded of my old fuck buddies and asked each of them, "what is the proper etiquette for a man to clip his fingernails?" the responses were as follows:

1 "what kind of gay shit is this, samantha irby?"

2 "DON'T EVER EMAIL ME BITCH YOU TOLD A BAR FULL OF PEOPLE THAT I HAVE HERPES THAT SHIT AINT FUNNY YOU COMEDY ASSHOLE."

3 "Who the hell is this from?"

4 "I get manicures every other Saturday. In general, though, a man should trim his nails at least once a week."

5 "I file my shit twice a week. Like a girl, as you would say. Or "that's moist." What R U doing later, asshole? Can I come by and get you pregnant?"

6 "BITCH I'M SERIOUS YOU OWE ME AN APOLOGY. WE NEVER EVEN HAD SEX. THAT BOGUS ASS SHIT HURT MY FEELINGS. YOU ARE THE WORST ASSHOLE EVER DON'T ASK ME SHIT, YOU JERK. I DONT CARE ABOUT ETIQUETTE, SAM. YOU SHOULD'VE HAD SOME FUCKING ETIQUETTE WHEN YOU TALKED ABOUT MY DICK IN PUBLIC."

here's the takeaway from that little experiment: 1 the sexual interstate i'm driving down is littered with idiots and fruitbags, and 2 I AM A RELENTLESS COMEDY ASSHOLE.

my next step was to consult my best friend the internet, who is super smart and always full of reliable information. i happened upon a post entitled "men's worst grooming issues." here's an abbreviated list:

1 long, dirty toenails. ew and ew. that post-sex "did this motherfucker's toenail just scratch the inside of my ankle?!" feeling is the goddamned WORST. clip that shit.

2 hair where it shouldn't be. to where might they be referring? nose? ear?! i like a  solid, hairy beast. nothing like grabbing hold of a man's back fur and telling him exactly how you like it.

3 a foul mouth. this sort of goes without saying, right? or are there really dudes who need to be reminded to brush their fucking teeth?!

4 eyebrow issues, either overgrown or over plucked. again, i must beg to differ. i don't want to bang a dude who even notices he has eyebrows. that shit is moist.

5 too much cologne. i'd like to specify "cheap ass" cologne. there is absolutely not a goddamned thing wrong with a slab of brisket that has been drenched in some kilian or serge lutens. NOT A GODDAMNED THING.

6 too much waxing. or...ANY AMOUNT OF WAXING AT ALL. sorry, son, but no one wants to fuck a newborn baby.

7 dry, cracked heels. i guess so? i mean, maybe? but the thought of some burly dude in a pedicure chair flipping through people magazine makes my penis soft.

8 hair that never moves. this is for white people. if a black dude's hair is moving that is a motherfucking NO.

this list is fucking dumb, and was obviously written by twelve year old girls too young to menstruate. frustrated, and still having no clue about a polite man's fingernail game, i posed the question over IM to my dear friend geno, a hot gentleman who is always very tastefully appointed. and here's what he said:

i've always been of the mind that if you were to feel a girl up, are your nails going to scratch / hurt her cooch?

if so, they gotta be trimmed

which is basically always

and the only time a dude should have long fingernails is if he plays acoustic guitar regularly

but even that's suspect

so there you have it. TRIM THEM ALWAYS TO AVOID HURTING A COOCH. and on the off chance what you were looking for was a technical manual: were you raised by fucking WOLVES?! i was parented by the joint efforts of a barely-functioning television and our local DARE police, and even i know how to properly whittle down these hand daggers. how to: soak your hands, clip your nails straight across, let them dry, then file that shit neat. welcome to the fifth grade. dummy.

ps, don't be a giant fucking dickface to someone who writes comedy about balls and shit.

pps, that dude totally fucking had herpes. good thing i didn't bang him. BARF.

your black ass needs to stop being afraid of white people.

Dear Irby and Ian,
My boyfriend is white, and I'm...not. He wants me to meet his parents, but I'm really scared they won't like me (he comes from a very different type of area). What is a black girl to do? I'm worried I'm not good enough and am terrified to meet them! How should I handle a potentially awkward racial situation?

irby's salty black ass: this tea party/militia/birther/arizona/anchor baby shit is proving what the realists among us already fucking knew: racism isn't dead, it was just hiding in upstate michigan. white people are still terrified of black people, even though we're so busy shooting at each other we couldn't possibly be bothered to disrupt their polo matches or country club luncheons with our LOUD TALKING and welfare swindling and aggressive rap music. so i'm not sure what you're so worried about. but the inherent problem with a question like this is that 1 it's apparent that you hate yourself a little bit and 2 you obviously don't know enough raggedy fucking white people.

do you have mtv? because all you need to do is sit through an episode of "teen mom's" cayleeeeeeee or destineeeeeeeeeeeeee smoking a newport while screeching into her iphone outside the trailer about court dates and car payments and your fears of not being good enough for these people will GODDAMNED EVAPORATE. i mean, seriously, have you never before watched "to catch a predator?" ain't no tar babies on that shit trying to put their dicks in little kids. forget harriet tubman, teach little brown children about that shit. i've got a documentary on the people of appalachia that i can send you, too, and GUARANTEED you'll never be afraid that a white person would judge you harshly EVER AGAIN.

i'm serious. five minutes watching these toothless hillbilly motherfuckers put mountain dew in baby bottles while butchering the english language will have you swollen with pride and humming "lift every voice and sing" under your breath for a goddamned month. white people in major metropolitan areas keep it pretty well together, but those motherfuckers on the fringe are A GODDAMNED MESS. and i assume that's what you're referring to when you say "he comes from a different type of area." because the alternative is that YOUR ASS is country and he's from a posh suburb, and everyone already knows that rich white people are polite to a fault and will only talk shit under their breath after you've bid them goodnight and the maid is locked safely in her specially-constructed outdoor bathroom.

when sarah and i were in nebraska a few years ago i was fucking SHOCKED; little white kids in dirty clothes and bare feet standing on the side of the road eating mayonnaise sandwiches and holding pictures of aborted fetuses and yelling at us to "go back to africa." white power, indeed. this young boy whom i am almost 100% positive answered to a biblical name called us a couple of "man-looking dyke niggers" in a gas station in elkhorn. my immediate reaction was to laugh in disbelief, because i couldn't believe this little grapes of wrath motherfucker's goddamned audacity. i was wearing easily the most feminine fucking outfit in my closet, this long-ass, vagina-airing caftan and a bunch of girly nuvaring bracelets. who the fuck was he calling a MAN?! i suppose i was looking pretty niggerish, what with my birkenstock sandals and the eddie bauer duffel bag i was using as a suitcase, and i understand how the subaru we were road-tripping in might warrant a lesbian catcall or three, but how on earth could i take a person seriously who was wearing OVERALLS AS REAL CLOTHES WITH NO SHIRT UNDERNEATH?

that's one of the reasons i don't understand why black people get so bent out of shape over racism that isn't institutionalized. imma be mad because some child destined to die in a coal mine in ten years called me a fucking nigger? NOT EVER. if there was even the slightest danger that i might be seeking employment from that motherfucker one day, my poor little black heart might break into a million pieces. i get mad when african-american neighborhoods don't have decent grocery stores and black men serve lifetimes in prison for half an ounce of crack cocaine, not when some tobacco-chewing manchild wearing shoes my tax dollars paid for gives me a once-over. and sure, maybe he was checking my teeth and gauging my hip width to figure out how much i would go for in the modern-day slave trade, and that's just fine so long as that constitution his libertarian ass loves so fucking much still says my 3/5 human ass is STILL FREE. unless he's going to put a shotgun to my head or make my paychecks out to "nigger irby," i'm not really worried what he thinks about my big ol' lips and fried chicken addiction. besides, sarah ISN'T EVEN BLACK. if something had really gone down i could've jumped in the trunk while she drove us back to safety.

so maybe the real issue is that you need to work on your personality. or your confidence. because if his family is the type who would drag you behind a truck, would he really take your ass to meet them? i am never concerned that someone won't like me, regardless of skin color, because i am charming and hilarious and awesome. are you smart? do you have decent comedic timing? read a couple magazines or something topical online so you have something to talk about that won't make you sound retarded. and avoid talking about god, guns, or the GOP. most white people avoid talking about anything controversial with a negro anyway, either because they assume we've all got some latent militance or we're too dumb to intelligently converse (or CONVERSATE, depending on how black you are), so chances are all you're going to have to talk about is what you watch on television or whitney houston.

come on, what's the worst thing that could happen? dad refuses to speak to you, mom is offended that you didn't ask for a second steaming helping of spam and cheetos casserole, and you cut your leg on the stuffed raccoon carcass that sits in the middle of the coffee table? so what, big deal. just tell boyfriend that he owes you a nice dinner and control of the remote for a couple weeks. because television solves everything, even racism.



goddamn it, are white men into curvy black women yet? or has that uptick in the appreciation of a big, black ass the movie "precious" created already worn off? i need to get me one of them, for reals. what? i grew up in the suburbs! i know how to talk the talk! i need to be around a y-chromosome with a decent credit score for a change, shit. one who wasn't in the hot lunch program and can tell me what it's like growing up with a full-time father in the home. but i can only fuck with a city one, as i need someone who isn't going to sass me and try to disprove everything i fucking say. i'm tired of this in your face blacktalk. bring on the liberal guilt.

the perfect man. total figment.

Hey, I have a  question. Why does it always seem that the men I like and could see myself in a relationship always find the girl they want to be with after they hook up with me? And then the guy that wants to be in a relationship with me is not at all what I'm looking for as far as being in a relationship. Am I doomed to be the one before the one? - Failure to Launch


ian: Well, first of all, FTL, if you were a lawyer I was a judge, I'd be like "Asked and answered, Counselor." Right here. Week after week. Ass play. The occasional dick-smoking. Trust funds. Hanging onto a man is the easiest thing in the goddamn world. Pinch of cayenne on the head of the dick. A hoagie stacked high with roast beast. A pony keg of MGD. Pair of shackles and a cask of Thorazine. Some ketamine, some zip ties, and a sturdy bed frame. He's yours for all time. Shit, you could stack men like fucking cord wood in your crawl space like Gacy.


Where you're running into trouble is that second notion you're eager to gloss over. The "not at all what I'm looking for as far as being in a relationship." That's your goddamn problem right there.


You. You are the problem. You're too. Fucking. Picky.


I know. You're like "All I want is a nice guy who treats me right. Is that too much to ask?" No. No it's not. But that's not what you're asking.


You're SECRETLY asking for a Jon Hamm-looking neurosurgeon astronaut rolling in time-traveling DeLorean and mentoring scores of urban youth in his well-pressed-but-still-casual-looking dress shirt that is the blue of Anderson Cooper's eyes. You're asking for a paragon of American manhood that's got the hands of a cabinetmaker and the heart of Oprah fucking Winfrey. You want his spooge to come in a Mason jar with a inseminating baster tied up in a grosgrain ribbon bow in a manly-yet-appealing shade of burgundy (Uncooked Marrow is what Benjamin Moore® calls it) for impregnating on your timetable - fear not, he'll never touch you unless it's Snuggle Time at the Dickless Ranch you call your separate bedrooms. 


And from one angle, you want him to have a buzz cut that make GI Joe look like wizard hippie, then from another angle, you want him to have those silken Fabio locks from Legends of the Fall cascading over his chiseled shoulders. You want him to burst out of a lake with a knife in his chipped teeth and crochet needles in his dainty hands. You need him to recap the Downton Abbey while your tea is steeping as he's smacking the waitress on the ass. You require him to go bow hunting with Ted Nugent and rescue baby squirrels who have tumbled from their nest and are squeaking for their mamas in way that just about breaks your goddamn heart.


You want him to greet the dawn with a reflective and cathartic spell of journaling about his dad, dry his tears, bang out a couple-few yoga poses, then spend the rest of the day making babies with low-rent skanks he'll never call.


You want him to tear around your lakeside cabin on a shade-grown, fairly traded Jet Ski that runs on pixie turds and has a carbon footprint the size of kangaroo rat. You hope he'll not only hear your thoughts but agree with every fucking one, and murmur encouraging words in your ear about how you are totally right - all those bitches at work are undermining you. We should totally talk it over for the next nine hours or so. 


You want a man who will never touch you, except to knead the tension out of those poor shoulders of yours.


You want him to be hung like a can of tennis balls, but you never wanna see his dick or have to deal with it. You want his manscaping to by just shy of Hitler's mustache one second, then you want a thicket of sasquatch chaos down there the next. 


You want him wearing nerd glasses while he lifts the engine block out of your Camry with his bare fucking hands. You want him to recite sonnets from memory while he beats a cop senseless. You want his progressive politics tempered by his bloodlust. You need him to be as hard as a butcher block as he warms you like a tea cozy. You need an arch fucking criminal who's tender and yielding and supportive as a Muppet hospice worker.


You see? How this is? You gotta recognize that that dude you're pining for? Doesn't exist. CAN'T exist, actually - at least not in this paltry-ass reality.


Men have limitations. Men are not and cannot be the kaleidoscopic narcissus chamber of yearning fulfilled that you seem to need. And I got news for you: chicks aren't either. And unless you can find an angel with a giant waggling strap-on and pan of lasagna, gift certificates to the day spa and a brick of cash, and whose vocabulary consists entirely of praise for you. The odds against finding this creature? Astro-cockknocking-nomical.


People suck. No way around it.


But you take what you can and do what you're able. 


When life you gives you lemons, you make fucking lemonade. You don't make a Buick. Not only because it would be insane, but because it can't be done.

a witch with a "b."

Dear Irby and Ian,
I have a situation that I need your advice on. I came out to my car evening to discover that another driver had rudely blocked in myself and another driver. There was absolutely no way for either of us to get our cars out. I went back into my apartment building to see if I could find the culprit and ask her to move her car. While discussing the situation with another neighbor, the guilty party arrived at the scene. She didn't apologize and then claimed that she had only been parked there for five minutes. In fact, she had been parked there for at least 20 minutes (for 15 of which I had been standing in parking lot).

I explained to her that she shouldn't have been parked there at all since she was not a tenant of the building. Regardless of whether she was parked for a moment or a week, she shouldn't park in the tenants' lot, and she shouldn't have blocked me in. Well, a verbal argument ensued. She proceeded to stand nose-to-nose with me and then refused to move her car until I apologized to her. I called her a nasty name (a witch with a "B"). In short, the police had to come and ask the woman to move her car. My question is, how does one handle a stranger who is so inconsiderate and rude?

irby: the only time i fantasize about jettisoning my fast-paced, action-packed, exciting city life (i don't really have one of those, i promise) for the warm, easy-to-park embrace of the suburbs is when i think about how nice it would be to never have to race the motherfucking iGo car from target to whole foods to the laundromat in under three hours because i don't want to pay for extra goddamned mileage and gas ever fucking again. strip malls are boring and omg CHILDREN ARE SO FUCKING LOUD, but there is something to be said for the ability to deposit your car right in front of the window you will be hawkishly staring out of for half the night making sure that no one so much as breathes on that shit. i've owned four cars. all pieces of absolute garbage, all purchased with whatever loose change i could scavenge from couch cushions and broken pay phones, all junked after a year or two of having been driven into the ground and virtually destroyed by life on a crowded city neighborhood street. it's totally the worst.

so i understand the appeal of a building with a lot, but i also know from experience how some people just don't give a shit that you pay $150 more in rent than they do for the privilege of not having to walk nine blocks to your apartment because there were no spots available anywhere on your street. or the next one over. or the one after that.

fighting bitches is totally stupid, especially if you don't know whether or not she happens to be insane, so my initial reaction of "beat her motherfucking ass" is goddamned irresponsible. i have no idea whether or not you can throw a solid punch, or if you keep a shotgun in the back of your car. pepper spray is also handy but, unless you keep it in your pocket and are a reliable shot when under duress, you will most likely end up spraying yourself in the face and falling to the ground in the fetal position next to your minivan. so let's try this shit instead, and hope this inconsiderate bitch has an old-ass fucking car.

for this exercise you will need:
a slotted screwdriver.

a wire stripper.

insulated gloves.
a lion heart that pumps molten lava through your motherfucking veins.

pregame.
do you have any beers in your car? or a bottle of cheap whiskey or something? if you're anything like my salty ass, your answer is HELLS YES. i always had a bottle hidden under the seat of my car, mostly because i'm a scumbag. anyway, if you do, take a few warm-up swallows. this will help lubricate your joints and also serve as the courage you'll need to pull off something this BAD-FUCKING-ASS. i've only attempted this once, unsuccessfully, and i blame not having enough liquid gunpowder coursing through my system for my failure to properly execute stealing my ex-boyfriend's car so that i could burn it by the side of the road. okay, so with the hellfire that is a shot of old granddad screaming through your lungs, take what's left of that bottle and smash in the driver's side window. try the door handle first, as it is likely to be unlocked because this idiot planned on being gone for "just five minutes," but if she was smart enough to lock it? SMASH THAT SHIT. no bottle, no problem. i'm sure there is something in your car hard enough to break a window. take that paper starbucks cup and put your fucking back into it, you pussy. now get your gloves on and jump in, QUICK. before any nosy neighbors come outside to investigate that shattering glass noise that interrupted their 60 minutes viewing.

step one: remove the ignition cover.
you can try sticking the screwdriver in the ignition and attempting to start it that way, but that shit isn't going to goddamned work. so you need to gain access to the wiring if anything is going to jump off. most cars have large plastic panels that snap together and cover the top and bottom of the steering column. you'll want to carefully remove these panels so that the cylinder (and the wires running into it) are exposed. at some point you'll want to put these pieces back together, so be fucking gentle while separating them.

step two: identify the battery and starter wires.
you'll typically see three pairs of wires running into the back of the cylinder. don't freak the fuck out, each pair just represents a different key position on the ignition. in short, one pair should trigger the battery-only position, another pair the lights and radio position, and the last pair is responsible for the final key position: starting the car. there's no universal color system for the wires. consulting the manual is probably the best way to find out that vehicle's specific color code, and that's also probably the best way to GET YOUR STUPID ASS CAUGHT THE FUCK UP, DUMMY. however, in a pinch, which you are definitely in, the red pair is usually the set that provides power to the car, and the brown (which can be a single wire or a pair depending on the car) handles the starter.

step three: strip and connect the power wires. once you've located the wires that provide power to the car, disconnect them from the cylinder. use the wire stripper to remove the plastic from the ends and then twist them together. the result should be goddamned obvious: power to the dashboard, lights, and pretty much everything else in the motherfucking car.

step four: connect the starter wires to the power wires.
connecting the power wires is relatively safe, but the wires responsible for starting the car carry live current. don't fucking touch the bare starter wires with your hands. you could die, asshole. and then that bitch wins. strip the insulation off the ends of the wires and carefully touch them together. you should see a spark and hear the engine fire up. once it's started idling, separate and cover the ends of the starter wires.

SHOWTIME.
i have a flair for the dramatic, so i would wait until that bitch came out of the building and could watch me drive her car off the goddamned lot and into the side of a dumpster or some shit. those of you among us with smaller onions and a greater propensity to bitch the fuck up (read: some goddamned common sense) might just want to park that rusted-out ford focus a few blocks away and run back to wherever you've inconspicuously hidden your car to watch this bitch go crazy yelling on her cell phone to a tow truck company that has NO IDEA WHAT THE FUCK SHE IS TALKING ABOUT. and sure, that's fucking hilarious, but setting that raggedy motherfucker on fire would be way sexier.

remember, jerks: hot wiring some asshole's inconveniently parked chevy beretta is ILLEGAL AS FUCK. and you should not, under absolutely any circumstance, ever consider doing this. but driving that shit into a light post before dropping a lit match and a bottle of nail polish remover into the back seat will be a uniquely satisfying experience, if you're willing to risk possible jail time and total ostracism from the family and close friends who prior to this break with sanity never suspected you were capable of such horror.

ps keep the gloves on the entire time and try not to get your fucking DNA all over the goddamned place. i watch a lot of fucking CSI. that shit is even in your tears, bro. they'll find your ass. for real.

pps seriously, though. this is a joke, not a solution you should ever resort to in your real fucking life. unless you're crazy. but just in case you do hotwire a car, get caught, and wind up in front of a judge somewhere slobbering and crying and begging for a plea bargain? ian wrote this shit.

nosy bitches always trying to get cut.

I am writing to enquire for advice on how one may approach parents whose children are creating a public nuisance. Specifically, I am thinking of those parents who see nothing wrong with letting their children scream and create other disturbances in public libraries, which apparently are no longer universally recognized as quiet sanctuaries. I have tried heavy sighs à la Al Gore, and I have tried glaring, but these methods do not always produce results, and it seems preferable to say a polite something directly to the parents anyway. But I'm unsure what the wording should be. Would it be something like: "Would you mind keeping your child a little quieter?"

Also, would it be appropriate to say something directly to the child, or is it really better to approach the parent instead?

irby: i don't have any children, but OH MAN. you are obviously trying to get the brakes beat off your ass. although i assume you are referring to white children since these disturbances are occurring in a public library (BLACK PEOPLE HATE BOOKS), and their parents are much less likely to resort to pistol-whipping some asshole who needs to get dealt with for talking shit to their goddamned kid. unless you live below the mason-dixon, which then begs the question "why are you in a library when there are methamphetamines to be made?" the wolves who raised me would've skinned my little black ass alive for even thinking about yelling in a public place, and there was a general rule that i was allowed to be spanked by any adult in my immediate vicinity who thought a little corporal punishment might be in order, so i just didn't act like a shithead in public. it wasn't worth it. i instead saved my venom and deep-seated hatred for when i was at home in the safety of my room with my dolls, pitting malibu barbie against hula barbie in a hair-pulling screaming match for ken's neutered male plastic affection.

i like the idea of a child much more than i do the practice of being around one. babies are my jam because they are simple and relatively easy to please. baby solutions: BOTTLE, DIAPER, HEAT, POSITION CHANGE, NAP. you don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out what that ten pounds of moist skinfolds is hollering about. and if the one you just tried doesn't work another fucking will. 1 make it dry 2 make it warm 3 make it full then burp the shit out of it 4 make it bounce 5 make it sleep. BOOM. now you don't have to fuck around wasting your goddamned time trying to make your way through "what to expect when you're expecting." infancy, solved. you don't have to go to college to figure out how to prop a baby on top of your tits and pace a room for thirty minutes to get it to shut the fuck up. teenagers do this shit.

but once they can talk and understand how best to ruin the kardashian marathon you were planning on spending the night watching with their incessant shouting and complicated demands i'm over that shit entirely. you can't reason with these little dirtbags, and threatening them is futile, as they start teaching kids in fucking nursery school that if your mother so much as glares at you for too long you should pick up the phone, call the goddamned police, and retain a lawyer to start the emancipation process. i don't blame parents for not slapping the dogshit out of their offspring. i wish you would, especially when this little sonofabitch just put three bottles of laxatives in my target cart while i had my back turned, but i understand why you don't: jail isn't for everybody. i used to wonder how a bitch could sit in a restaurant doing the crossword undisturbed while a scene straight out of lord of the flies was taking place around her ankles, but now i know that fear of incarceration has created an impenetrable forcefield surrounding her eyes and eardrums, broken only by the snap of a tibia or collarbone.

the real question is why are you in a place where there are so many goddamned children anyway? unless you're 96 years old and female or not in the company of a child of your own, it is one hundred percent creepy and suspicious for your grown ass to be hanging around a library in the middle of the motherfucking day. why aren't you working? is there no starbucks where you live? do you not have a living room? TAKE YOUR OLD ASS HOME. children sometimes make me break out in a sweaty panic, which is why i don't knock off work early to spend my afternoons hanging out at chuck e. cheese; if i wanted to relax in a quiet, child-free environment i'd go to a church. or the coma ward in a hospital. i wouldn't walk into the american girl store and start complaining about all the "giggling." this whole treating children like adults thing weirds me out, and i'm not talking about four year olds in beauty pageants wearing a face full of makeup, i mean sternly eyeing one up and down as he hoots and screams and does all the shit kids are supposed to fucking do. you can't roll up in a KID PLACE and expect kids not to do KID SHIT. i bet you're a real peach to take on a field trip to the zoo.

and what kind of passive-aggressive dickhole does shit like heave a disappointed sigh at a group of noisy children? i hate learning, so i haven't been to a library in a few years, but the last time i needed an encyclopedia i don't recall an army of second-graders whooping and running through the goddamned reference section. go to the place where they have all the newspapers and microfiche and shit, you asshole. this is exactly what i hate about everything that i hate so fucking much, motherfuckers who voluntarily do shit just to complain about it, coupled with the type of person who lives to ruin someone else's day. listen, i hate shit, too, but i choose to keep myself out of potentially irritating situations. here's something you'll never hear me say while sighing and shooting lasers with my eyeballs, "god, the people in this bar are SO DRUNK." i'm in a bar, ho. what the fuck did i expect?!

also, you need to be careful when speaking to someone else's fucking kid. when i was nine i was walking home from school and, as i rounded the corner onto our street, some potential stranger danger harmlessly asked, "did you have a good day at school, little girl?" my mother, who was standing on our steps smoking a cigarette in her nursing scrubs watching to make sure i didn't stop at the store for some jawbreakers, narrowed her eyes and asked me what he'd said as i approached our house. "he asked if he could see my panties," i said, because i thought that shit was funny. BECAUSE I WAS NINE, and a motherfucking hellspawn. we chased that dude for three blocks in my mom's green chevelle, blowing stop signs and running red lights as he ran between buildings terrified of the woman screaming unintelligibly out of her car window at him. until finally i peed my pants in fear and explained to her that i was "joking" and begged her to stop her pursuit and take me home.

don't learn it the hard way. KIDS ARE SMART AND POTENTIALLY DANGEROUS. now go find me some old birth certificates and maps and shit. or, better yet, take your old ass home. it's story time.

the chlamydia king.

My new boyfriend is very experienced. I’m not jealous of all the girls he’s been with, but I’ve always been really scared of getting an STD. And when I’m with him, I can’t stop worrying about it, even though we practice safe sex. Will he mind if I ask him detailed questions about his past?

irby: okay, so we're going to start doing this new thing sometimes. post a question that some boring and conventional (read: not smartypants comedy jokepeople who talk shit on the internet rather than help other humans in any sort of tangible way) expert has already tackled and solved, reprint said answer, and compare and contrast our own. it's sort of like "what would jesus do?" if jesus wrote for cosmo and satan was allowed to interject.

the expert's advice, in part, is as follows: "...just because a guy has been with other girls, it doesn’t make him the Chlamydia King. If you start grilling him because you fear he has an STD, he’ll understandably feel defensive and maybe even a little angry. The only way for you to get them is for him to get tested. And the only way to be fair about it is to get tested with him. Don’t bring it up before, during, or right after sex. Instead, do it when you’re fully clothed and somewhere neutral."

1 "i'm not jealous." wrong.

2 if you're truly consumed by this terror of communicable venereal disease, please allow me to kick that dick right out of your mouth. the common cold is gruesome to me. seriously, that shit is downright intolerable. i would rather have an STD than spend twenty hours a day wide awake lurching around my apartment breathing through an open mouth with half a box of kleenex shoved into my leaking, congested nostrils, coughing up blood and lung tissue, wracked by simultaneous fever and chills. okay, maybe i wouldn't really. especially since colds are virtually unavoidable considering that i have to ride the train to work, touch filthy money, untie my gross slushy winter boots that have tracked through all sorts of excrement and dirt; practically everything i ever have to do is totally disgusting and puts me at risk of infecting myself with some new virulent strain of superflu. so all i can do is wash my hands and keep amoxicillin in my medicine cabinet. but there's no mandate that says you gotta keep a pair of ballz in your jawz, GURL. no one is forcing you to suck on that pubic lice blow pop. get celibate.

3 1% of living humans want to discuss the details of their sexual history. because the people who are asking for those details are often judgmental assholes who feign vaginal sanctity and virtue when it comes to public disclosure of their own bedroom (or mid-price chain restaurant bathroom, bowling alley, grocery store parking lot, airport chapel, hospital cafeteria...) activity. so yeah, he's probably going to mind. unless he's the one who divulged this vast amount of sexual conquerage in the first place, in which case i'm going to venture a guess that he inflated the two handjobs and handful of actual penetrations he's scored to impress you or pressure you into consenting to a gangbang or some other gross shit. no grown-ass man is going to brag about how many women he's slept with to a lady he actually cares about, because ladybrain is a real fucking thing and most adult males know better than to pry the lid off that pandora's box of irrational sobbing jealousy and emotion. what a fucking bonerkiller.

4 the motherfucking spanish inquisition. this is the kind of shit i'm referring to when i go so crazy about my aversion to having talks all the goddamned time. because this woman doesn't really want to talk about gonorrhea. that particular conundrum is easily resolved: "hey dude, i need to see some recent free clinic paperwork before i let you slide it in my butt." unless i missed the part where she said this strapping lothario is also a physician, what the hell is there to talk to him about? just admit you want to hear dirty details about all of his ex-girlfriends while comparing yourself to them and deciding that you are vastly superior. "that slut let you COME ON HER FACE?! what a dirty whore. now let's move on to number 927." i'm not into this sort of self-indulgent torture porn. i like to pretend that the penis i just unwrapped is fresh off the assembly line, untouched by other human hands. so what if i can see the scuff marks the girl who returned it left behind? one man's ceiling is another man's floor, i guess. besides, he's going to lie. especially if he can tell you're uncomfortable with his prowess. I WOULD LIE. so skip this part.

5 "fully clothed and somewhere neutral." you know, in case that motherfucker throws a punch. what does that even mean?! are you supposed to accuse your new boyfriend of being a walking syphillis dispenser in the middle of a starbucks or some shit? "i'll have a tall americano, and while we're on the subject, how many of those have you had sex with?" i think what our expert is really trying to say is DON'T GIVE THIS POOR DUDE BLUE BALLS, YOU NEUROTIC PIECE OF SHIT JERKFACE. here's how i do it, in case you enjoy being a huge dick: keep a copy of your recent negative bloodwork and pap results in your day planner. next time you're at dinner, pull that shit out and say, "i don't have herpes. how about you?" and he'll either make an appointment to have his junk swabbed or he'll scrape off those cold sores and forge some realistic-looking results. hmm on second thought, maybe the neutral place you two should have this discussion is in a doctor's office.

hey mom, you're dumb.

dear irby and ian:
is it impolite to correct friends or relatives when they are wrong?

irby: you only have to meet me one time to know what my answer to this is. while possibly impolite, it is often 100% NECESSARY TO CORRECT SOME WRONG-ASS BITCH. i'm going to climb over the fourth wall for a second and tell you something awful about myself: i am totally insufferable. not all of the time, because i can be pretty goddamned charming and adorable and if you met me in real life you would want to hold me close to you and tickle my sides. but when i am victorious, especially in a battle of wits, i often behave in a way that is unworthy of human kindness.

i'm the baby of my dysfunctional family, and i proudly display every single negative characteristic and trait that accompanies that distinction. i'm too social and outgoing, financially irresponsible, whiny, egotistical, spoiled, and the most manipulative brat you will ever fucking meet. you'll still like me, though, because i'm the undisciplined life of the goddamned party. seriously, dude, i'm a good fucking time. and what rules?! any trouble i get us in can just be undone with the blink of my adowable wittle eyelashes. no one gets mad at the baby! baby can do whatever she wants! which is why i'm sometimes the worst. because when everyone acts like everything you do is cute and hilarious all the time, it's difficult to locate the off switch. i'm like the energizer bunny of "you're doing that wrong."

americans are super rude, and that's one of my most favorite things about this country. you can just be as foul and horrible as you want to be and let all your dirty shit hang out and no one is going to throw you in jail or publicly execute your ass for doing so. you might have to weather some dirty looks from people too polite to call you a shit-eating asshole to your face, but what the fuck do YOU care? you're rude! the world is your oyster! plus, the rest of us get fair warning to stay the fuck away from your grouchy ass. nobody has any goddamned manners anymore, so life is just one smash-and-grab survival of the fittest great big cosmic adventure. get what you can, man. i appreciate rudeness, mostly because i hate being nice more than anything else on earth and rude motherfuckers absolve you of that particular burden. the less i have to smile and pretend to give a shit about the weather outside or how your day is going, the better.

what's hilarious, though, are the silly things we feel the need to be polite about. a woman who would turn her head the other way while a visibly pregnant woman laden with groceries struggles to get her stroller onto the bus is the same shrinking violet too timid to tell her boyfriend that his final jeopardy guess is wrong? bitch, please. most family dynamics are complicated and weird, but if everyone is grown now what's the harm in telling your cousin that "irregardless" isn't a motherfucking word? my sister carol texted me the other day using abbreviations and emoticons she's thirty years too old for and i responded, "send that shit again. IN GODDAMNED ENGLISH."

political quarrels and ethical catch-22s are another story, though. but, in those instances, so is the concept of "rightness." when right depends on perspective rather than what you can scientifically prove, you might want to keep your fucking mouth shut. the other night i met a religious black dude in a bar. he wasn't hitting on me overtly, at least i hope he wasn't, because he started the conversation asking which republican i supported in the field of those vying for the presidential nomination. the whole "black republican" thing is astonishing to me, especially when that black person doesn't have any goddamned money. (his credit card was declined, and i nearly died of embarrassment for him.) anyway, thinking he was joking, i said, "whichever one would hold my hand during an abortion." thus unintentionally sparking a lengthy, exhausting defense of a woman's right to choose that totally destroyed my partyboner. i'm smart enough to know that it's as useless to try to change someone's mind as it is for him to try to change mine, and i didn't. neither should you.

is he ever going to convince me to kneel and worship a magical zombie that's his own father? probably not. am i ever going to convince him that it's okay for me to get gay married to a woman with good health insurance who will let me have side boyfriends? totally unlikely. some things you just have to learn to coexist with. so as long as you limit your revisions to shit you can substantiate with the help of a dictionary or history book, CORRECT THAT WRONG ASS BITCH. just like i would! with fervor!