irby + ian.

irby's miracle baby.

2012-02-29T14:50:00.004-06:00

Dear Irby and Ian,
I married “Andy” a year ago. He has three children from a prior marriage. He had a vasectomy eight years ago, but promised he’d have it reversed so we could have a child together. He didn’t get around to it, but I’m pregnant anyway. At first we felt it was our miracle baby. However, 15 weeks later, Andy is now “sure” the baby isn’t his. Things have gotten so bad that I moved out of our house. How do I convince him that I haven't cheated and to let me back in the house?

irby: i have to be straight up and admit right out of the gate that i don't know shit about how babies are made. oh, i know: penis vagina sperm egg. but that's about where the understanding of human conception begins and ends for me. when i think about making babies the first thing that always springs to mind is that opening scene from the movie "look who's talking." that's right, bruce willis narrates my mental image of fertilization. shut up, i'm dumb. i mean, i'm in my goddamned thirties and still don't have a grasp of how menstruation really works. the other day some bitches in my office were talking about uterine lining and i had no idea what the fuck they were talking about. is that the poop and pee babies eat when they're inside you? HOW IN THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW.

but i do know a little something about miracle babies. a year ago i thought a dead baby fell out of my goddamned ass. i sat down to pee and passed a giant clot of raspberry jelly from my ladyhole and, convinced i'd had a miscarriage despite the fact i hadn't had sex in over a year, i called my gynecologist immediately and asked him what i was supposed to do considering that i had until very recently been gestating the king of the jews. seriously, that little blob of condiment was an immaculate conception if i'd ever seen one, unless my vibrator is way more lifelike than i'd previously thought. the doctor sighed patiently as i poked the lion of the tribe of judah with the pencil we keep in the bathroom at work for dudes who like to do crossword puzzles while they shit. "i think it has an eye," i said, peering into the bowl and stabbing at the son of man's unformed fingers and toes. "can i put him back in? is there some way we could attach him to my egg factory? DO YOU HAVE ANY FUCKING IDEA HOW WEALTHY I WILL BE IF I CAN CARRY THE LAMB OF GOD TO TERM IN MY WOMB PLACE?!"

"that's not a baby," he said patiently as i fished around in a bowl of water that would surely turn to wine the minute i could rescue that little clump of eternal life. "get your hand out of the toilet and put a tampon in, stupid."

"you might want to watch your tone," i warned. "the father, the son, and the holy ghost are my baby daddy. you're about to fuck around and get yourself smited." that little jelly jesus kept slipping through my goddamned fingers, so i gave up and "borrowed" an emergency tampon from the box of them we keep hidden under the sink. then i had a fucking temper tantrum. the median age of the women in this building is 137 years old: WHO THE FUCK IS BUYING JUNIOR TAMPONS?! that shit is like trying to soak up your period with a fucking cocktail straw. or a q-tip. my gaping vagina laughed merrily as that shit disappeared inside my body, never to be heard from again. thank god for puppy training pads.

and i don't know shit about vasectomies, either. so i just looked on the old wikipedia, and how shameful and lonely and sad is it that my ladyparts got a giant tingle from the halved-penis diagram that accompanied the article? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME? i am legit sexually aroused by a chopped-off penis side view?! i skimmed the article, and there's a picture of a shaved scrotum that's all bruised up after having undergone a vasectomy, and i'm ashamed to admit that i stared for, like, three seconds too long. okay, i looked at it for at least a minute. some hairless purple balls with a nasty-looking incision captivated me for a minute and a half. two minutes. i stopped even reading the goddamned article, i just couldn't tear my eyes away from that chicken-skinned scrotum. for, like, five whole mintues. even the drawing, which for some reason is labeled in spanish, got a second look. and maybe a third. i swear on my under-born baby jesus that the older i get the more i sexually regress. i have access to real porn! ten sleazy minutes on craigslist and i could have access to a real penis! but no, i'm sitting in the dark in the conference room at work looking at some textbook artist's rendering of a man's canal deferente and his escroto and trying not to think about putting them in my butt.

oh dear sweet toilet baby jesus, i am that asshole in your high school biology class who gets a boner when you get to prokaryotes and plant diversity. i'm in the back of the class trying not to break into a sweat when the teacher throws the "bee pollinating flowers" documentary on the old projector machine. fucking gross, man. excuse me teacher, can i get a hall pass to the bathroom, please? fap fap fap.

here's what the internet says about vasectomies getting non-cheating bitches pregnant as hell: "men with vasectomies have a very small (nearly zero) chance of making a woman pregnant." and i know what you're going to say: LOOK AT THAT NEARLY. and i hear you, peach, but i know a lot of people. and very few of them are exceptions to the rule. and i don't know andy, but he seems like a sensible dude what with the chopping up his vas deferens and all, and i bet he did a lot of research and shit before making a decision this big. or, um, small? anyway, DUDES ARE SO SENSITIVE ABOUT THEIR FUCKING DICKS. way more sensitive than i ever get about my national geographic tits or stubbled labial folds. if you don't fall to your knees and praise that jiggly sack of meat like the second coming of a certain bearded hippie we'll refer to as THE SON OF THE LIVING GOD it hurts every single one of their feelings. i cannot even imagine one running to the penis doctor to have his shit snipped without first consulting a panel of experts. according to the genius who edited this wikipedia entry, SOME MEN LOSE THEIR SEX DRIVE. these motherfuckers would rather live without eyes, trust.

so your ass got caught being a huge, lactating dirtbag, and that's cool. i just hope, for your sake, that your baby daddy is white. or whatever andy is, so you can keep up this ruse. (ain't no black dudes calling themselves "andy," but that's another topic for another time.) you can keep trying to game this dude, i guess, or you can come clean about the time your peapod delivery came and you were so depressed because andy had been acting distant and you were having really bad pms and your forehead acne came back and your mom called to yell at you and that delivery man looked SO good and SO strong in his crisp green uniform unloading the boxes of imitation cheerios you didn't order but were now stuck with because they'd run out of the real ones at the warehouse into your apartment that you were overcome by lust and tackled him to the ground and made love on top of a bag of cat litter and three 28-oz cans of crushed tomatoes and now you're pregnant and you have no idea whether or not that little asshole is going to slide out of you wearing a snug green polo shirt and a ball cap with a bunch of peas on it.

better yet, what you should've done was run into the room screaming, "call the three wise men, my belly is full of the blood of them lamb!" while doing the sign of the cross. it might also help if you could levitate or some shit. you better teach that kid to walk on water, too.

"what kind of gay shit is this?"

2012-02-22T16:15:00.004-06:00

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.

2012-02-15T16:28:00.004-06:00

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.

2012-02-13T23:25:00.001-06:00

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."

2012-02-08T17:47:00.004-06:00

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.

2012-02-02T15:16:00.002-06:00

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.

2012-01-25T17:49:00.001-06:00

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.

2012-01-19T16:52:00.001-06:00

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!

talking is for girls.

2012-01-12T18:16:00.002-06:00

dear irby and ian:
what's the best way to approach a guy when you need to talk? if you want to minimize freakout on his side that is. text before? tell him you should talk soon? or just get to it directly?

irby: OH MAN, I HATE TALKS. and i know my vagina might say otherwise, but i'm all man when it comes to wringing oneself out over some emotional chow chow: I'M NOT TRYING TO HEAR THAT SHIT. tell me, please, when was the last time you had some soul-draining emotional talk with a person and came away from it feeling happy and secure and wanting to spend more time with the person who just berated you for forty-five minutes about something you could give a fuck about? wait, scratch that, when was the last time some bitch came at you suggesting a "talk" and it turned out to be anything other than forty-five minutes of being berated about something you could give a fuck about?!

i have never, in my entire life, in any of my interpersonal relationships with either a woman or a man, ever in the history of ever proposed that the two of us sit down somewhere and have a goddamned talk. no one ever wants to sit you down to talk about how he should go down on you more or why she's about to start giving you $100 a week just for being a good friend; motherfuckers want to sit your ass in an uncomfortable chair so they can go through the laundry list of your crimes against them that they've compiled and have rehearsed and are prepared to deliver to you, in monologue, with neither context nor qualification. and all you can do is sit there like a scolded child, nodding sadly in agreement that yes, you are the meanest/nastiest/dumbest coworker/BFF/girlfriend that ever had the audacity to show her face on earth.

man, fuck all that. life is supposed to be fun and full of jokes. like a real-life circus except with electric bills and starbucks runs. who wants to get bummed out talking about everything all the time? can't you just get drunk and eat fried chicken and bang that dude a few times a week? why mess everything up by talking to him?! because whatever behavior you're hoping to change won't happen. sure, you can browbeat that asshole into picking up his socks and unloading the dishwasher for a few days, but as soon as you relax that stranglehold on his leash and start letting him back out into the yard with no supervision? fuck them dirty dish socks, bitch!

you'd have to trick a jerk like me into a talk. if i got a warning text you would NEVER SEE ME AGAIN IN YOUR LIFE. that is not a joke. the minute you say, "hey irby, we need to have a talk later" you can guarantee that my phone number will be changed by the end of the business day. send me a follow-up email to reiterate and i will be in witness protection by the end of the week. can't i just apologize before you get started and save us all a bunch of headache? i swear to god, i'm really sorry for that thing i did and i promise i will never ever do that shit again. okay? is it all better? can we go have sex now?

some of you might be lucky enough to have the kind of dude who's okay with sitting across the table from you staring through your eyes down into your soul while you let him know what an asshole he is for hanging out with his buddies until three in the morning and not returning each and every one of the forty-seven texts you sent him, but i am pretty sure that's just game. some of these highly-evolved gentlemen know that the way to most women's hearts is through her vocal cords, and they've perfected the art of solemn nodding and the believeable "mm hmm, yeah. you're totally right." they probably also give amazingly thorough foot rubs and cook your favorite dinner for you every tuesday. those dudes are obviously not to be trusted. or 100% human.

women just love to listen to themselves blathering on ad nauseum. and that's why we have ladyfriends to talk to. amanda and i have a continuous email thread that began may 2nd and is 3000 emails long. that's right, this asshole and i talk on the phone, text each other, post shit on the other's facebook all goddamned day, and still have enough shit to say to fill up THREE THOUSAND EMAILS. the fact that i would never be interested in that level of communication with a man notwithstanding, no man would ever be interested in reading that long line of bullshit. talking is for girls, ie people whose eyes won't glaze over thirty seconds into your description of how insensitive the saleslady at barney's was this afternoon. so why not dump all your shit on your girlfriends? seriously, THAT IS OUR JOB.

shit you can do to a man that is more effective than talking:

break up with him. isn't that what you want to do anyway? isn't all this talking just a precursor to kicking him out on his ass? aren't you about to lay down a bunch of ultimatums that, if not fulfilled, will leave you no other choice than to hand him a pink slip? why not just cut out the middle man and let whatever you want to tell him be the last thing you ever say? i'm sure that's what he wants. "here's this nagging-ass bitch chapping my dick off yet again about some shit i had no idea i'd even done to piss her off. i never do anything right, anyway, according to her. she even hates the way i breathe. all this blah blah blah is making my penis soft. we should just end this."

or at least that's what i'm thinking every time some ho is crabbing at me. then i start scrambling to figure out what i have to say to shut that noise the fuck up while i nod and search for the nearest exit. i'm not going to change, girl, i'm just going to pretend i will for the duration of this torturous conversation. and i'll put up a valiant effort for a couple days, and as soon as you relax i'm going to go right back to doing the same old dumb fucking shit. so here's my advice because i love women and want us to be as minimally stressed as possible: if it isn't going to kill you, and you don't want to find someone else who might be worse, do yourself a favor, dollface. save your fucking breath.

it'd be a wonderful life. if it didn't have fucking YOU in it.

2012-01-09T12:56:00.002-06:00

Dear i+i:
I get feeling really blue around the holidays. Seems to get worse every year. Can you recommend anything that might help? - Sad Elf

ian: Sure thing, SE. First off: if you need reading specs, go fetch 'em now, cause I'd sure hate for you miss this:

KILL YOURSELF.

Kill yourself right now.

Let me be clear: this is not a wake up call. This is not a slap in the face to give you perspective. I'm not Clarence the fucking angel, and I'm not Jacob fucking Marley. The only reason Clarence would jump in after you is to hold your fucking head underwater, and Jacob Marley would visit you for the sole purpose of choking the fucking life out of you with his ghost chains. My earnest recommendation is that you take your own life - like this second. Tonight. I am not even kidding - this should not be your resolution for the year, it should be your resolution for the next 90 minutes or so.

Which reminds me: check your calendar there, son. If you're feeling "really blue" - it's 1946 where you are and you're already not alive anymore. So put away your ghost typewriter and quit bothering the living.

I want you to go to your medicine cabinet, snag that bottle of Percocet® from when you fucked up your back last fall and the rest of the Tylenol PM® you got, take every tablet in there. No water. Chew 'em. Then down a pint of Popov Vodka® - room temperature. Now go to your closet and carefully remove the dry cleaning bag from the single Men's Wearhouse® suit you own. Put the bag over your greasy face. Take off your belt and put it around your neck. Pull it tight as a tourniquet. Now die. Quick like a bunny. Scoot, you hear?
Because here's the news, Chief: everybody on the face of the fucking earth gets depressed around the holidays. What we do not fucking need is another jagoff like you bellyaching about it. The holidays are the most efficient depression-delivery system known to man. The holidays are the emotional equivalent of loading a turkey baster with anthrax and squirting that shit in your eye. There's actually no such THING as "Seasonal Affective Disorder" - it's the fucking holidays. Dreading their approach, suffering through them, the grisly emotional hangover. If they do not cause you to stare into the face of your the bleak and comical little shit show you've made of your life and the pointless end that awaits you, then you are:

Developmentally disabled.
Dead already.
All of the above.

I feel compelled to emphasize: in most cases, I have counseled AGAINST suicide, since my dad killed himself in '86. In your case, however, I consider suicide a fucking miracle cure. For us. Because there are seven fucking billion of us here now, with more on the way, and not ONE of us has the patience for this kind of whining. And I'm not just talking about fly-bothered and hollow-eyed Starvation Boy in Burundi with his distended belly and xylophone ribs, or Double Amputee Roadside Bomb Girl outside Kandahar - I mean EVERYBODY, from the Prime Minister of fucking England to the gaunt, shrill Frankenhookers on The Real Housewives. From sea to shining sea we are sick to death of your self-pitying bullshit, you pungent little skid mark.

We would each of us rather our next meal consist only of the fragmentary peanuts and corn clinging to Kim Kardashian's dick after it's been ass-punishing that ex-husband of hers than to put up with another second of your self-indulgent (Spoiler alert - Kim Kardashian has a dick, and we're not talking about a vestigial little Jamie Lee Curtis pig-tail nipple dick, here, but a properly thick and veiny porn cock. "Kim" Kardashian is hung like a fucking Pringles® can, fellas. That slurpy sound you hear is tens of thousands of spent spank loads trying to claw their way back into the wieners they came from. Guys: where grainy sex tapes are concerned, ALWAYS run a dick-check - it's pretty basic. Then maybe we'd have been spared this Kardashian reign of fucking terror. Or, all you freaks are into shemales. Either way: sad times.)

Point is this: it's 2012. The year that, according to predictions of the Mayan calendar, you should just go fuck yourself. You're right to hate yourself. It just means you're joining the rest of us. If you think for a second that your transitory feelings of discomfort qualify as anything like actual pain, you can Sharpie® the words "entitled twinkle-tits little twat burger" on a grenade, pull the pin, and stuff it up your ass. Your new nickname is Wet Firecracker. Pity you'll only have it for like 8 seconds. Happy New Year, Idiot Asshole.

all hands on deck.

2012-01-06T17:46:00.002-06:00

Dear Irby and Ian, I was making out with my boyfriend-ish person today and I had no idea what to do with my hands. I'm only a freshman and I haven't made out with a lot of boys yet. I'm too embarrassed to ask my friends because they are more advanced than I am and they will make fun of me for just kissing. What are some cute or fun things you can do with them? Thank you so much!

irby: OH THANK GOD. now this really restores my faith in the american teenager. every time i flip past mtv i cringe, right before my heart breaks in half and falls right out of my butthole. teen trailer park moms and orange jersey titties and songs about sucking dicks at three in the afternoon? that's what your teenage daughter is watching, homie. and that shit is utterly terrifying.

i'm not going to pretend that i was some kind of angel as a child, especially when there are so many people who could testify to the number of hours i spent dead asleep in the library, but these kids today (saying that makes me sound SO OLD, omg) are on some next level crazy. you assholes are doing gangbangs in the family room while your mom is out at book club and shit. in the eighth grade there was a scandal at our middle school because some girls got caught giving blowjobs at someone's basement house party, but these days bitches are getting fucked in the ass in the middle of homeroom and shit. sucking dick is so 1993. young women today fuck like porn stars, and you can count that as chief among the reasons i don't plan on procreation anytime soon.

so imagine how my little heart soared at the sight of this question! not, "how do i get an abortion without my mom's consent?" or "does having anal really count as losing my virginity?" this wholesome slice of apple pie wants to know about HOLDING HANDS AND SMOOCHING. a rainbow just exploded out of my heart.

now real-life, old-ass cynical irby would advise you to use those paws to tear off his belt and get you a big piece of that delicious meat, but you, little girl, probably don't even know what that means. do any adults just kiss? i mean, unless you're standing on a porch or in a doorway? i can't remember the last time i was like, "let's just make out" and that's all that happened. everyone i know is all, kiss kiss ki-- TAKE YOUR FUCKING CLOTHES OFF RIGHT THIS GODDAMNED MINUTE. as a matter of fact my usual opening line is, "want to go down on me for an hour and a half?" i don't have time to waste trying to figure out with my tongue what you ate for lunch today. get my pants off and kiss THAT, motherfucker.

here are my ideas for cute and fun things to do with your adolescent hands while trying not to cut your lips on your boyfriend's braces:
math homework. fun? meh. practical? absolutely. guaranteed i would've gotten better than a goddamned B+ in geometry if i'd had a math tutor. and by that i mean "mouth tutor."

knit. make him a cardigan or something. isn't that what all the male children are wearing these days? what better than one knit from unrequited love and teenage angst?

SAT prep. kids are dumb and usually have limited vocabularies, and you know you need to get into the better of your state school options. so do some flashcards or something. try not to end up in community college, like me. what do you want to do, waste the rest of your life writing fake advice comedy blogs?! ahahahahahahahahate my life please kill me.

chores. ironing, mopping, scrubbing: all things that can be done with your hands while your mouth is otherwise occupied. just think how happy your mom will be when she comes home to a teenage daughter who not only isn't pregnant but also cleaned the grout in the shower! allowance raise, for sure.

oh who the fuck am i kidding, dollface? HANDS GO IN PANTS.

ps, "boyfriend-ish person" is exactly what i want in my love life. seriously, i've never before heard it so brilliantly encapsulated. bravo, little one. now go give your spanish teacher my phone number. SABROSO.

mommy dearest.

2011-12-28T13:05:00.003-06:00

Dear Irby and Ian: My boyfriend flirts constantly with my mom. And when she gets up to walk out of a room his eyes blatantly follow her ass. My mom is an attractive woman and likes to act like she's 21, which is my boyfriend's age. He's a good guy but I just can't let this mom thing go. Is there anything I can do? What should I say to my boyfriend? Please help.

irby: i can't help but to devil's advocate this shit: ROCK ON HOT MAMA, with your sexy motherfucking ass. shouldn't we as women all hope that twenty years after some mewling ball of rage wreaks havoc upon every single one of our internal organs before clawing its way down our birth canals and ripping our grossly stretched-out and disfigured vaginas to shreds we still look hot enough to pull that ungrateful little slut's virile young boyfriend? isn't that the american goddamned dream, to look good enough in your senior citizenship to bang hot young dudes? maybe i'm a dirtbag, but in my youth i want to bang old dudes and when i get old i want to push my walker up to the side of a bed that still has transformers sheets on it.

seriously, dude, it's the only reason i use night cream. so that one day when whatever man i can trick, humiliate, threaten, and cajole into marrying me in the next few years finally summons the courage to ditch me and my nineteen cats in the house from which i have forbidden his exit, after i've exhaustively searched the moat i had installed specifically to deter him from attempting an escape, i'm going to call off the bloodhounds and take my vagina out to find a young paramour to fuck the pain away. no better replacement for the pair of wrinkled, ankle-grazing testicles than a set of hot young ones as tight and springy as a rubber band. tricking a young dude into helping me peel off my girdle and compression socks is the only reason i would ever consider taking a needle to the face. clothing is miraculous, and by the time i'm fifty there should be all sorts of weight-loss shirts and age-minimizing pants on the market. and i will use those tools of deception to lure the unsuspecting friends of my children into my gingerbread house. candy and cookies are so 1893.

this is why i have to stay au courant with modern technology and the cultural zeitgeist, because nothing screams OLD ASS BITCH like having a flip phone and calling shit "the bomb." i read the shit young people read and listen to the shit young people listen to, then i adapt it for a life that involves orthopedic shoe inserts and frequent visits to the fucking pharmacy. "why yes, i am wearing jones new york. but i'm listening to kid cudi, so i'm still cool, right?!" because a fresh-scrubbed post-teen won't notice the lack of youthful elasticity in my vagina if i'm listening to drake on my latest-generation ipod, will he? OF COURSE HE WON'T. especially if i buy him one, too. i'm not planning on becoming pregnant anytime soon, but i will go halfsies on an adopt-a-baby if any of my lesbian friends is into that. i don't even need it to stay at my house, i just want to buy it gifts and take it out for pizza once a week, then on its eigteenth birthday start banging all the milk-fed testosterone beasts on its basketball team.

your boyfriend deserves a medal, dollface. you know i'm a champion of the unconventionally attractive, and it warms my heart that the barely legal ox who takes you to olive garden and the mall on date night finds your lonely, saddlebagged mother sexy enough to eye-fuck. as much as i am a fan of an old broad helping some young tenderoni find his way around a poise pad, that "acting like she's 21" bit is a total fucking turnoff. old people are only sexy when they embrace being old. i'm not talking about a syringe full of restylane or a spanx stretched from her toes to her clavicle; that kind of shit is necessary maintenance. i'm talking short skirts and high heels and trying to get into clubs with a drivers license that pre-dates color television. the best part of aging is getting to do OLD SHIT: complaining all the time, eating soup for every meal, wearing pants with comfortable waistbands out to the movies. i'm not with this old bitch at the club shit. you need to be sitting your ass down somewhere organzing all 142 coupons for polident that you clipped from the walgreens circular this week. should you be doing that while looking over the top of your reading glasses at a dude so young he might not even need deodorant yet? yes, you should. and that's what the internet is for.

HOLD UP. are you one of these jerks whose mother had to leave school during nap time so she could go deliver birth to a human child?! because if your manfriend is 21 and your momfriend is, like, 34 then i would just concede the victory to her and never introduce your boyfriends to that trollop ever again. i have some, ahem, sexually advanced friends with children old enough to borrow the car and shit, and it's sort of gross to watch them raiding each other's closets and sharing tampons. my own mother had been in menopause for so long by the time i began menstruating that i had to put a clean kitchen towel in my underwear the first time i got my period because that bitch didn't have any pads in the linen closet. so if you have that kind of mom, the kind of mom who wears sensible LL bean turtlenecks and doctor scholls taupe-colored shoes and keeps her glasses on a chain around her neck, and that toddler you sext at all hours of the night wants to holler? YOU SHOULD TOTALLY FUCKING LET HIM.

isn't this the holiday season? what have you given your mother lately other than a hard goddamned time?! she didn't want that last-minute freesia body wash set you picked up next to the christmas m&ms while you were buying condoms at cvs, nor did she think your "gift certificate" for "one week of dishwashing" was the least bit amusing. just like that failure of a macaroni necklace you made for her as a child, she smiled because that's what the fuck you're supposed to do. why not do that bitch a solid and let her get her oil changed and her brakes pumped by your homeboy? listen, this isn't your future husband and you know it. you're seriously considering a future with the type of dude you can't leave alone with your mother for five minutes? that's what i thought. so let her have him, and take up with another dude in your english 101 class. isn't that the beauty of community college?

meanwhile, i'll be over here slaughtering virgins and drinking their blood to keep my skin tight. you don't look this good at 927 years old without making a few, um, sacrifices.

puttin' it out there.

2011-12-23T16:11:00.003-06:00

dear i+i: How can I become more approachable? In my entire adult life, only ONE MAN I'd be willing to consider sleeping with has ever made the first move, and that was on OKCupid. Weird foreign men in inappropriate pants, bros with sports shirts on, and extremely dumb men have hit on me, but that's it. I am moderately attractive, moderately stylish, and have moderately good hygiene. How can I get non-gross dudes to make the first move? - Unwitting Wallflower

ian: First off, and I think we can all agree most importantly: OKCupid® should totally be irby+ian's first-ever corporate sponsor. It is a fucking natural. We cater to similarly desperate people; we both traffic in false hope; we both feed on the shattered dreams of the fallen - smells like fucking synergy to me, bitches. And I know you corporate swine-whores love to throw around words like "synergy" - so it's in the fucking bag, am I right?

Now to you, UW - I think your main trouble in this arena stems from your misinterpretation of signals. The human male is a blessedly uncomplicated creature. There are really only a handful of objectives that we pursue with any vigor or purpose: eating fire-kissed meat; vanquishing our enemies (actual or imagined); and dipping our man-wick into the molten lady wax pot (you getting this, Yankee Candle®? you hitch your stodgy wagon to the i+i rocket sled, and you can capture some non-spinster-in-Beadazzled-sweater-vest-crazy-cat-lady market share). As I addressed in a previous post, which you may find HERE, it is really this latter item that capture's the lion's share of man-mind.

To a far lesser degree, we think about awesome karate moves, spinnin' rims, and hitting the lottery or knocking over a bank to sock away enough fuck you money to walk away from a goddamn job. But these are fleeting. Those studies you've read that assert dudes think about sex every seven seconds? They low-ball it. (Advertisers: come ON - in that one [shimmering, perfect] sentence, there's opportunity for the latest Jet Li release, a Pimp My Ride® pop-up or American Chopper® crawl, the Illinois Lottery's Holiday Gold Instant Game® [which make great stocking stuffers!]. i+i fever - catch it!)

The so-called "content" of what a dude is saying to you is immaterial. The human male has largely been socialized away from the bluntness that comes to us naturally. We want simply what God-fearing and peace-loving people want the world over: that every conversation culminate in a sexual encounter. Yes, every one. Watch for the little nano-pause at the end of every exchange with a dude - the instant where he's assessing the possibility of friction/moisture being applied to his wang by you. Think for a sec. Every time you've had even the most fleeting interaction with a dude, he's scrutinized you for a sec, deliberating about whether it might be go time:

"Ma'am. You forgot your change. [pause/assess]."
"Yeah, Lake Street is up that way, like 2 blocks. [pause/check.]"
"Sorry my son puked in your purse again. [pause/significant look]"
"I know I've been screaming under your window since dusk, but I did two tours in Iraq and my PTSD is quite debilitating. [pause/cocked eyebrow]"
"I regret that you've uncovered my backyard cockfighting ring. I've been a bad neighbor to you. No, I don't. What's PETA? [pause/appraise]"
"Guard! My cellmate hung himself! [pause/check you out]"
"I'm afraid I have some bad news: we weren't able to get all of the tumor, and it's grown quite rapidly. [pause/gauge]"
"I concede you've just witnessed me fishing a mashed and crooked Kool® butt out of the gutter and light it with shaking hands. But you did not see me devouring that skinny pigeon I managed to catch earlier. [pause/reckon]" (RJ Reynolds! Wassup?)
"I concur. Shitting in your pool showed poor judgement. [pause/guesstimate]"
"No, yeah. Good point. But I didn't know she was like married-married. [pause/waggle eyebrows]"
"I am Pope Benedict. You may call me Your Holiness. [pause/nod meaningfully]"
"Look, just cause we're sharing a seat on the bus doesn't give you the right to tell me to quit picking at this thing on my neck. [pause/smolder]"

I could go on. Point is that every time a dude gains even the most cursory awareness of you and has determined you're are not outright disgusted by him, then the game is afoot, Watson. The dudes you cite as undesirables - "inappropriate pants" (AXE Body Spray®! your smelly idiots oughtta love i+i, no?) and the redundancy of "sports bros" and "extremely dumb" guys - these are just the dudes who are clearest on the fact that it's a numbers game and they just gotta keep rackin' up units - they're just tryin' to get on the board. Nothing personal.

As for the rest of us - this is what passes for subtlety. If it turns out that you ever wind up in some form of relationship with one of us, trust me, the day will soon come when you're sorry as shit that this level of decorum is behind us. We are swine. Every last one of us.

But at least we don't hate foreigners the way you seem to.

irby: i don't know shit about karate moves. or spinning rims. apparently i'm destined to die alone.

my okcupid profile is totally fucking amazing. after re-writing it a couple of times and sending it to my smart and attractive friend kristen to review, i decided that it is the perfect blend of smart and funny without being obnoxious and false. and it presents a pretty clear picture of how great i am, but i tried not to sound like a braggy fucking asshole. it's fresh and brutally honest and in one of my pictures you can clearly see how amazing my tits are. i have not received a single inquiry from an interested human male party to date.

man, i don't know how hilarious i can be about this. my silly, sensitive ass. let's be serious for a minute: i have absolutely no idea how to properly solicit internet penis. especially not from someone other than a drooling old goat or weirdo in inappropriate pants. i don't know who the fuck these bitches in the commercials are. you know the ones, the happy women with all the big smiling teeth who are just so thrilled to announce that both she and her cousin and her sister and her neighbor and her mother all met the loves of their lives on bigdickboyfriend.com and adulteringhusband.org or whatever the fuck. and maybe you can't really tell through the old television box, but they don't seem any smarter or more awesome than anyone else i've ever met, so where the fuck did they find these normal dudes? AND HOW ON EARTH DID THEY GET THEM OFF THE COUCH AND OUT ON A DATE IN THE REAL WORLD?!

the idea that this is "a numbers game," as uncle dad so gently put it, is thoroughly depressing to me. i've never understood the appeal of collecting ladyfriends or whatever. and if women tried that shit we'd be labeled trollops and whores. having a vagina is totally the worst.

my grownup friends all say that "you can't find someone good on sites that don't charge money," as if the ability to scrape together $35.99 confirms your standing as a hot piece of brisket worthy of taking off that high-waisted spanx stomach-smoothing panty thing i've been wearing under all my clothes lately. but i'm desperate and weak, so i made a match.com, too. might as well see what the world of dudes with prepaid visa cards has to offer, AM I RIGHT? where the ballers at?!

thirty seconds into filling the fucking profile out and i was in a pickle. there are 1,937 options to select from when it comes to body type alone. and none of those options is "proportionally saddlebagged" or "deceptively slender ankles." how many double bacon chili cheeseburgers constitutes the difference between curvy and full-figured? how do you even know which of the two is larger? am i inadvertantly lying to potential online suitors?! THIS SHIT IS EXHAUSTING. i give up.

men have become lazy. and women have, as a response, grown more aggressive, thus conditioning them to believe that if they just sit around waiting long enough, some hot bitch will come sniffing around and decide to take him as her own. it's the fucking end of romance, sister. i can't remember the last dude i didn't have to hunt down and shoot with a tranquilizer dart before dragging him back to my apartment and demanding that he put it in my butt. and that's okay, i guess. the trick is not to get depressed about it. instead of feeling like a man-repelling loser, ask out every single young man you see who makes you wet in the pants. what's the harm in it? aren't you already feeling rejected and unloved? at least this way you can feel bold and empowered and shit. start a goddamned numbers game of your own. every time a dude shows up in the possible matches my internet yenta collects for me who is the least bit attractive and whose profile is written in complete sentences and properly punctuated i send that motherfucker an email. a form email that i send to every other dude like him. i don't even think about it, i just copy and past that shit 137 times and click send before my low self-esteem gets the better of me.

and if he doesn't write back, SO THE FUCK WHAT? who cares?! he doesn't know me and he obviously doesn't want to. his goddamned loss. but you'd be surprised at the number of gentlemen who do. and how impressed they are that a strong, confident woman such as yourself took the time to read their profiles (i skim that shit) and send them such a lovely message (he doesn't have to know i sent the same one to forty-seven dudes in the metro chicago area). so get to soliciting, GURL. and then one or two or twelve of those dudes is going to ask you out. and even if that dude doesn't wind up your husband, you might get to bang him. or he might buy you a steak. or silently watch you drink a gin and tonic you've paid for with your own money because he's a broke college student slash bike messenger and he used his last two dollars to take the bus and meet you at this bar because it's pretty far to walk from the apartment he shares with his nine roommates so he's also going to need a ride home or cab fare if you can spare it and oh by the way could you spot him five bucks for this ice cold colt 45? [pause/doe-eyed stare]

colt 45: it works every time®.

how to go down on a lady.

2011-12-20T16:17:00.003-06:00

dear irby and ian:
why won't my girlfriend let me go down on her? women are supposed to love that. is something wrong with her?

irby: two reasons, homie. 1 we live in a country that hates women so goddamned much that you can hear a "fish pussy" joke on the motherfucking evening news. and that's, of course, right after your eyes have been assaulted by no fewer than 137 feminine hygiene and maintenance advertisements that, while purporting to be pro-lady and supportive of our reproductive health, actually do little more than to reinforce the idea that your vagina is wrong. it looks wrong, it smells wrong, and without every single one of these waxes and wipes and depilatories and creams, no man worth any salt at all is going to want to put his handsome and clean-shaven face near that wretched cavern of gross. because keeping your vagina squeaky clean isn't about a dude's penis, IT'S ABOUT HIS FUCKING FACE. men will stick their dicks in anything: corpses, livestock, fleshlights, kathy griffin. but it's where this motherfucker is willing to put his mouth that presents the real challenge, as stupid women have allowed lazy, selfish assholes to use "icky hair" and "funny smell" to get out of spending any quality time with their ostrich heads buried in our ladysand.

and 2 YOU'RE PROBABLY DOING IT WRONG. i have met every cunnilingus expert and orgasm specialist in the goddamned city of chicago. maybe it's this new "men wearing skinny jeans" sensitive era in which we currently live, but apropos of nothing dudes always want to tell you on the first goddamned date how good they are at mouth-to-lips resuscitation. and i'm all about getting naked with a progressive and forward-thinking hot piece of beef, but i went out with a dude once who simulated oral sex at the motherfucking dinner table, and what part of the game is THAT? because sure, it's nice to know that you have a tongue in your head, sir, and your ability to lick the outside of a wine glass really knocked my goddamned socks off (BARF), but my vagina looks more like a roast beef sandwich with no mustard on rye bread. so if you're going to effectively simulate, we're going to need to close this bar tab and holler at a deli.

have you ever watched a dude eat a goddamned sandwich? meat chomping lettuce shoveling mayonnaise slurping crumbs in his beard grossness? THAT SHIT IS DISGUSTING. if you saw me attacking a banana or an ice cream cone like a wild goddamned animal, teeth gnashing and sending little bits of chewed banana spewing every which way, would you invite me to have a go at a blowjob? no, you wouldn't. you would muzzle me and insist on putting your dick in my butthole. that's the real reason i try to get menfolk to go on food dates, because i can watch how that motherfucker handles a pork belly taco and decide whether or not he can take a bite of mine.

i had a dude bite my vagina once. like, on the inside. and i'm rude in bed, quel surprise i fucking know, so i smacked the side of his head pretty hard and asked what lying-ass bitch had told him women like that shit. i have suffered a handful of sex injuries to date, the most notable being 1 the time a dude broke my nose while i was blowing him and 2 the time this wannabe vampire bit my inner labia with his dirty fucking mouth. i steered him out of there and told him he could jerk off in the sink, and two days later my shit was swollen and radiating nuclear heat. i went to the doctor and he was like, "who the fuck are you having sex with, dracula?!" i had to be on antibiotics for three goddamned weeks, all because this asshole tried to reinvent the cunnilingus wheel. IDIOT. and i'm not saying that no one does it right; i had a very successful experience a couple weeks ago. but that was some four-leaf clover head. one in a million, not even kidding.

getting eaten out is boring. sorry, dudes, it just is. we only make you do it because you want your dicks sucked all the time and this is pretty much the only thing we can ask of you that doesn't get you off at the same time. everything you jerks hate about blowjobs is multiplied by a factor of ten when you're wasting our fucking time with your heads between our legs. what's the worst thing about getting your dick sucked? inconsistency and pace interruption? WE HAVE THE SAME FUCKING PROBLEM. just think of our shit as an inside out penis. if i tell you exactly what to do, and i will because i am bossy, just keep doing it. right there, the same way i just taught you. wait, why are you getting creative? RIGHT THERE, that same motherfucking spot, over and over at that same pace until i'm finished. don't take a break, if you JUST KEEP DOING THAT I'LL BE DONE IN FORTY-FIVE MINUTES, I SWEAR TO GOD.

and now, without further ado, HOW TO EAT OUT A HOT LADY. or, more specifically, HOW TO EAT OUT SAMANTHA IRBY. because i don't know what these other bitches are into, and while i assume i speak for women as a gender sometimes these broads are stupid and dissent just for the fuck of it. dummies.

1 you have to pretend that whatever i smell like is exactly what you fucking expected. our body chemistry changes and shit. today's uncooked bacon and body wash is tomorrow's hint of soap with a touch of old meatloaf. we have to stop being cute: everyone's vagina smells like meat or fish or tampon residue, and we need to stop lying about that shit. no real human woman has a pussy that smells like the produce section at whole foods. vaginas are moist, damp, covered in hair, kept in the dark, and packed to overflowing with bacterial flora and fauna; and it also happens to be spitting distance from my butthole, where diarrhea comes from. that shit is not supposed to smell like a spring day. can i clean it up? YES. will i still smell like a sexually-aroused human female? ALSO, YES. pussy stinks. deal with that shit.

2 put your tongue RIGHT THERE. i've known talking apes who fuck up the punchline of a knock-knock joke yet feel totally comfortable improvising in bed. stop that right this minute. i can show you where exactly you need to be and what exactly you need to be doing if you don't want it to take all goddamned night. you want a crick in your neck? you want to drown down there? fine, keep doing it your way. keep ignoring my corrections to instead trace the alphabet or sing happy birthday or whatever some dumb men's magazine told you to do. every time some dude wants me on me knees this is how it goes, "look homie, this floor is uncomfortable as fuck. please tell me the quickest way to get this done. do i have to rub your balls or what?" then i listen, follow instruction, and my jaw remains located.

3 stop trying to peer over my belly to see what my face looks like. contorted in ecstasy? HARDLY. all you're doing is fucking up the momentum and making your challenge that much more difficult. oh, i know. you want to see the pleasure written across my face. and i appreciate that, but when you stop and try to get a mental picture of just how awesome you are at getting my rocks off you actually cease to GET MY GODDAMNED ROCKS OFF. i hate fucking dudes, because they can't just be fair-to-middling at sex and make a mental note to use while masturbating later, they always have to stop and admire their handiwork. listen, i'm making this noise because i heard a porn star do it. don't stop to revel in how good you are, thereby ruining this orgasm i've been working on since we finished the salad course at dinner. those pauses don't help me. so quit that shit. and keep doing that stabbing thing i mimed a minute ago. i like that.

4 move your ass out of the way so i can roll over and go to the fuck sleep. good for you, i came in your mouth. isn't that nice? i'm awfully proud of you, pumpkin. now put that boner away. oh, you thought i was going to want to have sex after two and a half hours of you trying to find my clitoris with your tongue and mostly failing? yeah fucking right. you better move out of that cool spot, i have to work in the morning. as a matter of fact, you don't live here, so why don't you just go home? i kicked your shoes over by the front door so they'd be easier to find. do you remember where you parked? would you mind throwing that bag in the dumpster? please don't let the cat out when you go. i'll call you in the morning, i promise.

if that doesn't work there's only one possible solution: the problem is you. AND YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG.

the line separating stalking and courtship? razor thin, man.

2011-12-19T22:13:00.000-06:00

Dear i+i: I've fallen for a woman I had a one-night stand with. To her it was just a fling. How can I change her mind? - DEEP FEELINGS FAST

ian: Well, DFF, you're obviously a guy with a lot to offer. "A lot" here referring to your unbalanced and obsessive tendencies. If I were to conduct a quick poll of what friends you've managed to retain, I'd be willing to bet I'd get a lot of "he's… KIND of intense," or "he falls in love with any chick that will talk to him," or "his glove box is stuffed full of restraining orders."

Lucky for you, this one's easy. Call her. Like fifty times. Now. Right now. She might be with somebody else.

I bet she is. I bet she's with him right now.

I bet she's having mind-blowing sex on his boat right now. Or his private jet. Or his dirigible. I bet they're having nasty steam-punk dirigible sex as I type this. He's all dashing in this Rocketeer-style uniform with his jodhpurs around his ankles as she's bent over a control panel with all these awesome-looking brass fittings and shit.

After like the first six or so successive calls, she's likely to let it go straight to voicemail. The tone of each message is critical. I CANNOT stress to you the importance of sounding super-relaxed and casual each and every time you leave her a "thinkin' 'boutcha" message.

Go for breezy. It's CRITICAL that you sound breezy and unconcerned. If you don't, it will be disastrous.

Here - rehearse it a couple times. No. Do it again. Nope. Again. WRONG. Just sound NATURAL, man - don't over-fucking think it, or she'll recognize you for the hopeless lonesome weirdo you are. Rehearse it in the mirror. With a ghost story flashlight shining under your chin. And your face streaked with the dried salt of your tears. Rehearse it till each of the words is drained of individual meaning, and they're reduced to a baffling collection of noises falling out of your face. Rehearse it till it's like The King's Speech and Candyman had a baby in your mind. And remember: super-casual.

And quit blinking so much. No - don't THINK about blinking, cause that'll make you self-conscious. You don't wanna sound self-conscious, do you? Or wretched. Don't sound wretched or self-conscious. Take a deep breath. DEEPER! Good. Now clear your mind. QUIT FLINCHING AND CLEAR YOUR FUCKING MIND!!! RIGHT NOW!!! OR SO HELP ME CHRIST I WILL SLAP EVERY THOUGHT OUT OF IT.

Now try it again. Oh. God. No. Jesus. You sound like fucking Voldemort. Are you actively trying to repel her? She's a human female, son - she does not need you on her voicemail sounding like your nuts are in a tourniquet.

You know what? You're not a phone guy. That's all it is. Why'choo send her a text? Yeah. Better. Send her a text.

Every six minutes for the next four days.

"Hey, Boo. Where you at?"
"Hey. It's me. Wasn't sure if you been getting my texts or not."
"Hey. My car still smells like you. Which is soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo awesome. Hit me back."
"Where ARE you?"
"Not sure if your phone's dead or whatever. Call me, OK? I'm worried about you."
"omg. did you lose your phone?"
"STOPIGNORINGME!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"sorry. sorry. r u mad @ me?"
"wy u gotta be a bitch?"
"fml"
"u 'member I pikt u up @ yr place, yah? u know i know whr u liv"

If she doesn't block you, it's love for sure.

If she does block you, it's not you, man. It's her. You're being totally sweet and attentive. She's got daddy issues or whatever, cause she just can't handle your intimacy. She's probably freaked out cause she's never had a dude treat her THIS well before.

Time to escalate.

Swing by her place. Ring the bell. For a long-ass time. Really lean on it. All right. She's gonna play it that way. Ignore you some more. Leave her that Beanie Baby® on her stoop. But first rip its fucking head off.

And the next time leave her flowers. Dead ones.

Then leave that pic you took of you two with your phone. Don't tear it in half or anything. That's cliché, man. Burn her eyes out with a cigarette.

Then leave the upskirt pic you took under the table at dinner.

Then leave a pic of your junk. With the ball-strangling ribbon wrapped around the whole business. Because it's a present. For her. That demonstrates your burning and furious love.

And if none of that works, take a dump on her stoop.

On the off chance that you don't see where I'm leading you here:

You're out of your fucking mind. There's no such thing as falling for somebody after one night. You're a deluded and defective need-monkey. You're a vial of poison for anybody else. You're chronically afraid of actual connection (which takes time and work), so you construct these fabulations that only demonstrate your catastrophic failure to understand interpersonal dynamics and the life cycle of romance. Dr. Drew would kick you to the curb, you hapless piece of shit.

You got your dick wet - this is veering toward the miraculous. Why can you not be made happy by this? I been married 14 years. My sex life is packed in one of those crates at the end of Indiana Jones, dude.

Maybe if you dial down your fucking crazy a little bit, you'll get laid again. Then you could describe the experience to my mummified ghost penis to see if it remembers anything. It won't, obviously, but I'm keen to try. Text me, buddy.

how to turn on your man.

2011-12-14T16:22:00.001-06:00

dear irby and ian,
my boyfriend keeps asking me to talk dirty to him during sex, but i have no idea what to say. do you have any suggestions?

"why are you such a loser?"
"ear hair? seriously?"
"do any of your underwear not have holes?"
"when is the last time you read a book?"
"stop kissing me like that."
"i know you're cheating on me, i just have to catch you."
"i can't believe you graduated high school."
"my ex-boyfriend is so much hotter than you."
"do you even know what g-spot means?"
"only losers play world of warcraft."
"pick up the dry cleaning after work."
"sex with you is always SO unsatisfying."
"why didn't you take the garbage out?"
"my sister's boyfriend is so much smarter than you are."
"when are you going to get a better job?"
"your penis is small."
"you have terrible taste in clothes."
"how long has it been since you last had a haircut?"
"your apartment is dirty."
"clip your toenails."
"that restaurant you picked was terrible."
"why don't you ever bring me flowers?"
"you smell weird."
"have your balls always looked this gross?"
"my father still disapproves of you."
"when are we moving in together?"
"i think your best friend hates me."
"why don't you cuddle with me anymore?"
"i caught you looking at amanda's ass the other night at dinner."
"are you still in love with me?"
"what are you getting me for my birthday?"
"you DO remember when my birthday is, don't you?"
"want to come to my office party tomorrow?"
"i hate your friend greg."
"can you take my car in?"
"why do you snore so loud?"
"you've put some weight on."
"does any part of your body have muscle definition?"
"that cd you bought me totally sucks."
"is your family ever going to accept me?"
"when are you getting a haircut, again?"
"stop doing it so rough!"
"i feel like i might be falling out of love with you."
"where did you get those ugly shoes?"
"your half of the rent is overdue."
"does this nightie make me look fat?"
"you forgot toilet paper at the grocery store again, idiot."
"your mom is a bitch."
"come on, mcdonalds again?"
"when did you give up on life?"
"cartoons are for children."
"i think you're stupid."
"you make me sick."
"you ruined my life."
"i fucking hate you."

"WHY HAVEN'T YOU PROPOSED TO ME YET? I TOLD YOU I EXPECTED TO BE MARRIED BY NOW!"

papa was a rollin' stone. made of shit.

2011-12-13T22:09:00.001-06:00

Dear i+i: I found out my 12-year-old is not my biological son. His mother and I have been divorced for two years, but I never questioned the paternity even when I caught her cheating on me four years ago. My mother urged me to get a DNA test since my “son” was young because he didn’t resemble me. I’ve been paying child support and seeing him every other weekend so far. Since finding out, my ex has offered to pay me back for most of the child support since our divorce. I won’t be taking further legal action because I just want to move on with my life. I’ve also decided to stop seeing him because I am not his father. I’ve already spent more than a decade parenting (financially and emotionally) a child that isn’t mine, and I don’t want to do it anymore. Most of my family has been critical about my decisions—they insist that I should make my ex suffer more and sue her for all she’s worth, but then they say I should keep being a father figure so an innocent child doesn’t lose his dad. What am I to do? - Manhandled

ian: Well, first off: you're not alone. Every parent ever since the dawn of the species has fantasized about being freed of the spine-cracking obligations of parenthood. So, to set you mind at ease on that score: we've all had that impulse. It's perfectly natural.

Heck, my own dad took off when I was nine. Then killed himself later on. And it didn't do me a bit of harm. Unless you count my lack of trust. Or my robotic and dispassionate lack of response to the human emotion that is just shy of Asberger's. Or my fits of rage over the tiniest non-event. Or the bleak certainty that overshadows my every move of a crushing and inescapable sense of futility that governs all human activity, rendering every exertion and aspiration of every man, woman, and child on the planet a pointless joke for now and all time.

But no biggie. Right? My dad had his OWN thing going. And that's what matters. Right?

Here's where I think you cross over from "we've all been there" to "sweet god above, what a selfish cunt" is in the following:

The quotation marks you put around the word son. You're pissed at your ex. You're hurt. The child you've been raising as your own - you're right. Fuck him. Sorry: "him."
The order in which you itemize your "parenting" of this Thing Unrelated to You: "financially and emotionally." Your priorities are straight as an arrow. An arrow pointed at a target of Being a Giant Shit-Punk in a Cunt Wig. Oh. Yay. Bullseye again. You fucking fuckwad.
Your legitimate desire to move on with your life. Because, as you correctly surmise, it is all about you. You Tepid Thimble Full of Cock Snot.
Your fucking family, which is clearly a nest of asshole vipers. They raised that fucking monster in the mirror, then taught it to see a hero. Your only correct feelings, the only ones you should heed, at all, ever, are your well-earned and richly deserved feelings of self-loathing, you Stunted Little Swinecock.
Your ex. A sex-addicted and approval-seeking cess pit of need whose dad (or uncle, or coach or pastor or whatever) diddled her when she was little. She's conflated her feelings about her depressing sexual past with how she defines affection in all her subsequent relationships with men. You somehow qualify as a man, apparently.
Fucking YOU, you piece of shit. You're obviously predatory enough to have sought out somebody this fucking damaged, and persecuted enough to claim you're shocked when it fucking backfires. You sub-moron.
Your inability to peel apart your family's viper asshole advice regarding the vindictive fuckstick approach to your ex, which would only succeed in maximizing damage to your "son," and the the uncharacteristically sane and compassionate advice they give about continuing to pretend you're a father. You Soulless Deadbeat Slurry of Gutless Self-Interest and Entitled Shitheadery.

What are you to do?

Simple. Make an incision in your nutsack; insert a melon baller; scoop out the loveless man cherries that are just taking up space in there. Burn them. You are a chronically deficient and epically selfish Leaning Tower of Shit. No breeding for you. This is paramount. Fuck everything else up all you want. It's a fair bet your nut custard is completely inert and useless, but better to have a fail safe built into Operation Terminate Your Bloodline.

Next: execute your family. They are perfectly horrible. Hack them up and douse the chunks in acid.

Finally: never see the boy again.

Lest you misunderstand - this has NOTHING WHATEVER TO DO WITH YOU STINGY LITTLE FEELINGS ABOUT THE MATTER, YOU WITLESS FUCKING HUMP. It is for him. His life will be improved immeasurably by your disappearance. While your ex is without question a total fucking mess, there exists the possibility that she might have at some point had a thought for the boy, however fleeting and probably damaging to him it will ultimately prove to be. But she may have expended some effort on his behalf. This minimal expectation continues, obviously, to elude you. So go fuck yourself. Go permanently fuck yourself.

Epilogue: die alone. Under a threadbare blanket. That pilled-up institutional polyester kind in a shade of yellow once cheery, but now like a sun-baked duckling corpse. Die alone in a room with flickering fluorescents and cracked linoleum that smells of bleach and panic and neglect. Die in a broken hospital bed that reeks of your piss. Die with terror in your eyes as your stroke-swollen tongue long robbed of speech lolls in your dry mouth. Die seeking the compassion of the Estonian nurse who looks blankly at your demise from the hallway while snapping her gum and checking her watch. Die knowing that the only worthwhile thing you ever did in your misspent little life was to leave that fucking kid alone. You brutish little jerkwad anus-faced prick.

twitter is fucking stupid.

2011-12-06T14:58:00.004-06:00

dear irby and ian: is it appropriate for my boyfriend of over two years to be following a porn star on twitter?

irby: twitter is for twats. i hate motherfucking twitter. okay, let's first get the obvious out of the way: as a self-described EGOMANIACAL MACROBLOGGER, i am wholly resistant to the idea that i might have to limit my genius to a mere 140 characters of space and text. really? you expect this limitless hilarious to be contained? what's next, writing my shit to fit in a fortune cookie?! i have a lot of words, man. and i kind of want to say all of them. and you deserve to read all of them. plus, abbreviation makes me catatonic with rage. bitches on the twitter machine rarely tweet using complete sentences. it's maddening.

second, if you follow more than three goddamned people, TWITTER IS CONFUSING AS A MOTHERFUCKER. i'm not nineteen and i don't play video games, so i can hardly see the value in trying to scroll through the 372 rapid-fire tweets twittered out by the twats i follow in the last minute and a half. i can't keep up with that shit, homie. first i gotta click that link you tweeted, then i gotta find my place in the newsfeed after i finish reading that that boring-ass article you thought was important enough to send a link to, then i gotta see if anyone messaged me. or retweeted one of my tweets. bitches gotta check the book of faces, bitches gotta see what dlisted is talking about, bitches gotta skim 60 new emails, bitches gotta read some news on the daily beast, bitches gotta scan the new york times, bitches gotta holler at gawker and jezebel, bitches gotta check my facebooks AGAIN, bitches gotta macroblog, bitches gotta beg hoes to do my show, bitches gotta sort through invites to do other hoes' shows, bitches gotta sext this hot tall dude, bitches gotta find shows to go to, bitches gotta see what movies are coming out, bitches gotta maintain seven separate gchat conversations and not lose my place in any of them, bitches gotta internet stalk, bitches gotta holler at tumblr porn, bitches gotta call friends back, bitches gotta pick up meds from the pharmacy, bitches gotta download that new eugenides novel on the kindle, bitches gotta cut shit out of magazines, bitches gotta write, bitches gotta work, bitches gotta nap, oh my fucking god BITCHES GOTTA EAT.

and then, when i finally finish doing all of that, i come back to my newsfeed only to find that there are 4,976 more updates. and it's only been five goddamned minutes.

not to mention, twitter is like one big conversation between a bunch of motherfuckers who DON'T KNOW SHIT. it's the fucking manifestation of the phrase "opinions are like assholes," and there's nothing like a well-placed hashtag to make some dumbfuck think he's the king of the goddamned interwebs. god, it's like a collection of brain farts from every stupid person you've ever met in your entire fucking life, UNFILTERED. even if, like me, you carefully craft the list of people you follow so as to spare your bleeding eyeballs from the misspelled mini-rants from morons who would better serve this earth by being buried at its core, sometimes bullshit filters through. or someone you thought was awesome retweets some shit a teenager wrote. i used to be polite and follow people who, apropos of nothing, followed me. but fuck that. if your shit isn't protected and i can scroll through and ensure that your tweets sounds as though you might walk upright and be able to operate heavy machinery then i might follow you back. but i usually don't, because i think most people are dumb.

following celebrities is the wackest move, because even the smart and funny ones NEVER TWEET ANYTHING WORTH A DAMN. never. everytime i read a celebrity tweet i think, "this asshole is obviously retarded." or, more accurately, "this asshole's assistant who cyrano's this bitch's tweets is obviously retarded." have you heard beyonce speak before? she sounds like a kindergartner with a mouth full of crayons! why on earth would i ever be interested in anything that woman has to say on the internet?! imma need b to keep gyrating her half-nekkid ass and singing songs about jay-z's lips (that's all i picture every time i hear a love song by her, OMG; jay-z and beyonce fucking on a pile of money, it's gross), not tweeting "have a good day, y'all" or whatever the fuck.

following a stripper makes even less motherfucking sense, as i imagine all their tweets look like something like this:
"oh oh ohhhhh, right there! fuck me harder! oh yes oh yes!"
"wax my pussy today, it's totaly redy for you, big boy."
@lonelyballs202 "your cock is so big, ooohhh yes! fuck me! put your big cock in me!"
barf.

seriously, aren't we all watching the same goddamned porn? when is the last time you watched eva angelina let a dude creampie her asshole before she shit the come into some other broad's waiting mouth and thought to yourself, "self, i wonder what this bitch thinks about the crisis in darfur? i wonder if her tweets could give me insight into who she really is as a person?" QUIT PLAYING WITH ME, ASSHOLE. you don't think that. no, you think "why is there so much lotion on this goddamned mouse? fuck, i need to watch that last part again!"

are bitches really getting laid off twitter like that? i mean, i've heard of a couple @messages that resulted in some uglies getting bumped, but those were REGULAR GODDAMNED PEOPLE. are porn stars and celebrities really trying to fuck dudes who tweet at them while they jerk off in your family room? okay, i understand. i understand why you'd worry, initially. a few years ago i had this terrible unrequited crush on a dude who used twitter as his primary form of communication (seriously, he TWEETED more than he TEXTED), and i spent more time than i should publicly admit scrolling through his feed and trying to figure out whom all of the women he was having conversations with were. it is EXHAUSTING because, unlike having access to someone's email, tweets are short little out-of-context bursts of nothingness. i couldn't tell if he was fucking them or if they were his sisters, and believe me, I TRIED. which is why this shit is dumb, because it will have a bitch who has no idea what "trending" means scrolling through nine hours of irrelevant posts trying to figure out if some dude really likes her or not.

i think the real problem here is trying to fuck dudes in the age of the internets, and i have no consolation other than "pretend that shit doesn't exist." seriously, girls, you have to unfollow that dude's twat and make him limited profile your ass on facebook if you're just going to make yourself nuts. the internet is a total crazymaker, and even the nicest, sweetest, most loyal person can look like a scumbag if you read his comment threads too closely. anonymous flirting is the currency of the times in which we live, and no better example of that is these goddamned tweets and shit. if i'm interested in a man, i try my best not to click on any of his internet shit, because once you do the rabbit hole goes so far down you might never come back.

so don't worry. that bitch makes ten grand per boner or some shit, and i highly doubt she's going to give it up to climb through the computer screen and bang that broke-ass piece of shit you've been fucking for two whole years. relax, ho. it's just twitter!

you can follow samantha irby's uproarious tweets @wordscience. she often twitters in complete sentences, and is obviously a total goddamned hypocrite.

generation gap.

2011-12-06T11:45:00.000-06:00

Dear i+i: I'm in my 20s, and am politically pretty progressive. My stepfather is an arch conservative. This would be fine, if he would shut up about it. Every time the family gets together, you can rely on him to swill scotch and get more vehement and in-my-face. It's a giant bummer. What can I do?

ian: Well let's define our terms, here. When you say "pretty progressive," what're we talking about here? Are you occupying anyplace? Or do you post links to Think Progress stories on your the facebook wall? [I don't give a fuck what Justin Timberlake tells me - it'll always be THE facebook to me] Cause if it's the latter, if you're just one of these one-click slacktivists, go fuck yourself.

Likewise, if you have any kind of beads or other adornment in your beard, go fuck yourself.

And if you piss your time away photoshopping the V For Vendetta Guy Fawkes mask on people in the mistaken belief that you're actually doing anything, go fuck yourself.

And if you are known to wear a Guy Fawkes mask, go fuck yourself. This is a transparent and desperate ploy to attract the attention of Natalie Portman and cannot possibly work.

And if you appear shirtless in any context other than a shower or a sexual encounter, go fuck yourself.

And if you think those greasy ropes of dropout failface Burning Man hair of yours are legitimate dreadlocks, you think again. And look up "cultural imperialism" while you're at it.

But if you're a no-foolin' occupier, and you've had your ass dragged out of a park, and if you've gotten a snout full of pepper spray from a lard-assed cop, you oughtta be able to shout down a hammered stepdad, no?

If you need help, head down to the mall with him and do that live microphone thing the occupiers do:

You: MIC CHECK!
Those assembled in food court: MIC CHECK!
You: I feel disrespected when you dismiss my views.
Those assembled in food court: HE FEELS DISRESPECTED WHEN YOU DISMISS HIS VIEWS.
Stepfather: What in the damn hell?
You: You make me feel marginalized and more than a little oppressed when you call my earnestly held convictions 'the product of too goddamn much college and not enough goddamn experience with how things really are'.
Those assembled in food court: YOU HURT HIS LITTLE FEELINGS WHEN YOU SAY DOUCHEY THINGS!
You: What? Wait. No. That's not what I–
Those assembled in food court: WE'RE PARAPHRASING!
You: I appreciate that, but I feel like you're not fully conveying the intent of what I–
Those assembled in food court: LOOK, MAN - THE LEFT HAS GOT TO LEARN HOW TO BULLET POINT SHIT, OTHERWISE FOLKS JUST GLAZE OVER.
You: I respectfully disagree. I think a big part of the erosion in tenor of our civic discourse is attributable to precisely this brand of over simpli–
Those assembled in food court: SEE? YOU'RE FUCKING LOSING US, DUDE. AND WE DON'T EVEN DISAGREE WITH YOU, NECESSARILY. I MEAN, FUCK, DUDE: GROW A PAIR.
You: No, but don't you see what you're doing? You're adopting the paradigm of the oppress–
Those assembled in food court: WHITE BOY, YOU ARE NOT ABOUT TO TALK ABOUT YOUR OPPRESSORS.
You: What? No. I was… How come you're talking like Nell Carter all of a sudden?
Those assembled in food court: BECAUSE OF YOUR BARELY SUBMERGED RACISM!
Stepfather: I'll be in the car.
Those assembled in food court: GOOD CALL! WE'RE GONNA GO TRY THOSE MASSAGE CHAIRS OVER AT RELAX THE BACK! THOSE THINGS LOOK PRETTY BADASS. LATER, HIPPIE.

Look. Kid. If you think you're gonna get civil debate out of your Cheney-cock stepfather, you can forget it. The precedent for that went up the "starve-the-beast-lick-Grover-Norquist's-taint-vote-against-your-own-goddamn-interests-as-long's-they-don't-take-your-guns-and-them-gay-fellers-still-can't-get-hitched" chimney 40 years ago. You can't out-yell him. He probably spends half his waking life hollering at the callers on sports talk radio in his LeSabre. Your facts don't matter - facts are mutable to the GOP. Your ideas don't mean dick. Ideas that fall outside the bounds of "cut taxes" and "crush/cock-block/humiliate Obama" fall on deaf fucking ears. The BEST you can hope for is not to change his mind about anything - you won't. EVER; but to compel him to shut that collection of burst blood vessels he calls a face.

Only way to do that? Get good with a gun. Seriously. And get a thousand hours of practice under your belt.

I know that the thought of using a firearm causes you to make a piping hot seitan scramble in your pants. But hear me out. If the next time your florid-faced stepdad goes "Anybody needs me, I'll be at the firing range," you say "Can I tag along?" Then you gotta be like the bastard son of Buffalo Bill Cody and the chick from Resident Evil - you gotta hit everything. Dead center. If he sees you drilling moving targets at 100 yards, he'll think a-fucking-gain before he gets all up in your political grill. Anything short of your plugging headshot after headshot on the targets with a Desert Eagle, and you'll be hearing his shit forever. And if that doesn't win you his respect, shoot him in leg. Discussion over. Bullet is the best fucking punctuation mark there is, Hippie.

irby: i feel like the only way to really get a leg up on this asshole is to soon-yi that scumbag neocon motherfucker. seriously, dollface, you might just have to show this dickface what trickle-down really fucking means. because here's the thing about arguing with most conservatives: they refuse to listen, therefore your debate quickly devolves into a pointless exercise in futility. dogma versus dogma, tenet versus tenet, credo versus credo, YAWN. because you can't be wrong, either, so the two of you will continue to circle around one another spewing propaganda while making zero inroads into the other person's convictions in perpetuity. we liberals can be just as mouthy and pious as our fox news-watching counterparts, and listening to some earnest vegan dude in earth shoes trying to shout down a snooty bureaucrat is just as painful as sitting through 30 seconds of rush limbaugh's radio show.

so reasoning with the other side isn't going to goddamned happen. look, if i'm all "supply side economics" and you're all "the rich need to be taxed at a higher rate" then we are never going to see eye to eye. you want abortions and i want christ nailed to a cross in your third grade classroom, YOU AND I ARE NEVER GOING TO BE FRIENDS. but we could totally have sex with one another.

hate sex is the best, especially when fueled by contradicting political ideologies. because you might not really hate that dude, you just want everyone he's supporting in the primary to GO AWAY AND DIE. now, this is advice i could never take. why, you ask? because it might be morally reprehensible to get the upper hand on one's boorish stepfather by seducing him after one-too-many tumblers of twelve year old glenlivet? WRONG. i don't have any morals, which is why i'm a goddamned liberal in the first fucking place. irby could never take this advice because so resolute am i in my belief in abundant welfare and hot lunch programs and free teenage abortions and evolution that i don't even think i could convince my vagina to open herself up for a grand ol' elephant to insert his trunk.

i have no interest whatsoever in a carville-matalin romantic situation, mostly because HOW COULD YOU EAT BREAKFAST ACROSS FROM A PERSON WHO OBVIOUSLY DESPISES MANKIND? reaganomics fucks poor people, fiscal conservatism fucks poor people, this hierarchical society fucks poor people, and most organized religion is just a big, exclusive tent bitches hide under while fucking poor people. except not in the ass, because that might make them gay. my anti-elite populist ass could never blow a dude who doesn't believe that global warming isn't real. i mean, come on. you'd need the jaws of life to pry my fucking lips apart.

but you, little one, obviously should take one for the goddamned team. i'm sure that dude is kind of sexy, right? in an alec baldwin as jack donaghy way? or, at the very least, he's rich. and fucking a rich dude is probably pretty hot, even if he looks like the reanimated corpse of john wayne. so here's what you do: dress up in your best ann coulter costume (a skeleton and blonde wig should suffice), get hannity on the old television machine, tape a couple tea bags to a hat, then parade around in your panties with a loaded pistol in each hand. once he takes advantage of you, oops i mean "once you consent to sex because rape is only an imaginary thing that happens to women who dress provocatively and can't deal with the consequences that stem from showing a bare ankle in public and only cry rape because they don't want to appear slutty," tell your goddamned mother. and she will kick him the fuck out. because if there's one thing that bitch won't tolerate, it is a stalwart paleoconservative who happens to also be a bolshevik with his dick.

if you don't bang him, the terrorists win. remember that shit.

love and marriage. go together like a horse and carriage.

2011-12-05T14:11:00.000-06:00

dear i+i: I love my wife. I swear I do. But she is a worrier. Like all the time. Like she's always fixated on some new disaster or calamity or peeve - the level of anxiety never changes. She's always on Threat Level Orange - it's just a moving target. Always something new. I could understand it, I guess, if it was like about overpopulation or greenhouse gases or the fact that we'll be going to war over water in 15 years instead of oil. But it's never that shit. It's always whether or not the cable bill has been mailed in. Or if the cat's been fed. I swear to god she's gonna get in a wreck someday looking at the goddamn odometer for the 13,000th time to see if we need an oil change. How can I deal with this? - Sick With Worry

ian: Gosh, SWW, I'm stumped, buddy. I've been married to a wonderful woman for 14 years, and sure we've had our ups and downs, but I can't recall a time she's ever been sick with worry like this. I'm inclined to recommend that you seek some counseling for your…

maybe give a foot massage…

surprise her with flowers…

OK. She's gone. The wife is gone, and I'm free to speak frankly.

How do I know? She skims the first few lines of each post, so she can claim she's reading them. So she has ammunition for later claims that she supports me, and I never support her. Welcome to the battle of wills/lifelong balance sheet of marriage.

Here's how it goes in our house:

The cable bill arrives.
This fact registers with myself: "Fuck those blood suckers. Make 'em wait." This fact registers with my wife: "Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod. We only have eleven days to get this in. We're gonna be late. Our credit rating will go up in flames. We're going to lose the house. This might as well be our eviction notice right here."
I think about it once more when writing a check to the blood suckers like a week later.
She thinks with escalating anxiety about it ever six seconds after for the three days after the check has been mailed. During those days, she'll have a tab open to our bank account on her desktop at work. She will hit "refresh" every 3-5 seconds until she verifies that, YES, the check has cleared. Then hit "refresh" every 3-5 seconds to verify that some glitch does not occur. Repeat monthly. With every bill that arrives. Ever.

Or this one:

We get a reminder postcard from the kids' dentist that it's time to schedule a check-up/cleaning.
I stick it on the fridge and remember it only when fetching late night sad-pants ice cream thusly: "Fuck. Gotta make that appointment." Think of it no further. Become more of a fat-ass with sad-pants ice cream.
She sees the postcard and goes: "Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod. We are so neglectful. I be they have some kind of abscess or something horrible. They're gonna lose their teeth. We're gonna be found out. They'll take our kids away. DCFS is gonna kick in our door and take them away in the dead of night." Every time she sees it. For the nine weeks it's on the fridge - the three weeks before the appointment is made/kept without incident AND the six weeks that the postcard stays on the fridge before we remember to recycle it. Repeat biweekly for every little ailment that sets one or both kids complaining. Until they move away.

Or this:

Weather turns colder. Time for our annual furnace cleaning/maintenance.
This fact occurs to me once every week or ten days till we get the guy to come out.
This fact plagues my wife like so: "This place is gonna erupt in a fireball ANY SECOND if we don't get the heating guy here LIKE YESTERDAY."
The guys comes out, does a cleaning/tune up/filter change. I don't think about our furnace till next October. The wife's Panic-ometer is recalibrated to start redlining about it in March.

Welcome. To the Perpetual State of Shemergency.

Lemme be clear on something, here: I'm not one of these dickface dudes who define the world in terms of gender difference. Like this wet fart. I don't think this way.

But on the question of anxiety accumulation, I have observed this distinction. Between myself as an individual human, and my wife - also an individual human. I'm not generalizing. If you extrapolate from these two individual humans and create some broader commentary on humans overall, that's on you, friend.

My world view accommodates the following responses to worrisome situations:

Fuck it.
Fuck this.
Fuck all this.
Fuck that.
Fuck you.
Fuck him.
Fuck them.
Fuck off.
Fuck no.
You fucking kidding me?
You cannot be fucking serious.
Get the fuck outta here.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I swear to fucking Christ, I will skin that [bank teller/James Franco/GOP Senate Minority Leader] alive.
etc.

And that's the fucking end of it. Till my next fucking aneurysm about the next fucking thing.

In wife-brain, the introduction of a worrisome piece of information lights one of those trails of gunpowder that goes hissing and crackling after Yosemite Sam - it never kills the varmint you're after and you cannot escape it. Which would be fine. She would detonate the powder, her face would be all cartoon-blackened, she would reset in the next scene and start over.

But, no.

Because each new bit of worrisome input sets off a line of chatter inside her skull. And each line of chatter must be tracked and catalogued, cross-referenced and prioritized in a constant onrush of data that makes the NSA's command center look like a fucking lemonade stand on a desolate and windswept Siberian tundra. The sheer amount of data that gets pushed through this system is a testament to the limitless vistas of human potential currently squandered on exasperating horse shit.

Each new thread of Threat Level Orange that gets fed into the system sends a pulse of Wig Out to into her consciousness. She is able to hear and understand each of these impulses with an appalling clarity. She can retrieve any single one of them, can provide exhaustive analysis of their interrelatedness, and can track the constantly shifting level of priority assigned to each impulse. Inside her head, it's like a constant Inception-style landscape where reality is degrading and folding in on itself with that crazy tuba music.

The fucked up impact on ME, though: I CANNOT HEAR these important, important impulses as it travels through the system. To her, they have the insistent quality of a broadcast interrupted by Homeland Security. To me, they are thoughts in her head. That don't actually exist in any way, take any form, or have the capacity to intrude upon the reality I share with her. Said reality, I have come to recognize, is completely eclipsed by the howling round of Gollum-fights the prize of which is to feast on the meager scraps on what future is left to us and our children that is constantly taking place in her mind.

And SINCE I CANNOT HEAR the unceasing chatter in her head, I am POWERLESS TO RESPOND TO IT. But because these fears are her constant companions, and feel so urgent and real to her, she fully expects me to TAKE ACTION.

So no, I did not pay the cable bill yet. Because the 86,000 requests to do so took place non-verbally inside her head.

This naturally increases exponentially the level of anxiety that attends each impulse, BECAUSE NOTHING IS BEING DONE. Her intra-cranial entreaties have fallen once more on deaf ears. EVEN THOUGH THE BANSHEE SHRIEKING IN HER BRAIN GROWS LOUDER BY THE SECOND, WHICH JESUS GOD IS SURELY WORTH A FULL-ON FREAKOUT, AM I RIGHT?!?

I have tried. I have tried to explain that just because there is an Olivier from Marathon Man ruthlessly and insistently extracting her sanity in there, does not mean I can see him or know what he's asking.

And it just makes things worse when I tell her to relax. Because for me to do so is code for "you're fucking crazy." Which introduces a new impulse of Threat Level Orange into an already overtaxed system.

So you know what? Fuck this.

nice guys finish last?

2011-11-29T15:20:00.001-06:00

dear irby and ian:
i've been out a few times with this guy who is cute, sweet, funny, and he does everything right, but i'm just not attracted to him. he's really super nice and i don't want to hurt his feelings. how can i let him down gently?

irby: i just vomited a little. i'm not kidding, dude. i'm eating some potatoes for lunch right now and upon reading this idiotic fucking question a tiny little bit of undigested potato chunks lurched up my goddamned esophagus. some bitches obviously just can't have nice shit. you buy your clothes at pay/half and pick your men up at a soup kitchen for violent degenerate sociopaths, amirite? goddamn you, now i'm mad. this is so motherfucking crazy. maybe i've had too many dudes who do EVERYTHING WRONG, but you bet your sweet ass if i met one who did everything right i'd be washing his feet with my hair and asking how many bologna and cheese sandwiches i could make him, not writing this silly letter to figure out the best way to dump his ass. i'm super pissed. this stupid bitch should be dragged out in front of a fucking firing squad. I HATE HER.

have you just not dated enough motherfucking shit-eating assholes? have you somehow dodged the milestone that is fucking a dude who doesn't give half a shit about you?! because i can't imagine that if you'd suffered through the agony that is canceled dates and forgotten birthdays and ignored text messages you would want to go back to that miserable shit ever fucking again. ambivalent dudes who don't call you totally fucking suck. jerk dudes who don't make dinner plans totally fucking suck. broke dudes who can't buy their own cocktails totally fucking suck. selfish dudes who aren't good to you in bed totally fucking suck. if it's a matter of "excitement" you can totally shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down, because unless you're a stuntman or an international criminal NOTHING IS EVER REALLY THAT EXCITING. i don't know, maybe getting punched in the face by a mean dude who pretends he loves you is a nonstop goddamned thrill ride, but i don't really fucking believe that.

what is this "not attracted" business? cute, sweet, funny. hmmm. yeah, he sounds like a total shitpussy. i kind of feel like chicks like this are the ones who secretly want a dude to drop kick them down a flight of stairs or whatever to prove that he's interested in her. or maybe my man standards (mandards?) are way too fucking low. my list, in order of priority, looks someting like this: HILARIOUS, NOT AN IDIOT, NICE, NOT AN ASSHOLE, HILARIOUS, SMART, FUNNY, WITTY, SHARP, BRAINY, HILARIOUS, SMART, BRILLIANT, HILARIOUS, NOT DUMB, ABLE TO GROW A BEARD, HILARIOUS, DECENT-SIZED TESTICLES. is that too much to ask for? handsome doesn't even make the fucking list, because while i appreciate a face that's nicely constructed and neatly put together, hot dudes are too much fucking work. it's not a requirement. and everyone is sexy in his own goddamned way. EVERYONE. i wouldn't necessarily kick a hot piece out of bed, although i totally might if he were wearing designer underwear and refused to remove his socks and/or bluetooth and/or platinum chain, but the minute he started trying to order his own food off the menu and not letting me pick out his clothes he's getting a boot in his ass. i'd rather have a dude who looked like the kid in "mask" and could nail a punchline rather than some dumbshit wannabe model.

isn't attraction something that can be built upon a foundation of "this motherfucker just bought me a steak at ruth's chris?" this is going to sound like THE SLUTTIEST ANSWER EVER, but i could bang a dude i wasn't immediately drawn to after ten minutes of good conversation. or an open tab with his name on it. what is all this "not attracted" bullshit?! he can't be a disgusting hobgoblin, because you let him take you out "a few times." a few times during which he was CUTE and FUNNY and PERFECT. i wish i knew what the real reason is, because not attracted just isn't a real thing in the samantha irby sexual lexicon. SEXICON, omg. there's "doesn't listen to me in bed" or "talks too much about dumb shit i don't care about," but "i am not attracted to this amazing dude" is never a thing i would ever fucking say. i wouldn't even think that shit, because i used to bang a dude who didn't really care about me and once peed in my kitchen sink because he was so blind fucking DRUNK.

but this isn't even really about hot dudes, is it? it's about fucking nice dudes, and why our collective self-esteem is so fucking sub-basement low that somehow "nice" is a motherfucking problem. so, okay. everyone has been molested, right? or date raped? or suffered through some other sort of godawful sexual hideousness? IS THAT THE EXPLANATION? i mean, is that why we can't deal with a nice dude who wants to be sweet to us? is that why when a good dude tries to make our lives easier and shows genuine interest in us that we can't find the gentle exit quickly enough? and by "us" i mean "YOU BITCHES," because i would burn this building down to the motherfucking ground right goddamned now if it meant a dude who is consistently nice and awesome to me would bring flowers to my apartment sometimes and occasionally ask me how i'm fucking feeling. i wouldn't even give a fuck about jail, because i know that nice fucking dude would come GET MY ASS OUT.

so my answer is simple: break up with him and give him my phone number. don't even worry about letting him down easy. i mean, really destroy him. seriously, i don't even care if you gave him herpes or whatever; i'm sure he'd pay for my valtrex. and then take your dumb ass to therapy and work out whatever it is that is TOTALLY FUCKING YOU UP. mister nice guy and i will toast you at our wedding.

title idea for men's mag: glossy meatwad

2011-11-28T12:39:00.000-06:00

Dear i+i: I guess this question is mostly for Ian - I've been reading in men's magazines that you're supposed to rotate your fragrances with the seasons, and that you should only use them for a year before they go stale. Is this true? - Flustered in the Fragrance Aisle

Ian, here, FFA. Listen. It is physically not possible for me to give a shit about what you're asking me. When you preface ANYTHING with the phrase "I've been reading in men's magazines," all you have succeeded in doing in announcing "I am an asshole."

If you are reading men's magazines ANYWHERE but airports and dental waiting rooms, then I feel compelled to report to you that you are a total asshole. A total fucking asshole of the chronic and irredeemable variety. If you are a grown-ass man, you have no goddamn business reading fucking men's magazines. Men's magazines are for boys in their late teens who are trying and failing to learn the secrets of manhood. If you have a job and don't live with your folks, put the fucking FHM down, dude. And the fucking Maxim. And Men's fucking Health. And fucking GQ. And fucking Esquire. And Men's fucking Fitness. And Men's fucking Journal. And fucking Details. And all that shit. And, hey - I got news for you: if you are poring over the pages of Muscle & Fitness, then what you're holding in your hands is entry-level gay porn. And yes, I see the pun. Stop boring me.

Without changing a fucking pixel of their content, any one of these idiot rags could change its title to Man-Child or Vain & Shallow. Take a quick survey of all of them, and you'll find the same earth-shattering revelations: Megan Fox? Well, she's hot. Robert Downey, Jr.? Bit a rascal, actually. Ryan Gosling? That kid's got it going on.

Look: this is not a snob thing. I LOVE lowbrow bullshit. If my wife would permit it, I'd have Hobo With a Shotgun on in an endless loop, but she's all "it'll scar the children" or whatever. Point is this: it is possible to consume mindless entertainment that's not the conceptual equivalent of Groundhog Day - you could riffle through any issue of any one of these slickly produced turds and find one of the following pieces of hard-hitting journalism:

Movie Stars: Quite Attractive.
Exclusive Photo Spread: Chick You Never Heard Of That's Got a Bit Part in Upcoming Action Movie - She Consents to Appear Topless, We Agree to Talk About Her Like Her Stardom Is Assured. Which It Is Not.
Lapels: This Season's Game Changers.
The Girl Next Door: Turns Out She's a Total Slut, If These Pics Are To Be Believed.
Stubble: Like Scratchity-Ass Pheromones the Ladies Are Powerless to Resist.
The Dog: Man's Best Friend AND Unfailing Pussy Magnet. So Man's Best Friend Two Times, Really.
Hey - Who Doesn't Like Naughty Librarian Girl?
Aglets: Care and Upkeep.
Sleeveless Undershirts and Being Muscular: A Winning Combination.
Hit It And Quit It: Confessions of a Smug Fuckface.
Cock on Wheels: We Test Drive Cars With a Sticker Price North of A Hundred K - You Read Our Reviews Like You're a Serious Buyer, Though You Are a Part-Time Assistant Manager at Best Buy, You Deluded Peach-Fuzz Lump of Shit.
Body Hair: How Not to Gross Her Totally Out, Ya Fucking Sasquatch.
Collar Stays: We Talk About Them Like There Are Lives At Stake.
Adventure Time: These Explorers and Extreme Sportsmen Serve as a Chilling Reminder of Just What a Limp Little Dick Like a Hazelnut You Have.
January Jones: We'll Break Down Her Turn-Ons So That When You Stand In Line to Get Her Autograph at Comic-Con You'll Totally Have a Shot, Brother.
War: We Don't Really Know Much About Geo-Politics, But Weapons? They Are Cool as Shit.
Holiday Gift Guide: We Recommend a Hundred-Dollar Nose Hair Trimmer With a Straight Fucking Face.
Baking: Gateway to Tons of Pussy - For Real.
Cigars: Expensive? Foul? Or Both?
That Hugh Jackman Is Really Just One of the Boys. See? Here's a Shot of Him Playing Pool. JUST LIKE YOU DO, SOMETIMES.
Racquetball. Remember That Shit?
Dead Dad Who Maybe Didn't Love Me, Which I'm Totally Cool With. No Prob - Seriously: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Shadow of a Stoic and Inscrutable Despot.
We Are Going Do the SAME FUCKING EIGHT-PAGE SPREAD of Giant Straw Sun Hats For Men That We Do Every Goddamn Spring Until You Assholes Start Buying These Things.
Punching Yourself to Avoid Crying.
Human Trafficking: There's a Downside, Apparently.
Christina Hendricks: She's In a Get-Up Like Jessica Rabbit. This One Is a Classic. We're Really Quite Proud of This One, As We Feel We've Truly Outdone Ourselves.
Winston Churchill: We Talk About His Suits.
Neal Patrick Harris? Actually Pretty OK For a Gay Dude. Still Completely Threatening, Obviously, But, Hey - We're Trying.
Tuscany: Not On U.S. Soil.
Ordering the Right Wine: She Will Totally Drop Her Skivvies If You Do.
Red Meat: A Love Letter.
Moisturizers: Why We Devote More Column Inches to Them Than We Ever Will to the Occupy Wall Street Movement.
Including a Black Model in This Spread About Overcoats - No Biggie.
Hey, Bra - You Know What'll Fill That Howling Void? Thousand Dollar Watch.
Tech Porn: We Have Total Chowderpants for These Gadgets - PLUS We Just Shit Ourselves and We Are Not Even Kidding, Here.
If You Wear These Same Cuff Links Seen In This Photo of a CEO Pretending to Talk on the Phone While Hailing a Cab, We Can Guaran-Fucking-Tee You'll Be Rich Like Him.
And Listen: These Gadgets? They Will in No Way Be Supplanted By a Subsequent Generation of Gadgets In Four and a Half Months.
Paternity Suit: The Power of Denying All Knowledge.
Hemingway's Legacy: Remembering a Literary Lion by Draping Sleek Bronzed Models in a Bull-Fighting Arena.
We Are Not Kidding On These Gadgets, You Guys - Our Love For Them is Total. And Enduring. We Will Stand By These Gadgets Till the End of Ti– Hold Up. New Press Release From Toshiba.
Wing Man: Your Hideous Buds Are Actually Useful.
Going Green: Yeah, This Sidebar About Taking Public Transport Should Totally Make Up For the Eleven-Page Feature on ATVs.
Ask a Douche: Advice For Navigating Our Complex Times. As Long as by "Navigating" You Mean Double- vs. Single-Breasted Jackets, or Why Pleats Are Always Wrong.
Giving Back For the Holidays: This Photo Spread of Models in $1800 Leather Jackets Doling Out Stew at a Soup Kitchen Ought to Do It.
Having a 30-Inch Waist. It Totally Will Fix Everything. Even If You Were Raped by a Priest.
Hitting Your Hand With a Hammer: Just to Feel SOMETHING.
Trawling For Pussy at the Abortion Clinic: A Scoundrel's Guide.
Grilling: The Only Time You Can Wear an Apron Without Looking Like a Total Fairy.
Those Bullies Who Tormented You in Junior High May Have Onto Something. You Little Fucker.
Adrienne Barbeau: 'Member That Rack?
Date Rape: Know the Laws in Your State BEFORE You Go Out.
Wringing Relevance Out of a Corpse: Another James Dean Article.
Dude Bulimia: Puke-Inducing Workouts.
Fucking in the Server Closet: Not Your Old Man's Office Romance.
Charlize Theron: Spread-Eagled in a Bank Vault. Oh, And Accompanying Article About Fed Policy.
Interview: Haunted-Looking American Apparel® Models. We Let Them Spout Off About the Suffering in Sudan or Whatever As Long As We Get Tons of Pics.
That Pink-Haired Esurance Girl: Not Real, Maybe, But Totally Worth Banging.
Out of Nowhere, We Grow Suddenly Insistent That You Care a Shit-Ton About Retro LeTigre® Sportswear.
We Treat the Announcement of the Latest Bond Girl Like It's the Magna Fucking Carta or Something.
Interview: Sir Mix-A-Lot on the Approach of Bikini Season. You Better Fucking Believe Our Copy Editors Will Feature the Phrase "Kick Them Nasty Thoughts" in the Headline. We Call This Vision.
Sailing: Why You Should Give the Sport of Trust Fund Cunts a Second Look.
Hookers: We're Totally in Favor. We Bury It In Coy Language About "The Oldest Profession" But Make No Mistake - We Are All About Hookers Going Amsterdam Crazy All the Goddamn Time. Lobby Your Congressman.

If you read this shit, you're a spineless and approval-seeking dickmunch free of personality or the brains you'd find on a slaughterhouse floor.

And summer months should be for sparingly applied light-bodied scents with a citrus notes, and in winter, heavier-bodied fragrances with musk or spice notes are best. You damp little shitwad.

black people are just naturally loud.

2011-11-25T12:01:00.001-06:00

Dear i+i: I was at McDonald's, and this black guy came up and asked me a lot of questions, like my age, name, relationship status, etc. I thought he was too intrusive, so I was already uncomfortable, and he somewhat belligerently asked if I'd date a black guy. How was I supposed to handle that? - White Meat Nugget

irby: listen, racist, black people fucking BREATHE belligerently. you can always tell when a white person grew up in a town that didn't have a chicken shack slash korean beauty supply store on every goddamned corner, because they say shit like, "well, officer, shenita raised her voice at me and it made me quite nervous." bitch, quit playing. you know shenita was just TALKING TO YOUR ASS. that's how we are, ho. ALL LOUD AND SHIT. even the nice ones who grew up in the suburbs and went to sprawling high schools with swimming pools and tennis courts know how to put a little bass in our throats and slide our voices into the black register. we don't really mean anything by it, that's how you know we're passionate about some shit. you should get some black people in your life. laughing while showing all our teeth and dancing the electric slide at the faintest hint of background music and posing inappropriate queries in regard to your sex life: what a scream! we're great at parties and social gatherings; never ambivalent, always entertaining, and you can hear us coming from a block away.

it makes me sad when i see people in mcdonald's eating with their coats off. now don't get me wrong, SHIT IS DELICIOUS. fuck the lives of everyone running around pretending that shit doesn't taste good. so the fuck what if it's made of car batteries and sofa cushions? motherfuckers don't sell 100 billion cheeseburgers because the product tastes nasty, homey. good for you? NEVER. good for your taste buds? ABSOLUTELY. unless there's a brussels sprouts milkshake on the menu i haven't yet heard about there isn't a single goddamned thing i'd turn my nose up at. and yes, i would probably eat my own shit if you disguised it well enough. but that is beside the point i'm trying to make. talking to someone in while in a mcdonald's is out of the fucking question. for real, the only people who take their coats off and relax like mcdonald's is a real restaurant are vagrants who bought a cheeseburger with my pocket change just so they could get the bathroom key to scrape the week-old layer of grime off their asses into one of ronald's luxuriously-appointed sinks. i mean, when was the last time you thought about sitting in one of those sticky brown plastic chairs to enjoy your filet o'fish, 1987?! imma need my mcrib wrapped in a paper bag and shoved next to the kindle and extra mittens in my goddamned bag. "no thanks, consuelo, i will NOT be needing a fucking tray. i can't be seen hanging out in here. my dignity requires that i eat this while crying at home on the toilet." mcdonald's is meant to be eaten while burning with shame in the driver's seat of a car you almost can't fit into anymore. i mean, OBVIOUSLY.

you need me to buy you an ipod, babycake? i haven't heard a goddamned thing any man, even a LOUD-ASS AGGRESSIVELY BELLIGERENT BLACK MAN, has said to me in a public setting in twenty motherfucking years. and you need to act like removing your headphones is a complicated surgical procedure when some thoughtless butthole tries to get your attention to ask you something dumb. every time an ugly dude is trying to ask me what time it is or inquire as to whether or not he might be able to GET SOME FRIES WITH THIS SHAKE (barf), i pantomime that i am physically unable to either remove the buds from my ears or operate the volume function on my listening device, and not only do they quickly get the message and get the fuck out of my goddamned way, i get the pleasure of destroying the morning of a stranger who has no idea i'm doing so while listening to showtunes or whatever. it's amazing.

ian: What I get from you here is ego. You're masking it behind your "what's the deal with black dudes?" query - but your REAL message is that you're so unendurably alluring that this total fucking stranger could not help himself - he was compelled to slide into your booth and attempt to scale Mount Attractive. And irby is right - there are a limited number of circumstances where you're copping a squat inside a McDonald's - you gotta have bad car trouble and are waiting for a tow; or your jingling earnings from your offramp windshield squeegee ambush or your dented cantaloupes sales; or you had to dive out the window of your place cause you owe Geeter like four large and he knows you don't have it so he kicked in your door with Skeeter and Shitweasel and they WILL fucking kill you stone dead, so you dive out into a snow bank with your boots in your hand, and whatever you got in your pockets, so you cool your heels for a few hours in neighborhood you don't know so you can strategize how to con your dad into sending you to that rehab in Minnesota so you can lay low for a couple months - THESE are the reasons you occupy McDonald's real estate. Or maybe you're on your half-hour from the sales floor at the JC Penney and you just wanna chillax at the food court. Because you're the kind of numb-nuts that says "chillax," or - even worse - thinks it to yourself. While sitting in the fucking food court.

And while I have no doubt that you're a total racist, I don't know that that's the salient point here (irby sees everything through the filter of race, since - through no fault of her own - she was born far blacker than she'd prenatally hoped to be). Not lynch mob racist, maybe, but roll-up-your-windows-lock-your-doors-on-your-fucking-rusted-out-'83-Celica-at-every-traffic-light-with-black-dudes-at-the-crosswalk-since-your-obvious-economic-prosperity-makes-you-a-tempting-tempting-target racist, for sure, you greasy-haired, gap-toothed trailer monkey. You are clearly modeling your whole persona on Mayella Ewell from To Kill a Mockingbird, so lemme Atticus you a thing or two:

Those pancakey and wall-eyed leper tits of yours are not the Young Buck magnet you take them to be.

That come-hither look you're throwing is - to the viewer - way more of a skeevy meth-eyed ocular ricochet type of deal. So if you could avert your eyes from the rest of till after to check into a detox someplace, you'd be sparing us all a lot of nightmares.

The Pig Pen-style cloud of dandruff you leave in a Hansel-trail behind you may provide an excellent means of tracking you, but is maybe not the most appealing calling card, especially when it is offered up under the appalling fluorescents of of a Mickey D's.

Your desperation to seem superior to somebody is so fucking palpable, it renders you translucent to the rest of us - if we were to measure your impact, you'd compare unfavorably to a thimble full of tepid snot. For the decent and hardworking African Americans seated nearby, you are an object of pity. You are a cautionary tale to the their kids - catching a glimpse of you is actually enough to keep them in school, so total is the pitiable picture you paint, huddled over your McGriddle®, you sad, scabby wad of wasted human potential.

If you did heed Sam's suggestion and get yourself an ipod to ward off the legion of your imagined suitors, it would most likely inspire anybody who noticed it to ask "Where did THAT thing get a fucking ipod that's a later generation than mine? Now I wanna poke it in its eye with my umbrella. Or bash it with a can of chili."

I apologize to our readers for irby's all-caps yelling all through her post. She's black. She can't help it, apparently. Or maybe this is what they mean by Black Friday. I don't know. I'm white as the innards of a biscuit, so I can't claim to pretend I understand their culture. She keeps calling me White Devil, which I'd taken to be some kind of racially coded pet name, and then I looked it up on Wikipedia to find that, no - she ACTUALLY thinks I'm a bad person. Point is, she's hollering all the time for reasons I frankly don't get. It's always "reparations this" and "Man trying to keep me down that" - if you weren't such a badly deluded cracker wench who puts in booth time at McDonald's, you and I might share a smug and bemused "these people" shrug on the bus together. Except I don't ride the bus. The bus is for scumbags. Like you.

So happy holidays, WME - by parking your misshapen ass in a McDonald's booth, you've set the already shaky foundation of race relations in this country back by half a century. Which means I'll never hear the end of it from irby. So thanks for nothing, you snaggle-toothed skank.

split my wishbone, gobble gobble.

2011-11-22T15:59:00.007-06:00

dear irby and ian:
how do i get out of spending thanksgiving with my girlfriend's family?

irby: i'm sure there are a lot of women reading this who just became INSTANTLY ENRAGED reading this question, thinking about all of the times they've had to drag some kicking and screaming dude to little caleb's third birthday party or uncle jack's retirement celebration or gram and grampy's 700th anniversary. women who have screamed, cried, yelled, begged, pleaded, threatened, cajoled, and otherwise humiliated and subjugated themselves to get some asshole who swears he loves the shit out of them to drive six hours to aunt becky's for turkey day, only to find that motherfucker sulking drunk on the couch with his jeans unzipped twenty minutes after dinner is served, texting some hot trashy bitch who is less demanding.

i am not one of these women.

here is the sweet shit about being a goddamned orphan: i really don't ever have to do anything i don't want to do, ESPECIALLY around the holidays. i killed my parents so i wouldn't have to deal with having to referee family arguments and pretending to have fun with people i sort of hate whom i happen to be related to IN THE SPIRIT OF THE HOLIDAY SEASON. my sisters and i were raised by the kind of people who didn't make construction paper hand turkeys or hang indian corn on the front door or LOVE US, OBVIOUSLY. we instead were subjected to my father's lengthy monologues about pilgrims and grave robbers and wampanoags and shorn scalps; who the fuck wants to eat a turkey leg after that?! i would just sit in my room and listen to lou rawls "merry christmas ho ho ho!" on cassette thanksgiving night, hoping the four-day weekend would hurry up and get over with so i could go back to school, a place where people actually cared about having fun and enjoying things. way to ruin my childhood, asshole.

anyway, i like to make my own frozen single-serving individual meal and stay home in my pajamas fading in and out of sleep while watching football on thanksgiving, NOT put on clothes with buttons and zippers and shoes i have to tie to sit in some stranger's living room eating food that will probably definitely land me in the emergency room. thanksgiving is a day to reflect on all the reasons i hate my life and all the things i would be thankful for if the universe would stop shitting down my goddamned throat. i like to spend thanksgiving musing over my failures and compiling a list of enemies and assholes that i'm going to try my best to totally fucking destroy in the oncoming year. what good health? what happy family?! i raise my glass to the many defeats that have befallen me and vow to rise from the ashes stronger and filled with more galvanizing hatred. I HATE EVERYTHING AND NOTHING GOOD EVER HAPPENS TO ME, and the last thing i would like to do on the last thursday of november is sit in someone else's lovely home and marvel at all of the proof that if there even is a god he loves them and hates me.

and since i will never have the joy of subjecting some dude to the withering scrutiny of my mean-ass, joy-killing, holiday-ruining parents, i am totally hesitant to let some dude do that shit to me. i can't be up all night wringing my hands about whether or not your mother will approve of my pumpkin pie recipe or turn her nose up because my skirt is an inch too short. fuck that bitch. i'm going to sit home in my own filth and root for whomever is playing against the lions and maybe cry because no one loves me and, despite my salty exterior, christmas commercials fucking kill me and i can't help welling up at the sight of a silver lexus topped with a bright red bow. HOW DO THEY EVEN MAKE BOWS THAT BIG?! and no one will put up a fuss when i turn down her invite, because all i have to do is fill my eyes with glassy fake tears and blink like a five-year-old and make whatever kind soul is offering me a seat at her table feel like a goddamned bully.

so, gentle sir, tell your girlfriend your parents are dead. and that being in the midst of a happy family celebration when you don't have one of your own is unbearable for you. she should eat it right up. bitches love the idea that their bickering siblings and lumpy brown gravy are a source of pain and jealousy for you. seriously, bitches are FUELED by knowing someone envies what we have. your girl might even let you holler at her butthole because she feels so bad for you. and if you bitch up and find yourself sticking to a plastic-covered couch, squashed between alcoholic aunt mildred and ambiguously gay cousin marvin, i'll be at home awaiting your text.

hit the showers, champ

2011-11-21T11:12:00.001-06:00

Dear i+i:
As a young man just embarking on a college coaching career, I witnessed what in all probability was the rape of a child by one of my superiors. I have this nagging suspicion that I should have gone to the police. FYI: just so you understand the whole situation, I did tell my dad and my boss about it. PLUS: I asked the guy to stop when I walked in on them. But I still wonder if I could have done more. What do you think? - Perplexed in Pennsylvania

Oh, PIP. You poor misunderstood young man. You poor, traumatized creature. My only answer is that I cannot POSSIBLY know how to answer this question, as it BEYOND MY CAPACITY TO IMAGINE the suffering you have known at the hands of these monsters who persecute you for your inaction when it is totally impossible for them to understand the kind of pressure you've been under.

First of all, they are badly underestimating the courage it took for you to ask your supervisor to to please stop raping that boy. You are a paragon of principled action, son, and don't let your detractors tell you different. If there are those ungrateful enough to call your morality into question, you stand tall, you look them in their lying eyes, and you declare in a strong, clear voice:

"I concur with you completely that the alleged sexual assault of a child that you interrupt while it is in progress and which you witness with your own eyes is nearly always wrong. However, I also live in the REAL world, where the dubious luxury of your ideological purity is not an option that is open to me. Furthermore, I'm not prepared to unequivocally declare that the boy in question was not by word, action, or inference totally fucking asking for it. I have known slutty children - so have you, if you're honest with yourself. I was not present earlier in the evening on the night in question. I was not privy to how provocatively the boy was dressed, nor did I hear the scandalous propositions he may have made to the accused. Because, let's be real, here, for a sec: we're talking about a kid, after all, who was caught in the act of having public sex. You have GOT to question the moral fiber of such a kid - if you have any integrity, anyway. Good DAY to you, sir."

I'm not suggesting this is what happened, but it does not require too great a leap of the imagination for us to imagine this kid, whom you colleague only wanted to mentor, for God's sake, working his Dennis the Menace magic, and causing this well-meaning guy to get all confused, and have a moment of kid-fucking weakness. Again - I was not there, so I'm not pretending to know what happened that night, but I can see this guy innocently sharing a Capri Sun® and then the kid makes some off-color "Respect the Pouch" joke, and pauses significantly and locks eyes with your friend. And your friend - who is a GOOD MAN with a LONG HISTORY OF SERVING HIS COMMUNITY - tries to dismiss it.

And again, I emphasize this is conjecture, later on when they're going to see Immortals, which is just a wholesome tale with a lot of great life lessons about honor and duty and doing squat thrusts together, a heroic tale of fit young guys in breastplates doing sweaty battle with grimy guys who need to wash their hair, this kid was maybe laying his little hand on your friend's leg all through the picture. Which your friend waved away.

And then still later, after your buddy - WHO AFTER ALL IS ONLY INTERESTED IN IMPARTING SOME OF WHAT HE'S LEARNED TO THE DESERVING YOUTH OF THIS GREAT NATION - drilled this kid at the gym on his weak-side ball-handling, and kid's waifish frame is bedewed with sweat - WHICH YOUR FRIEND TOTALLY WOULD NEVER HAVE EVEN NOTICED IF THIS WHORISH LITTLE BASTARD DIDN'T INSIST ON WEARING SLEEVELESS SHIRTS ALL THE GODDAMN TIME, SHOWING OFF THEM WILLOWY GUNS OF HIS - your friend suggests that Harlot Boy shower off so he wouldn't be all gross when your upstanding pal dropped him at home.

So this little mastermind cuts up his Ritalin, snorts it off the locker room bench like a club drug, drops his underpants, and says to your friend all sultry: "Can you do my back?" as he heads into the showers.

And your friend - who's been HAPPILY MARRIED TO DOROTHY FOR 45 YEARS, FOR PITY'S SAKE, AND WHOSE CONDUCT HAS NEVER BEEN ANYTHING BUT EXEMPLARY - resists this bewitching little strumpet - WHO TOTALLY KNOWS WHAT HE'S DOING, BY THE WAY - as he starts belting out Rod Stewart's immortal 1978 cut Do Ya Think I'm Sexy, which, I mean COME ON - how does this little tease even KNOW that tune, much less Stewart's signature "I'm gonna take a dump on this stage" ass-dip dance move from the video? He wasn't even BORN in '78. Which is maybe an idea your buddy doesn't wanna land too hard on when he speaks up in court.

I mean, we've all been there, am I right? Cloud of steam. Nobody around. Shameless little cock magnet writhing and singing provocative hits of our youth. Who among us can assert beyond doubt that they won't strip down and lather up? Your friend was just heeding his natural impulses - I mean this whole "grown man no touch boys" is a comparatively recent Western construct, anyway: the Phoenicians were the fiercest warriors of their day and their commanders were known to have male concubines as young as SIX. I mean, yeah, this is for sure totally made up, but it FEELS true, you know what I'm saying?

I mean, I know the kid was ten, but… I heard he was tall for his age. So…

And, PLUS, OK? This witch hunt? Against you? TOTALLY unfounded.

You CALLED you dad. Which was super hard for you, since your dad is known to be quite scary. Who among us can forget Oscar-winner Robert Duvall's indelible performance in The Great Santini? And your dad is totally like that. So kudos to you for setting aside your significant anxiety to tell him about the ALLEGED sudsy tableau of inappropriate conduct before you.

AND you asked coach to please refrain from continuing to rape the kid. IF that was even what was going on - which I'm not saying it is, because all the facts are not in. This took a lotta guts on your part. This coach was your SUPERIOR - at one of college football's most STORIED DYNASTIES - so for you to request that he put his dick away, or at least quit pointing it at the boy, shows a lot of character and I for one don't think you're getting enough credit for that.

Maybe there's some validity to the criticism leveled at you for leaving the kid there when you took off. Again, I don't know. I wasn't there.

Plus, your youth. You were only in your late 20s when this went down, man. It's not FAIR of people to expect that you can make these kind of nuanced moral decisions ON THE FLY like this. All your friends are doing bong hits and playing Assasin's Creed (we hear it's awesome) - which is exactly what you'd way rather be doing, anyhow - the only reason you're in this pickle at all is that your Santini-dad pressured you into taking the gig in the first place.

So, for real, you should be dislocating your shoulder patting yourself on the back for your courageous half-action on that fateful night. There is not a THING you could have done different. There is seriously not a SINGLE WAY in which you could have improved upon your stellar performance in that tough, tough situation.

Oh. Wait. Hold up. I just thought of one thing. And this actually applies not just to that night, but to ANY FUCKING TIME YOU SEE THE ENGORGED PENIS OF A GROWN MAN WITHIN A YARD OF AN UNCLOTHED CHILD:

Send your fucking elbow rocketing into the eye of the assailant. If that fucking eye ruptures like a rotten grape, that is absolutely fine.
Kick the assailant until your leg cramps no longer permit you to do so. If he has internal hemorrhaging as the result of your prolonged and vigorous kicking, this is totally acceptable.
DROP A DIME on his pervy ass. RIGHT AWAY. RIGHT A. FUCKING. WAY. NINE ONE ONE are the only fucking digits you need to remember, Ace. I know your fucking dad is on your speed-dial, you gutless little pin-dick, but there are - prepare to be shocked - situations in life that transcend your fucking dad's involvement.
While you're waiting for the cops to come - I realize that your legs are worn out - snag a chair and beat this sack of shit toothless.
This one seems pretty basic, but you clearly need a refresher: FIND THE KID SOME CLOTHES AND TAKE HIM AWAY FROM THE RAPIST YOU JUST SAW SODOMIZING HIM IN THE SHOWER, you drizzly little cunt. And speaking as a parent - if I EVER hear you trying to justify your cowardly inaction - and I mean EVER - I can round up a thousand dads in a fucking heartbeat to beat you with ax handles and pillow cases full of nine-volt batteries, chop you up with dull hatchets, and leave the worthless fucking chunks of you on your mom's back porch and videotape her reaction as she discovers them, so we can show it to scumbag chickenshits like you who lack the moral fucking clarity and the minimal spine required to PUT A STOP TO A PEDOPHILE WHOSE ASSAULT IS IN PROGRESS, so that the last fucking thing that those craven little cocksuckers see will be the bereft screams of your mom before we beat them to death, too. WE ALREADY HAVE A SHOW CALLED TO CATCH A PREDATOR, WE SHOULD NOT HAVE NEED OF A SHOW CALLED NOW THAT WE'VE CAUGHT THE PREDATOR, NOW LET'S ROUND UP THE GUTLESS DICKFACES WHO STOOD IDLY BY.

It is a great day for some football, though.

pants on fire.

2011-11-18T16:22:00.003-06:00

Dear i+i:

This has been asked world over, but I haven't found the right answer, because there HAS to be one: WHY DO GROWN MEN LIE?

Seriously, if you're over the age on 21 you officially have no reason to lie. Well except maybe murder, by all means deny that shit. But a grown man will sit in your face and say he's interested in you and getting to know you and of course putting it in you, and then stand you up TWICE! Why? Obviously you: 1. Don't have the time. 2. Your wife's schedule went from 3rd to 1st shift this month so the bitch is home at night now. WTF! If you don't lie in the first place you wouldn't have so much juggling and lie renovations. I just don't get it. These games are too much. - Mad About Mendacity

ian: MAM, you're conceiving of the situation all wrong. You correctly conclude that the overarching goal of male life is increased dick friction and moisture (both amount and frequency). Where you are wrong, though, is when you assert that "if you're over the age of 21 you officially have no reason to lie" - it has nothing to do with age. Or gender, in fact. It's the intrepid spirit of the adventurer - the restless heart of that prompts Man to conquer lofty mountains and brave the deepest seas. It is this questing and indomitable spirit that put heroes on the moon. Let me explain:

Men lie because reality sucks ass. If you don't agree that reality sucks ass, you're either not paying attention, or you're George fucking Clooney. Because for anybody who is not George fucking Clooney, reality not only sucks ass, it eats it. Fucking ravenously. So, to put it in a bit of mathematical perspective: the ratio of awesome reality (George fucking Clooney) to suck-ass reality (the rest of the world's population) may be expressed thusly - 1:6,999,999,999. That's math. There's no arguing with math. Unless you're like these nerds HERE. And do these nerds seem happy? Of course not. They're fucking desperate like the rest of us. If you think reality doesn't suck ass, take a look in the mirror. Is there anything even FAINTLY Clooney-esque about the misshapen gargoyle you see before you? In a word, no. There is not. Look around you. Is the shitbox you're living in a fucking mansion on Lake Como? No, it is not. Look at your girlfriend. Would Clooney touch her with a stick? No, he would not. He'd be polite about it - he's actually quite gracious, but he'd fucking avoid her like she was a werewolf. Which, compared to the world-class trim he's got stacked like cordwood on the fucking veranda outside his fucking bedroom of his fucking mansion on Lake fucking Como, she is. Clooney pities us. For we fuck werewolves.

So, if you accept the hypothesis that you are not George fucking Clooney - and I think that you must, for you are a werewolf-fucking gargoyle - then you must do something. The surest way to fix things:
A.) Deny current reality.
B.) Make a new one.

Each lie we tell is a rung on the ladder that takes us up and out of the dank subterranean cesspit of our sick-ass reality and up toward the sun and fun of that shimmering Clooney dream up above the surface. In the first lie, we're not a gargoyle, and the next you're not a werewolf, and our house is not a hovel, and so on. In our minds, we are thereby better able to attain the life we long for - we can jump out the window, parkour down to our waiting GTO, pausing only to bend Sarah Palin over some garbage cans to spank her with a fly swatter, hop into our thundering cock on wheels, swing by the governor's mansion to blend in at the party when really we are a dashing jewel thief pulling a heist, steal a Bentley for no other reason than its owner reminds us too much of Ted Knight in Caddyshack, plunge it into the gubernatorial swimming pool, lay down rubber in the driveway to hunt bears with Ron Swanson, enjoy a bracing pre-supper stewardess three-way, power down a bear steak off the grill, hit the firing range to shoot skeet with Bin Laden body parts, head downtown to hit the taverns, punch the dude who does the voiceover for Spike TV's Manswers so hard he pledges to tone down the douche-iness forever forward, and then hit a club where Jay-Z might be stepping out on his pregnant bride, but you'd never hear it from us, and on the way to a quiet out of the way spot for a nightcap, stopping at a house fire to rescue a chocolate lab from the arms of the banker holding hie out the window, and help the firefighters to push the banker back into the flames, to end the night with whiskey, sad Irish songs while getting a tattoo, a quick knife fight, and a girl that looks a little like Time Travel Linda Carter. And this would just be like a typical Wednesday.

But we know you're not like us. We want different things. So our lies are a SACRIFICE - for you. It's only because we are so sensitively attuned to the fact that we do not share the same goal of our receiving The Blowjob That Saved Christmas (lotta backstory to this one - can't really go into it here) that we try to incorporate what we imagine to be your desires into what to us is a Shimmering New Life Brimming With Possibility, but to you is a Teetering And Precarious Tower of Needless Deception. Our lies try to incorporate YOUR VIEW into the story we're constantly improvising. So we're trying to track the inventions that we're always layering on to the epic narrative we're spinning WHILE incorporating your little feelings or whatever you call them. So REALLY, you should basically be super grateful that we're trying to include you.

Now quit it with the questions. For fuck's sake. Jesus.

irby: oh man, I LIE ALL THE TIME. and i'm not going to be like this liar right here and pretend that i'm doing it as a concession to someone else's fragile ego or feelings. as a matter of fact, i never lie for anyone's benefit other than my own. fuck people. quite simply, lying is the best tool to get through this life while suffering the least amount of possible irritation. for example: question "irby, would you like to go to my church talent show at seven on friday to watch the baton twirling routine i've spent months working on? it would mean a lot to me." answer "you know, i would really love to. but i have an appointment for a lobotomy scheduled for that exact same time. what an unbelieveable coincidence." and i'll say it with a straight fucking face with my hand on a stack of bibles.

i don't ever do a goddamned thing i don't want to fucking do. never motherfucking ever. i think it's totally weak to find yourself in the middle of some bullshit you knew was going to be goddamned awful and saying to yourself, "man, i can't believe i agreed to spend the day volunteering outside in this intolerable ninety-degree heat." or whatever the fuck it is some jerk bullied you into that you were too moist and soft to lie your way out of. everyone has that bitch in his life who only calls to ask THE WORST FAVORS EVER. you know the one, the motherfucker that always needs help moving a truck full of textbooks or wants you to come visit her grandmother at the nursing home for five goddamned hours. i'm not doing that shit. and this active imagination facilitates about 99% of that. SOME BITCHES JUST WON'T LET YOU TELL THEM THE TRUTH. for instance, if i honestly told you that i don't want to come to your house for dinner because the rock is going to be on television tonight and i've had a cheesecake calling my name from the freezer that i've resisted for an entire week and it's finally cold enough to wear my new slipper socks and i haven't had a date with my vibrator for a week your reaction would be one of unbridled rage. bitches don't want you to have time for yourself, and they most certainly don't want to know that the shit they've suggested is boring or not fun, or that you'd rather screen all of the other offers before committing to theirs. which is why you have to tell a bitch your "head hurts" or you have to "work late."

but that's not what we're talking about, obviously. as a person who's survived a million and a half "i really like you but i don't" interactions with stupid dudes, i'm an expert in the reasonably well-intentioned lying male. and i love how ian, like most of these assholes, is all "WE LIE BECAUSE WE CARE." yes, babycake, they lie because they care. about themselves. and because we let them. so rather than trying to change a leopard's spots what you should do is face the truth that all he wants is to get his candy cane sucked for christmas and instead of bitching about it vow to never tell the fucking truth when you are talking to a goddamned man. and never believe anything he says unless it's said under duress. if a dude has time to think he has time to lie, sister. don't go for that shit. i tell a dude what the fuck he wants to hear half the time and what the fuck i want him to know the other half. if they don't feel like they have to abide by any sort of honor code, why should we?

because lying only sucks when it's one-sided. guaranteed you wouldn't be mad if your were tricking off on your boyfriend to hang with this lying-ass piece of garbage. that's right, you're salty because YOU LIKE HIM and HE KNOWS IT. you probably told him all your deep dark secrets and admitted how he makes your heart skip a beat, and how that you've discovered his penis isn't the only thing that grows you're pouting and threatening to turn poor pinocchio into kindling. if you had just LIED LIKE A BOSS you wouldn't even care. and i know, it goes against everything cosmo ever taught you about relationships to lie and deceive some knuckle-dragging mouth-breather. "communication," "honesty," and all that magazine shit, OMG. so try some little lies at first, like "i don't eat potato chips" or "yes, this basketball game is interesting to me." as you get more and more comfortable with the idea of it, big lies like "of course, i care about your feelings!" and "you really are the best sex i've ever had!" will ROLL RIGHT OFF YOUR FUCKING TONGUE. that way, when he leaves you stranded in a restaurant for two hours waiting for his lying ass you can console yourself with the knowledge that he doesn't know you had chlamydia in college.

"lie renovations" is genius, by the way. i like to call it "the apology dance." it's too goddamned bad men are so fucking stupid, they're awfully nice to cuddle with. ps, you are TOTALLY NOT allowed to have sex with that young man when he comes crawling back. because he totally will. and when he eventually asks you to, just lie and say you have your period.

bitches still give handjobs?!

2011-11-15T16:28:00.003-06:00

Dear Irby and Ian,
I am right-handed. Yesterday I gave my first ever hand job and realized I did it left-handed. Thoughts?

sam: my first thought was "bitches still give motherfucking HANDJOBS? goddamn, gurl, you deserve the medal of freedom or some shit." BUT FIRST, let's talk about how i touched a real live human penis yesterday. sometimes i feel guilty answering questions about banging since i haven't had good sex since the clinton administration (omg RECESSION and no, i really don't, i'm noisy and opinionated), and now all that's changed since a dude with a vocabulary that makes most other people look like they read at the third grade level let me put my hand on his privates. seriously, i might need a dictionary to bang that dude for real. oh, and don't worry, i'm still going to be horrible and rude and mean. i'm not one of those fruity "sex makes me happy" people, i maintain a healthy disdain for everyone and everything no matter how many times a dude lets me put a collar and leash on him. but you bitches should be happy now that my banging advice doesn't come from 2002 or whatever.

now that we've settled that, i'm uninterested in handjobs, mostly because i'm arm lazy. i'm not mouth lazy at all, but i'm pretty goddamned vagina lazy, marginally butt lazy, and arm lazy 150%. SERIOUSLY. jacking a dude off is easily the MOST TAXING, LEAST RECIPROCAL sex act you could ever possibly engage in. put that penis anywhere else on your body and i can understand the benefit, but in your hand? why would you want it in your motherfucking HAND?!

here is why i refuse to give handjobs:
1 they're totally fucking awkward. holy shit, first of all it has to be wide enough to grip and long enough that you actually have surface over which to SLIDE YOUR CLENCHED FIST UP AND DOWN. then you, as the giver, are tasked with making sure there isn't too much friction and that you're yanking at a comfortable pace and rhythm. and on top of all that, you have to MAKE SURE THAT SHIT IS WET. while actively drying the wetness with your porous goddamned hand. your hand is basically a human windshield wiper, and you're wondering why his balls have traction burns. SON OF A FUCKING BITCH. at least during a blowjob when you reach the point where your lips are chapped and your fantasies have shifted from a house with this dude in the suburbs to a 64oz big gulp you can just push the head of his dick to the back of your throat and use that pre-vomit as lubricant. (stop acting like you don't know what i'm talking about.) what, pray tell, does one do when faced with the prospect of twenty minutes watching sparks shoot from her hand while trying to bring a corncob to screaming orgasm? spitting is fucking vile. lotion looks like semen all over your hand. lube is viscous for two seconds, then turns sticky. and it usually smells like chemicals. vaseline is too thick. pancake syrup is too gooey. olive oil smells like the kitchen at leona's. hair gel is tacky. gasoline smells rancid, and is potentially dangerous if you indulge in a post-coital cigarette.

so what does that leave us with? stopping to lick our hands every thirty seconds, resulting in the counterproductive 1 blast of wet, cold air that makes his balls seize up and his penis wilt and 2 the orgasm-ruining stopping of motion? which means it's going to take even longer than usual?! if i didn't have a job and outside interests i might be willing to lend a dude a helping hand, but i have to go to WORK IN THE MORNING. come on, son. i need to figure out whatever gets you to the mountaintop the quickest so i don't miss the second half of american horror story. seriously, my sex act prerequisite is "can you finish during the commercial break in my show?" if the answer is no, WE AREN'T DOING THAT.

2 they're goddamned boring. how come dudes won't let you keep the tv on? i'd be much more willing to crank your handle for 1/2 an hour if i knew i could clear out the old tivo while doing it. maybe it's because most of them are too dumb to multitask, but if i can drink whiskey and iron my work clothes while engrossed in back-to-back episodes of "the good wife" without burning my collars or over-starching my creases, don't you think i could masturbate a dude while catching up on my thursday night nbc comedies?! jesus, how many hands does it take? it's not like jerking a dude off is on the motherfucking SAT. as teen mom has proven, any half-retarded subhuman hobgoblin with an inadequate number of brain cells and a job at forever 21 can have sex, so why the fuck must i concentrate on this one stupid boner?

my mind starts to wander pretty easily, which is why i traded that sweatshop gig i had as a child for the nonstop thrill ride that is modern veterinary medicine. pfffft. at any given moment i have no fewer than 19 tabs open on my browser, and i click through them with the speed of a nine-year-old off his ADHD meds. so can i really be expected to sit still for twenty minutes doing the same thing over and over and OVER AGAIN? while missing sons of anarchy?! i'd rather be dead.

3 they're tiring. imma have to do some biceps curls, because i start getting that dull, lactic acid ache thirty seconds into the shit. does that ever happen to you? you know what i mean, that fucking treadmill pain, except it's concentrated in the part of your arm that wouldn't jiggle if you didn't eat so much pizza? GOD, I HATE THAT PAIN. this wretched bowel disease causes some pretty horrific peripheral arthritis, and my hands look like your goddamned grandmother's right after i start this dumb shit. ten full minutes and i need two aleve, a celebrex, and a motherfucking cortisone injection. and for what? some dude to monica lewinsky my new dress?! a trip to both the emergency room AND the dry cleaner? yeah fucking right.

4 you have to have small boobs. this one's easy: i was born with a fucking C cup, and the least flattering (and most painful) thing you could ever do is make a shitload of jerky motions while not wearing a motherfucking bra. i'd rather circuit train nude than do this, because at least i'd get my heart rate up and burn some fucking calories while blackening both eyes. so, until my insurance recognizes "i want a bra with fewer than four hooks" as a viable reason to pay for a breast reduction, my tits and i will not be jacking any dudes off. unless we get to keep a bra, shirt, sweater, and coat on. i mean, one can never be too careful.

5 DUDES STILL WANT TO PUT IT IN YOUR BUTT AFTERWARD. i'll wait here while one of you runs to find me a woman who performed a handjob to completion and then got up and turned her soaps on and went to finish the dishes. every time a dude acts like he wants to do some teenage makeout shit (which is the very best kind of shit, BELIEVE ME), it is merely an excuse to get you in his bed so that he might then convince you to do something else. LIKE FUCK HIM. you girls have been there: you finish a nice first date with a hot dude, you want to keep hanging with him but don't want to go to another bar. you don't want to go back to your place, because you aren't sure whether or not this motherfucker is CRAY and can be trusted with your address. he offers drinks at his place, and since you have your taser you give it some thought. EXCEPT. you don't want to fuck. it's too early, and you don't want to look like a slut. as if reading your mind he offers, "it's okay. i just want to kiss you." this fucking liar. but you buy that shit anyway, and you go to his place, memorizing landmarks as you pass them in the cab. once in his apartment you have a beer (keeping it conservative, of course) and flip through his dvds, pretending to be interested in david fincher. shoes come off, making out begins, and since you're feeling a little sexy and dirty you reach into his pants. HANDJOBS AREN'T SLUTTY, RIGHT? right, gurl. keep that not-slutty handbanging up. and although he's assured you that he's comfortable with "not taking things too far," after half an hour of thinking about baseball while you chafe the skin off your goddamned hand he announces that he "can't really finish this way" in a tone that's not really supposed to make you feel guilty but TOTALLY DOES. so you're left with either the option of looking like a big ol' whore OR blueballing this fucking dude you like thus never being able to convince him to come to your sister's wedding next month so you can prove to your stepmother that you aren't the abominable wildebeest she thinks you are. and both of those options kind of make you look like an asshole. so you let him put it in your butt, and he still doesn't call you afterward. your stepmother clucks knowingly as you skulk into the ceremony on the arm of your gay best friend who isn't helping the matter any in his teal dress suit. FUCK YOUR LIFE.

seriously, though, if you kiss a dude you better be ready to fuck him. not a single one of them is conscientious enough to let you do a little tugboat action and get back to whatever you had planned other than taking your goddamned panythose off. which is why i just start there. i mean, who the fuck are we kidding?

so i'm proud of you, dollface. good for you for enduring the least enjoyable sex act in the history of man. homeboy doesn't come, you dislocate your motherfucking shoulder, and in the end everyone wishes he'd just asked for doggystyle and a blowie as god intended. my jimmy hat is off to you, sister. we all need to stand up (or lie down?) and give this bitch a goddamned hand.

best gaydar? a mirror.

2011-11-15T01:02:00.000-06:00

dear i+i:
i have to travel to San Francisco on business. will it turn me "gay"? - bad news in the bay area

Ian: "Turn" BNITBA? No. Your gayness, like George Bailey's riches, was there all along. Lemme be your Clarence Oddbody. Except at the end of the movie, instead of singing carols and pouring cash into a basket, your friends and neighbors are all be-spangled and fabulous and they're piling dildos and anal beads on your table. And it's not Bedford Falls, it's the Castro. And instead of old-timey cotton underclothes, I'm wearing nothing but a Tom of Finland mustache and a steel cock ring. With spikes on it that are miniature penises. And I got on a studded collar. And the studs on my collar are chrome nads.

You're as queer as they come, fella. You're like if Charles Nelson Reilly crapped out the screenplay for Priscilla, Queen of the Desert while spanking it to a slide show of James Franco beefcake and karaokeing "It's Rainin' Men." With a piping hot baguette up your ass. And a clown smile of smegma crust around your mouth.

Now - I should pause myself here to note that you did not identify yourself by gender in your query. It is technically feasible that you could be a chick.

Not a chance. It is dudes alone that exhibit this depth of dumbassery. There's not a woman in the world - and I don't care how fucking Bible-beaten she is - that would be ignorant enough or genitally panicked enough to ask such a slack-jawed question. It is dudes alone who can braid together horny and fucktard in quite this way.

If the shelves of your mind weren't so well-stocked with numbnuts horse shit, you'd have been happily stabbing the brown star years ago, my good man. If your soul was not so freighted with the crushing weight of your stuporfuckedness, you'd have been harvesting ass-blossoms like a champ. As it stands, however, you are totally in the thrall of your stupidicism, and have therefore denied yourself the ferret-smelling pleasures of sexual congress with other fellas.

Because you can't spell "fellatio" with a "fella". Am I right? Ladies?

I myself am unswayed by the coarse-haired haunches and briny pit-smells of dudes. Not my thing. You know something else? You know how much time I spend asking if I might wind up queer? None. At all. Ever.

I also don't pass notes to the dude in the next stall at the airport bathroom.

Nor do I trawl for com-manionship at truck stops.

Or hang out at the Manhole.

I don't agonize. If I was gay, I'd be out there fucking dudes. As God intended. I wouldn't be questioning. I wouldn't be fretting. I'd be in a hairy bear daisy chain of reach-arounds with a fucking greased-up legion of Ron Swanson look-alikes and then I'd write the steamiest Swanson gangbang on a picnic table fan fiction you ever read.

You know what you might wanna try? Join the priesthood. Then you can pray while you're pounding man-ass and swatting it with a crucifix.

Or run for congress. Then you can vote down marriage equality then get arrested later that week soliciting a handy from an undercover cop.

Look, junior - there is more fucking honor in whipping it out at Ryan Gosling movies and declaring "his soulful eyes and brooding good looks increase the blood flow to my tallywacker and I don't care who knows it." The assembled crowd will erupt in galvanizing applause as your Dockers pool around your ankles. And then you can gaping-mouth kiss your bearded boyfriend and the confetti cannons will go off and we'll all swap high fives. Except you. Because your dick's in your hand again, since Gosling's in the rain and his shirt's sticking to his lean frame.

But as things stand, you are a cancerous wad of self-loathing and doubt, friend. And if you think that string of girlfriends that never quiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiite seem to last is fooled by the glassy-eyed and robotic missionary humps you begrudgingly throw their way, think again. If you think your buddies at the gym believe that you need a five-hour steam to "nurse that rotator cuff" as you're tenting your towel and making thirsty face at the dew drops running down every man-back in there, you think again, pal. And if you feel like maybe the wives and kids are not wondering what in shit you're doing on the pier EVERY time the sailors head down the gangway on shore leave, you think again, bub. I mean, look at yourself, pacing back and forth like you're window shopping.

Smuggle bones, buddy. I grant you the permission you lack the stones to grant yourself. Go. Abuse the chocolate starfish. Explore the puckered mine shaft. Toggle the meat switch, pal. Operate the joystick with your mouth. Bury the bratwurst. Garnish your ass plate with a flesh pickle. Park the muscle car in the hairy garage. Wrestle the bald weasel into submission. Go spelunking in the bearded cave. I could go on. But hopefully, you get the idea.

oh, you sensitive dudes.

2011-11-11T09:32:00.002-06:00

dear i+i: between their moisturizer, shampoo, lip gloss, and perfume, most women smell like potpourri. it's gross. how do i convince a woman to go unscented?

sam: this would be refreshing if it were AT ALL believeable. because whenever a dude claims to want someone who is "natural," he means television cosmetic commercial natural, not REAL-LIFE sweat glands gingivitis dry lips smelly vagina natural. this is why i try to surround myself with homosexuals, because they understand and appreciate beautyyyy and glamourrrr. that is obviously written in jest, as i just looked at some tagged photos of myself (stop doing that to me) and THREW THE FUCK UP. barf. in my head, my face looks better than every picture of my face i've ever fucking seen. i have the goddamned opposite of whatever body dysmorphia makes 70 lb girls relegate themselves to one piece of broccoli and a handful of mini pretzels a day. SERIOUSLY, i'm always like "i like really good today" and then someone will post a picture and i'm all, "who the fuck is that hideously ugly bitch standing in the exact spot i was standing when he took this picture?!" this is how you know there is no god, because if there were cameras would do things like highlight your winning personality and sense of humor instead of your meaty skin beard and blotchy skin. OR a bitch would stop you on your way out the door for the evening and whisper, "not that shirt."

so back to this liar. women done up like drag queens are sort of icky and kinda look too messy and complicated for a man to snuggle up with, but i'm all about a woman feeling good about herself. i ALSO am all about thinking men have no concept of what maintenance is required when you've got ladyparts and that some bitches can't just "go unscented." not me, though. i'm the laziest piece of shit ever. like, i'll do the shit, but i won't really DO the shit. i smell really good and i take a shower most days, and i do enjoy having a tiny asian woman talk shit about me in asianese while ripping the cuticles off my fingers, but anything further than that is expensive and boring. so fuck it, i'm not doing that. OKAY, next time you go down on your ladyfriend and pull away with a mouthful of linen-scented pussy wash and fruity pubic hair conditioner and flowery body lotion look deep into her eyes and say, "baby, i much prefer the taste of trout that has been left to rot in the sun. cucumber melon peony freesia chanel #5 doesn't really complement vaginal excretions. I LIKE YOU NATURAL." then next time you get busy all you have to do is shut the fuck up and hold your goddamned breath when she and her braidable armpit hair and chin stubble and knee-length bush come strolling into the bedroom smelling like a billy goat. dirty hippie.

ian: Well this is without precedent. Not to alarm anyone, but I think I might actually agree with my colleague on this one. You are a dirty sickening hippie.

Not unlike the GOP, male sexuality professes to be the "big tent party" where all are welcome. In practice, however, there are pretty strict limits on what is permissible. Also like the GOP. Like your average member of the GOP, we want our ladies white and hairless as a bar of Ivory Soap® [yeah, we know you're 99 and 44/100ths pure, but we will think only of that cinched-corset thrill ride of that 56/100ths - it is the prospect of this fraction of you that makes us willing to feign monogamy]. And like the GOP, when we're out of town, we'll get super hammered and fuck a dude. Or a black hooker. Or a black hooker dude. This is how we come to have Michael Steele.

Which is not to say that there is not some freakish outlier subset that is into fucking anything you could conceive of. I have heard that in Japan, in addition to the squid porn we all know about [my hands are straining to type some weak-ass "greasy calamari" joke here, but I respect you too much and I'm not gonna do it, but you have no fucking idea what this is costing me - my hands, for real, are going all Evil Dead on me, here - they're seriously just gonna do it on their own, so if you read on to find that any kind of hack shit about how I wouldn't wanna frequent that sushi bar, or about it makes the American stripper trick with the ping pong balls seem pretty minor league, just know it's cause I've passed out from the strain and my hands are doing it on their own, unbidden by yours truly] there are men who will pay handsomely to lie down in a hammock wrought entirely of the braided pit hair of Japanese chicks in those schoolgirl sailor uniforms they're so into over there.

And if you google "Bavarian porn", you'll get like 80 pages of links to German skat vids that, if you take your fucking sanity into your hands and watch any one of them, are the surest goddamn guarantee that you will never again eat another fucking Baby Ruth Bar®. Ever. Especially one that's warm and melty, like after it's been sitting on a beach chair for a while.

But for every guy who only grows turgid watching cat fight reenactments of tank battles in the North African campaigns of WWII, there's a million dudes who can't hang with that level of complexity. For every guy that pops a crotch sweat over chicks pushing bundt cake in their faces while smoking calabash pipes in Where's Waldo? sweater, glasses, and hat - and nothing else - there's a million more of us who lack this degree of specificity.

Listen: all the goddamn ink that's spilled each year on every conceivable permutation of the WHAT DO MEN WANT? question that seems to fucking haunt you ladies so bad is wasted. Lemme break it down for you. Ready? Here it comes - in one fucking bullet point:

What do we want from you? Don't fucking frighten us. Blam. There. Done.

We have a highly superstitious relationship to your lady parts. There is ample goddamn mystery down in there for us without adding the cognitive fucking dissonance of weird smells and crazy hair. There is a portion of our lizard brain that fully believes that billions of scarab beetles are poised to come scuttling out of there, even where your pubes are trimmed down to an inverted soul patch and you smell like a rainswept meadow. If you quit your fucking job today and devoted yourself fulltime to pussy pampering, there would still be some terror-stricken corner of us that, even while we desperately hope yours is the Meat Cathedral That Will Make Us Right, yours is the Fanged And Briny Well In Which We Shall Drown In The Viscous Pool Of Perplexity, Assailed By Demon Bats And Entwined By Centipedes As Long As An Ironing Board As Crack Off Our Fingernails On The Foul And Sodden Walls Trying In Vain To Claw Our Way Out And Are Dragged Below The Greasy And Trash-Strewn Fluid By That Thing From The Trash Compactor Scene In Star Wars.

So. You know. Summer's Eve®, or whatever you gotta do. Because for every Unscented Dirty Hippie like this cat, there's a majority of us that don't wanna die in that foxhole.

your seat cushion doubles as a floatation device.

2011-11-09T10:44:00.002-06:00

Dear i+i:

I was on a flight recently and – there’s no delicate way to say this – my seatmate smelled. Very strongly. The flight was full, so I couldn’t move, but if this happens on a flight with open seats, is there a polite way to move away from the offending passenger? – Stink Bomb in 7C

Ian here. I hear you, SB7C. I do.

Few experiences are more discomforting than being wedged into a seat next to somebody whose hobbies included reeking. Almost no experiences, really. Like in the whole of human endeavor. The hierarchy is about like so:

Auschwitz.
Stink Flight.
Abu Ghraib.
The Grammies.
The set of a snuff film.
Dinner with Wally from Marketing.
Cambodia’s killing fields.
Arby’s.
Sitting next to one of those snot-whistlers at the movies.
The taste of Willy Nelson’s ear hair.

And, yes. In this order.

As you can see, for an experience to rank (pun fully intended – ZING to you, Stinky!) as being LESS pleasant than logging time in a fucking Arby’s, it has go to be pretty desperate and extreme in its degree of grisliness.

So you’re right. It’s a problem. A foul-smelling problem that robs you of your already tenuous will to live. Which presents the most effective solution – when the “Fasten Seatbelts” light is turned off, head back to the bathroom and kill yourself. Failing that, you are pretty well stuck. Stewing in the curry-and-sunbaked-mayo-in-a-bucket-of-curdled-kefir funk wafting out of the pits on this bag of shit next to you. And if he’s a fat-ass, then you’re taking a double hit from his Auxiliary Marsupial Pits (AMP) he’s got stuffed in the front of them mustard-streaked Dockers he’s got on. For the uninitiated, AMPs are the yeasty flesh-caves in the dank and musky crotch region of the overweight and underwashed. AMPs are so bacteria-rich, they make a truck stop toilet seat look like a fucking OR. You know that heroin suppository bathroom in Trainspotting? Auxiliary Marsupial Pits ASPIRE to that degree of cleanliness – the fucking Trainspotting bathroom looks like the sun-drenched world of a Lysol commercial next to the sweat-caked horrors to be found inside of AMPs, dude.

Say the guy’s like 80-100 pounds overweight. Like 45% of that body mass is mashed into the damp miasma of nerd-meat between his thighs and the trapezoidal gut-hammock that sways above the remote memory of his junk. This meat-cowl is so acrid, so bio-toxic, that it generates its own form of tacky Cheetos® dust. And believe me: if you get that shit on your finger, you may be able roll some into pebbles and flick it away, but you are never, and I mean NEVER getting it completely off. It's like finger herpes, man - you can manage it, maybe, but you are living with that shit forever.

To give an effective sponge bath to a guy like this, you’d need a soapy beach towel wrapped around a pool cue, and there’s still no guarantee you could work it all the way in – it’s a lot like spelunking in there: you can get wedged in an die. It is a treacherous, salty, quivering, broiling fucking nightmare down in there. It's like if you took the fallen finger of a leper, covered it in sweat-soaked navel lint, doused it in rancid corn oil, rolled it in malaria, sauteed it in ear wax, dipped in the crud you scrape out from between the plates of an armadillo, bathed it in the nut-sweat of a minotaur, tucked it in pouch made of hobo neck wattles, slow-roasted it over a dog turd fire, and drizzled it with ground mummy, that begins to approximate a truly ripe Auxiliary Marsupial Pit bouquet.

But this is only one kind human stink, and I don't wish to assume anything.

There's the Eau de Meth Cadaver, which is a combo of night terrors, ground-off tooth enamel, coma mouth, the scrapings off a sewer pipe, the piss of a traumatized terrier, cumin, and the well-used grease from the funnel cake concession at the carnival. Oh, and crushed dreams.

There's also the Death's Door Potpourri, which is baby powder, witch hazel, chemo puke, overdue cat box, overcooked pork chop, the yarn aisle at Hancock Fabrics®, orthopedic shoe, and lentils.

There's the Twat Farm, which is menstrual blood, panic attack, Cinnamon Toast Crunch®, Viking mustache, and scabies. And the "How to Meet Someone" section of the bookstore.

And let's not forget the Hormone Gorgon, which is Laffy Taffy®, man cave, locker room carpet, unfulfilled longing, nail clippings of philosophy doctoral candidates, hot soft pretzels, and asiago cheese.

Or the Flight of the Couch Dragon, which is rubber cement, a mother's tears, ossified porridge, ham fat, the territory-marking urine of a civet, and guava Lip Smacker® Lip Balm. Oh, and failure.

Or Slytherin Prefect, which is bay rum, oboe spit, wet wool, dimly remembered Arthurian legend, nail polish remover, blocked cock, 20-sided dice, and the juice of half a quince.

Or the Primate House, which is pickle brine, frat boy boxer briefs (worn the full three days one way, turned inside out and worn three more days, in summer, in Manila), waxed hooker, bath mat, Jager spill, and frozen waffle. And the unique form of boredom that can only come of getting everything you want all the goddamn time.

Or the Patchouli Rape, which is burnt sage, the neck-nape of that fucking barefoot asshole juggling devil sticks in the park, tamari, ferret muzzle, pear brandy, dream catcher net, and towering loneliness.

Or the Gordon Gecko, which is used Axe Body Spray® (any variety, because to pretend that any one of them smells any different than any of the others), orphan snot, spa drain, loafer tassel, widow bits, cider vinegar, pre-cancerous mole, escort dander, and sulphur.

Or the dude could just have been wearing Drakkar Noir.

Point is: you only got two options when confronted by these or any one of a thousand other forms of people stank: kill yourself or shove the offender out the emergency hatch and suck everybody out of the cabin while hurtling through the air at 30,000 feet. If you fail to carry out either option, then that's on you, you fucking coward.

sit, stay, speak. good boy.

2011-11-08T16:45:00.003-06:00

do some men get dogs to pick up women? i've noticed some men use their dogs as bait at dog parks or on walks to reel women in and get them interested. then they sleep with them and move on to the next lady. are dog parks the new booty spot? it happened to my friend!

my real job, what i do for twelve goddamned hours a day when i'm not filling the internet with blog vomit, is at an animal hospital in a wealthy suburb on the north shore of chicago. it's way less awesome than you might think. not to disabuse you of whatever preconceived notions you have of what modern day veterinary medicine might entail, but you can get that adorable little puppy and kitten shit off your fucking mind. that's everyone's first exclamation: "wow! you work in an animal hospital! that must be SO MUCH FUN." it is not, in a word, FUN. it is grueling, thankless work during which i spend countless hours being talked down to by bitches with black amex cards because you don't really have to respect the person facilitating care for your stupid dog, even though you paid a breeder five grand for that coton de tulear she shipped first class from madagascar, and if i weren't being paid so goddamned handsomely (read: if i couldn't wear birkenstocks and hoodies all motherfucking day and be on facebook all the time) i would've quit this soul-shattering, dream-crushing career nine years ago. but i only fucking went to high school, so relegated to a lifetime of service industry asshole sucking it is. and listening to idiots try to lecture me about organic, grain-free dog food is a step up from an airport mop job, which was the other career path i was considering when i stumbled into this lucrative gig.

i know what you're thinking. "this bitch is just some fancy window dressing, a total affirmative action hire who doesn't really know shit." and you might be might be fucking right, because i'm the only tar baby up in here and sometimes i catch these white people clutching their purses when i walk by to go the the bathroom. but so what, i've learned some things, goddamn you. against my will and virtually by osmosis while sitting here scowling at my computer screen waiting for my real life to start. (this can't really be it, can it?!) questions like this just make me think of all the dumb kids who roll through here with their boutique handbag dogs that are "totally awesome and cute" until they vomit up a bunch of ascarids or tapeworms and chew a designer shoe until it's unrecognizable, then they get bored with it and want to give it away or whatever. it's the exact same way i feel about babies.

here's some shit you jerks need to goddamned know:

1 vaccinate your fucking pets. if you care about your cat or dog, save your beer money and get it a motherfucking check-up. ANNUALLY. including some vaccines. and maybe a stupid microchip, too. oh, i know, "he doesn't go outside." fuck you, man. they need a full physical examination every year, so that you're not blindsided five years from now when you discover that his kidneys are failing and you have to do subcutaneous fluids you aren't emotionally prepared for. i know it's expensive and time-consuming, but so is your hair. i mean, right?

2 there is no such thing as "organic dog food." sorry, jerks, but the federal agency that regulates the organic claim made by dog food companies DOES NOT FUCKING EXIST. snobs come in all shapes and sizes, and pet care snobs ARE THE ABSOLUTE WORST. you need to feed your dog food that it will eat that gives it a nice shiny coat and formed stools. it does not have to be fancy. save that food money and put that dog on name brand heartworm preventative and frontline. that's what KILLS the people in your vet's office, in case you were wondering. you spend four hundred dollars a month on raw dog food from the tiny boutique around the corner, yet you gamble with real diseases in order to save five or six bucks on some generic shit from 1-800-petmeds. IVERHEART GOT RECALLED, people. just saying.

3 gay couples and women who've decided not to take their husband's last names, FUCKING FEMINIST BULLSHIT, please remember whose fucking surname your dog is under. this is pretty self-explanatory. and we hate you. there are 19,000 dogs named "max" in our goddamned database. pick a name and stick with it. your pediatrician will appreciate this, too.

4 your dog doesn't have human feelings. i sometimes joke that helen keller talks to me and hates the same shit on tv that i hate, but that bitch shits in a box full of pine litter and eats food off the floor before using her mouth to clean her asshole, which is what i want you to remember next time you find yourself explaining to another person that your dog is "embarrassed" or anything else distinctly human.

if there are hot single men who buy dogs with the sole intention of impressing women, it is my early christmas wish that they might start bringing those dogs to our hospital. dudes with girlfriends get dogs. most dudes you know don't have two clean socks to wear at the same time, and it's hard to imagine that one might willingly take on the responsibility that comes with CARING FOR ANOTHER LIVING BEING other than at the behest of a nagging girlfriend who is using that adorable little mutt as a litmus test to see how he'll be as a father. (let me answer that for you: UNHELPFUL and INATTENTIVE.) if that dude is really single and really hasn't borrowed that dog from the couple who live in the condo above his, then he is obviously a huge fucking weirdo. dogs are a major fucking responsibility. and i'm not even saying that as an animal person; which i'm not really, since i dine on the flesh of slaughtered bald eagles and regularly wear tiger pelts in place of conventional clothing. i'm saying that as a lazy bitch who sometimes doesn't shower as much as she should.

implausibility #1: you have to pattern your schedule around the eating and shitting habits of this stupid animal. remember the last time you hung out with a dog person? OF COURSE YOU DO, because that asshole started reminding you that she had to leave to take the dog out five minutes after you got to the bar. oh, and what about that other time she was late to dinner because she had to run home and feed that same dog because the dogwalker texted her that she wasn't going to be able to come over twice? no single dude is going through all that hassle just to get a piece of mediocre ass. dudes want to be out getting white boy wasted and popping their collars in cheesy hotel bars, not racing from the office downtown up to his trendy loft building in the gentrified part of wicker park to take "wrigley" for a walk around the block (jesus christ SO MANY WRIGLEYS and ADDISONS, you unoriginal toolboxes), then back down to hit on corny broads at the sofitel.

implausibility #2: dogs are goddamned expensive. i've been out of the game for a minute, and i don't have a penis, but i imagine a dude would rather spend money on fruity metrosexual clothes and a new-ish honda to try to convince a bitch to jump into bed with him. the vet costs MONEY, medication costs MONEY, food costs MONEY, collars and leashes cost MONEY, daycare costs MONEY, toys cost MONEY, groomers cost MONEY. and not just one time, this dog is going to eat half that dude's paycheck and shit out the rest. EVERY SINGLE MONTH. i mean, if he's doing it right. and he has to do it right, because no bitch at the dog park is going to go home with the dude whose mangy, unneutered, flea-ridden beagle mix is marking everyone's pant leg and mounting every female dog in sight. plus, dudes like cable and flat screens and blackberries and video game consoles and computers and fancy gadgets that require all sorts of expensive service plans. in my life i have dated ONE DUDE who eschewed fancy toys and television sets in favor of quiet contemplation, and that dude was a fucking fruitbag. normal dudes want shiny things that bleep and require nineteen remotes. and those things cost MONEY. you could just as easily attract the attention of a woman with a brand new BMW, for approximately the same amount of money as a couple years of dog bills.

implausibility #3: crazy + crazy = terrible match that will die a fiery death. animal people are fucking nuts. there, i said it. 100% insane, myself included. now, i only have one cat and i would never walk up to a stranger and lecture him about spaying, but helen keller has a special pillow on my bed. i run five humidifiers to help her breathe because she has chronic upper respiratory infections. i pay through the nose for special food for her. she uses feline pine in her litterbox, which means my place smells like a pine air freshener that a cat peed on and leaves my floor littered with pale yellow sand. she sleeps on my desk, in my chair, and sometimes in the bathroom sink. sometimes that bitch jumps in the refrigerator. all this to reaffirm that i am a bit of a crazy person. now imagine two of me, together, in the same relationship. TERRIFYING, at best. animal people have to be with people who can tolerate animals, yet aren't crazy about them like we are. that's just a recipe for pet hoarding and a snatch full of cat dander. ew.

basically what i'm saying is that you should stop throwing salt in this dude's genius game. it's so hard to meet people nowadays that i applaud the effort he took to comb his hair and put his skinny jeans on, borrow his sister's dog (or sneak out with the dog he bought his girlfriend last christmas while that bitch is at work), take a handful of biscuits to the dog park, and mack all the lonely cockblocking-ass broads who would otherwise be at home knitting sweaters for their maltipoos. SO WHAT if he's lying to women? would you rather be lied to at a bar? in a nightclub? ON THE INTERNET?! at least this dog park pimping is helping to socialize some bored chihuahuas! besides, haven't you ever learned that men are dogs?

no more pencils, no more books, no more teacher's dead-eyed looks

2011-11-04T17:01:00.002-05:00

Dear i+i:

My third grader's teacher is not treating him fairly. He's always getting singled out/in trouble - yet he assures me his teacher just doesn't like him. How can I address this situation with his teacher without making it worse? - Parent of a Perturbed Pupil

Hi PPP:

Great question. I asked several educators and school administrators to weigh in, all of whom would only consent to be quoted on condition of anonymity.

Geraldine W. is a social worker at a school district near Milwuakee. She observed: "It's possible that this child has some undiagnosed neurological deficit that makes him a lying sack of shit."

Lyla C., a middle school teacher in Carlsbad, noted: "I'm not sure how to answer this question. In order to do so, I should have a Professional Development Day. Shut the school district down for the day, have some overpayed and desperately underqualified Education Consultant come in and stand by a whiteboard verbally beating off at us for half the day, then we can break into smaller working groups or "bitch sessions," then go have margaritas in an offsite working group. By the next day you will have forgotten the question, and I will have slept with that busboy at the Mexican place."

Vernon G., a fifth grade teacher in Nashua, had some sobering insights: "Look. It's a numbers game. Lotta these kids are frankly super-dumb. And all of them are annoying as fuck. And you got almost 40 of the things in your classroom. You know their fucking names by November, that sets the bar pretty fucking high. I'm just a push broom, man - shoving these fuckers on to the next grade. You got a smoke?"

Charles G., an Assistant Principal at a middle school outside of Toledo, had this to say: "Listen. Lemme tell you something: you know a good synonym for 'third grader'? 'Future arsonist.' These little fucking villains are either elbows-deep in some nefarious shit already, or they're just a skipped Ritalin away from unleashing all that latent goddamn criminality that's pent up in those little fuckers. Each goddamn one of them is a fucking crime wave waiting to happen, and the '3 R's' should be changed to 'Restrainin', Wreckin', and Retaliatin''. If the goddamn economy wasn't soo fucking deep in the crapper, and I wasn't such a pants-pissing drunk, I would totally be looking for another gig."

Angela V., a fourth-grade teacher in Phoenix, adds: "Third grade is a pivotal transition year for many students. This is the year when many of them discover about themselves whether they'll be popular and successful, or whether they'll be a bunch of shit-speckled losers like the rest of us. I'm sure this teacher is just trying to set realistic expectations for this student - namely that life will be an unendurable litany of failures and frustrations, and that he had better get good and goddamn used to being thwarted at every fucking turn until they run out of options and drop through the career sluice that fucking dumps them into the bleak fucking trough of teaching fourth fucking grade in motherfucking Phoenix. I swear to fucking fuck, every day I don't spear my fucking jugular with a dull pencil right in front of these wild-eyed little monsters is a miracle of such epic fucking proportions, I cannot even tell you."

Jason G., a Virginia Beach principal, said only: "Bitch, please," and kept walking.

Angelo D., a Teach for America veteran who's been teaching sixth grade outside of Detroit, opined: "You know what? God fuck yourself. With your fucking questions. I'm sick to fucking death of answering questions all the fucking time. You know what? I don't fucking make enough to answer one more motherfucking question from you or anybody else. I'm not so much earning a wage doing this shit, so much as moldering away as an indentured fucking servant to my student fucking loans. My answer to this question, and every fucking question ever that comes after it: lick my balls. Lick my dimpled, lop-sided, low-hanging, damp, smelly, wart-covered, salty, encrusted, fur-bearing balls. You hypocrite dickwads."

Cheryl T. is herself a third grade teacher in Houston. She seems to be in the grip of some kind of PTSD or something, because she just stares unblinking and grinds her teeth.

Sarah D., a seventh grade teacher in Tuscaloosa had this to say: "It's… it's like I have Bieber fever. Except it's for that Randy. Third period social studies. He's pretty near got a mustache." We failed to see the connection to the inquiry above, and were about to say as much when she further volunteered: "It's true. I did let him finger me in the utility closet. But it was during his Health class. So it was, like, academic."

Valerie B., a Mobile high school history teacher, was pretty adamant about every damn thing she had to say. "You know what? Maybe his teacher has other things on her mind. MAYBE his teacher was dealing with a bunch of PC thugs on a school board that DEMAND you cover "The Civil War" in your class, when the documentary record is spotty at best. Maybe his teacher had spent her summer months wrangling with a bunch of thought police fascists who compelled her, under penalty of dismissal, not only to do an entire unit on "slavery", but to condemn the whole practice, with no regard for the context in which it takes place. And that, to me, is just bad scholarship. I mean, is slavery nearly always wrong? Yeah, sure, OK. When you can prove it took place. Which the "Library of Congress" - so called - has never done to my satisfaction." She then offered us a shit-ton of shoddily printed pamphlets with titles like What the Lincoln Lovers WON'T Tell You, and Cotton Gin Full of LIES. So, just… wow to that.

Lyle C., a custodian at a school outside Salem OR, offered this: "I put the tennis balls on the chair legs. Try to scrape off the gum. I don't know what to tell you, man."

And lastly Bradley M., a fifth grade teacher on Chicago's South Side, summed it up this way: "Tired of parents talkin' bout 'gun violence this' and 'gun violence that'. Always cryin' about 'don't shoot my babies'. Look - guns ain't goin' no place. A week don't go by I ain't been in some kinda gunfight. I shot one of my students earlier this week. Because I TOLD those children: 'There will BE a motherfuckin' quiz today, bitches. We WILL review the structure of the cell, and if you ask me again, I will shoot you in your arm.' They don't listen. Next week I'll shoot one of 'em just to see are they paying attention."

Food for thought. Food for motherfucking thought.

Post script: Zander P., a second grade teacher in the affluent Chicago suburb of Wilmette could not be reached for comment, as the smart board in her classroom had not been working for the better part of a school day, and she was confronted by a mob of concerned parents as she made her way through the school parking lot to her car. The parents dragged her by her hair back to her classroom and stood over her as she tried in vain to repair the device. She was executed on the playground, and the legion of educators awaiting her position had a Thunderdome-style tournament to determine a winner. It was a great day for education.

everyone is fucking racist.

2011-11-03T15:48:00.003-05:00

how do i ask for a white doctor without sounding racist?

every time a young white doctor parts the partition curtain of my emergency room cubicle and says, "what brings you in today, miss irby?" i sigh forlornly while picturing this dude doing keg stands and vomiting down the front of his shirt while simulating masturbation with a stethescope. because i watch a lot of movies and reality television, and the words "white person" and "college" are synonymous with "drunk all the fucking time" and "girls gone wild sorority titties" in my tiny brain. now don't get me wrong, i will ask an ambulance driver to pass 37 functioning hospitals to get to one that white people go to, but once we arrive i want a motherfucker with twelve consonants in his last name to pull back the curtain on my dying ass while making notes in sanskrit on his clipboard. i'm always polite to caucasian doctors, because kindness is the quickest way to get some motherfucking zofran and dilauded shot into the catheter in my fucking arm, but after the initial stomach-palpating and CT scan-ordering, after i've won both his trust and liberal goodwill, i always say, in my most pathetically pain-riddled voice, "can you please get dr. mehta on the phone? he can tell you how best to treat me." in other words, GO FIND ME A GODDAMNED ASIAN.

I WANT A BITCH WHO WAS RAISED BY A TIGER MOM DIAGNOSING MY SHIT. i'm not fucking playing. listen, we know your mom (you know, the one who served wine at dinner and let you call her by her first name?) didn't make you do no goddamned homework, and your lazy fucking ass got grandfathered into yale because your family donated a library. and THAT'S AWESOME, but i want a dude who had to learn surgery under a dictator's watchful eye with the understanding that BEHEADING was his punishment for removing something from the wrong goddamned leg. we don't give a fuck about SHIT in this country. look at our cars. look at our electronics. LOOK AT OUR SCHOOL SYSTEM. ain't no americans in my doctor roster! not even warming the motherfucking bench! we are lazy and entitled and lack motivation, and FUCK ALL THAT. "no thank you, dr. smith. imma hold off the rest of this heart attack until dr. srinivasan finishes eating her chapati and tikka masala and can come take a look at me." you think i'm kidding?

ass doctor: INDIAN.
other ass doctor: KOREAN.
vagina doctor: ITALIAN.
tooth doctor: CHINESE.
general doctor: JAPANESE.
arthritis doctor: MORE INDIAN THAN MY PRIMARY ASS DOCTOR.
eye doctor: JEWISH. (jews, you are NOT WHITE. and y'all need to learn that that is NOT AN INSULT. yom tov, homie.)

every time someone suggests a doctor to me, my first question is, "what is his last name?" and if i can pronounce it on the first try without the help of motherfucking rosetta stone i immediately say, "NO THANKS, DUDE." and i'm sure any conservatives reading this are salty and telling me if i like india so much why don't i just move there, and my answer to that is "i hate heat and spicy food gives me indigestion. but thank you for the invitation." this isn't about hating america, it's about hating AMERICANS. how do i know they're the worst? because i am one of them. i half-ass everything i fucking do, and everyone praises me for it. school, work, whatever. "fair-to-middling" should be my middle goddamned name. i don't try hard at anything, yet i am rewarded for this laziness constantly. AND I WOULDN'T HAVE IT ANY OTHER WAY.

because here's the thing: i'm not trying to change our dumb as oxen sedentary lifestyles, i just don't want a motherfucker who eats cheetos and watches jersey shore to remove a part of my motherfucking colon. just like i wouldn't ask a chinese dude to make me some smelts and cheese grits or to press and curl my hair. (although i probably would, because chinese people are good at everything.) and my sick and diseased ass is a veritable hospital EXPERT. in thirty-one years i have been hospitalized at least forty times, and my research has always proven that the doctors whose english i understand the LEAST are the ones who are going to fix my shit the BEST. so your racist ass better get with the goddamned program.

that's right, YOU'RE RACIST. everyone is fucking racist. i will only let a black person cut my hair, yet i would never let one do my taxes. see? MOTHERFUCKING RACIST. the best part of this post-racial obama america was when instead of a united nations hamhock and cauliflower ticker tape food stamp parade the day after his inauguration white people taped lipton tea bags to all of the fedoras and straw hats gathering dust in their closets and started saying "nigger" in the middle of the goddamned grocery store. i was too busy sitting at home waiting for the mailman to deliver my reparations check, but i heard the rest of you idealists had your goddamned hearts broken when white people didn't start leaving their front doors open and inviting you in for a cold glass of milk and a warm slice of the american dream.

it's too bad john edwards fucked everything up by sticking his dick in that talking broomstick, because you hoes would've had health care and a jobs bill if anyone other than this skinny halfrican suggested it. and listen, i love barack too (we're both black, so i can call him by his first name like that), but mitch mcconnell ain't trying to work with a dude who has common on his ipod! COME ON, SON. we have to get convincing white people to do our bidding for us! that's why everyone was so stuffed with pork rinds and high on link cards and wic coupons during the clinton administration, because he knew how to talk a bitch into giving us some shit. congress is not even trying to listen to some purple lips talking about, "hey mang, can i holla at you about this debt crisis, dawg?" you need a dude who looks like he stepped out of a brooks brothers catalog or a rudyard kipling novel to lobby for your abortions and government lunch programs. HOW SOON WE FORGET.

my favorite thing is when people want to do some racist-ass shit yet are worried about appearing racist. i mean, if your racist ass has a racist preference, why does it matter how it looks to people? YOU FUCKING PHONY, if you don't want to seem racist, don't do racist shit. that's another american handicap, wanting to HAVE YOUR GODDAMNED CAKE AND EAT IT, TOO. if you don't want my dirty black hands on you, SAY THAT. there's no nice way to get it across without hurting my little brown feelings, so just get that shit off your chest so we can both move on. it's never these skinhead KKK motherfuckers you have to watch out for. at least you know where you fucking stand with them. no, it's these whole foods yoga mat bitches smiling in your fucking face and rolling their eyes behind your back when they hear your thick-ass accent as you help load eight pounds of organic cashew butter into the trunks of their hybrid SUVs the moveon.org stickers in the back windows. THOSE are the people you've got to watch your black for. (TYPO AND I'M KEEPING IT.)

it's that super secret surprise racism that really stings. i wouldn't flinch if a white stranger announced that he wanted a white physician, but i ALWAYS DO when i find out some ultra-liberal radically-progressive free-thinking liberal friend of mine doesn't want her children in a school with a high ESL population. every colored person has had that moment, when some BITCH YOU KNOW lets it slip that she thinks you're the exception or some dumb shit. and it's cool, just be upfront about it, GURL. "hey listen, irby, i have a general distaste for black people other than you. just wanted you to know. would you like a bite of my scone?" that way i'm not totally fucking blindsided when you lock the car door as a black man walks past your car as i sit in the passenger seat. (white people love driving me places, and i let them, because morgan freeman would want me to.) and don't worry, peach. i would lock my shit, too. because we are unpredictable as a people and you never know when one of us might carjack your 1996 toyota celica with the busted tape deck and heat that doesn't work. PFFFFT. i mean, maybe you shouldn't walk around calling bitches porch monkeys and shit, because that might get you killed, but stop pretending you really would go see that tyler perry movie latasha invited you to that you "just can't find the time for." TELL HER YOU DON'T WANT TO PAY TEN DOLLARS TO WATCH THAT BLACK ASS MINSTREL SHIT. see? you feel better, don't you. now off you go to eat beets and crochet or whatever else it is white people do for fun.

now back to this racist asshole. has your racist ass not yet figured out how to use the motherfucking internet? type type enter click is pretty much all your racist ass has to do to find an anglo-saxon physician in your racist network who works with your racist PPO. i'm sorry to keep calling you racist, but it's a label you really should learn to get comfortable with. we need to stop sugarcoating shit and, as black people love to say, KEEP IT REAL. it's not so bad, right? i'm just calling a spade a spade.

alpha dog.

2011-11-02T16:22:00.000-05:00

Dear i+i:
My dog bit a neighbor - not severely. I paid for my neighbor's doctor visit (no stitches or anything - "slight abrasion/contusion" the doc called it). But now he's saying my dog is a menace and that he should be put down. How can I handle this? - Perplexed Pet Owner

Hey PP:

Man. Sounds like your neighbor's a real pussy. And a total dick. He's like a hermaphrodite of the emotions. Since you seem like a bit of a wuss your own self, I'll go ahead and hate his guts on your behalf.

Since you strike me as fairly hopeless, here's a few strategies you might try to overcome this strife with your neighbor:

The Escalator. This is a classic: YOU should bite your neighbor. Like every fucking time you see his ass. Give it like a couple days, that'll be one skittish fucking neighbor who peers through his blinds to see if you're around. Peace? Achieved. Downside is that puss-dick will likely sic the cops on you.
Meat Vest. On the sly, toss pieces of ground veal on him. The raw stuff. Pretty soon every dog in town will be drawn to him like a Pavlovian fucking magnet.
The Cheddar Sweater. Just like The Meat Vest, but with cheese. And rhyming.
Peanut Butter Pants. Like The Meat Vest and The Cheddar Sweater, but with peanut butter. And concentrating on his ass area. And with an increase in alliteration.
Pocket Full of Kryptonite. Play this 1991 Spin Doctors release on repeat. And really crank it. Your neighbor will be driven rapidly insane. Victory? Yours. You should probably vacate your premises for the duration of this one, however, as you don't wish to suffer from the Backdraft of Your Own Madness that would surely result. They tried this on Noriega, but he had a stockpile of Sabbath to counteract it.
Spy vs. Spy. Don't do this one. Whatever you try is certain to backfire.
The Daddy Day Care. Respond to any word from your neighbor with quotes from this 2003 Eddie Murphy film, leaning heavily on the line "Wow. Goats really love pie." This is certain to drive him completely insane. I'm not suggesting this one won't take a while, but you'll get him there. How committed are you to this project? You might need to take a leave from work.
Asparagus Falls. Eat a shit-ton of asparagus. Collect your weird-smelling pee. Fill a Super-Soaker®. Go nuts.
The Siege of Stalingrad. You can starve him out of there. He's got nothing of the Russians' resolve. The snipers will take him as he staggers out. Oh - get snipers.
The Lebowski. Nothing gets a fella's attention like a live marmot in his bathtub, yo.
Frosty the Snowman. You 'member that episode of The Office where Jim and Dwight get in that epic snowball fight? And Dwight ambushes Jim from inside that snowman? You be Dwight. But instead of snowballs, use throwing stars. And if you don't have snow where you, you know what? Go fuck yourself. You got nothing to be bitching about.
The Cuckold. Ravish his wife in the town square. Then regale the villagers with tales of your exploits over tankards of ale. The anachronisms will shake him badly.
The Cat Burglar. This one is more a harmless prank, really: lure his cat into your yard with a dish of milk. Skin it and pitch it through his window while he's having dinner or reading quietly. Upon reflection, this one is maybe not entirely harmless.
The Porky Pig. The name may lead you do conclude that this one's just a pork-based version of The Meat Vest. It's not. And I'm frankly a little insulted that you'd think this. In this one, you need a whole pig carcass. Wait on an overpass till he's driving through. Launch the carcass through his fucking windshield. In this one, I'm not gonna lie to you, depending on traffic there could be a lot of collateral damage. But you know what? If some other people gotta die for this, that's just how it is, man. Can't be helped.
The Pee Wee. Scream whenever he says the secret word. Constantly change the secret word. Oh, and "scream" should be taken to mean "hit him with rake".
The Silly Putty®. You know how you can lift a picture from the newspaper by pressing Silly Putty® into it? Do that with his face. But use acid.
Walkin' the Dog. You know this yo-yo trick? Awesome, no? While he's distracted by it, shoot him in the leg. Irony? Achieved.
Cat Scratch Fever. Throughout all this: don't forget The Nuge, dude.
The Hand That Rocks the Cradle. Offer to babysit his kids. Then kill everybody. Lotta people confuse with The Fatal Attraction - don't. In that one, you gotta sleep with him first.
The Giant's Causeway. Surely one of the baffling rock formations in all of Ireland - nay, the world!
Death From Above! Send him frequent ransom-style cut-out notes with these words over a period of months. He'll be so twitchy and always looking skyward, so it'll be super easy to get him to wander into the pit of punji sticks you dig in his driveway. Don't skimp on the feces - if you do, his wounds might not get infected.
My Eyes Are Up Here, Buddy. Get breast implant surgery - I'm talking about massive fake boobs, here. Like they should give you pretty bad back ache. The first time he sees you, the cognitive dissonance this causes him will give you a moment to strangle him in safety. Oh, and start calling yourself "Warheads" or "Winnebagos" - get out in front of the story, man. Own it.
The 30 Rock. Pelt him. With not fewer than 30 rocks.
Identity Theft. There's no way you'll be able to clean out his bank account or anything, since you don't know shit about computers. Just like steal his mannerisms and catch phrases - this'll totally irritate the fuck out of him - BUT WHAT'S HE GONNA DO?!?
The On Golden Pond. Marry him, and stay wed for upwards of 50 years. Then outlive him. This is for sure one of those "revenge is a dish best served cold" recommendations - you really gotta be in it to win it with this one.
The Oliver Twist. This is really just a series of titty twisters. But it kind of classes it up by busting out the Dickens - don't you feel that this is so?
The Buffalo Bill. Make a flesh-cardigan out of him. Tuck yourself in down there. Dance around a little bit. Feels good, no?
Eyes on the Prize. Remove his eyes. Put them, googly-eye-style, on a trophy. A bowling one would be hilarious.
The Poetic Justice. Something where he's jussssssssst about to die and then you have like this perfect quip that makes him feel even worse about the whole situation. This one needs work, maybe.
All the King's Horses. Break open his head. Then have horses try to fix it. They won't do dick - no opposable thumbs!
The Fargo. Hey - why not chuck him in a wood chipper?
The Aristocrats. Tell him an incredibly involved dirty joke - like a super long one. Drink deep of his cringing feelings of awkwardness!
The Beluga. Promise him caviar. But then hit him with a whale of the same name. The hilarity will be lost on him, for he lies now dead.
The Conquistador. All this one is, basically, is you rape him with one of those pointy helmets.
"You Want Fries With That?" Say this all the time - in response to anything. No matter how nonsensical it is - speak only these words. After a few weeks of this, your family will kill you and you'll be free. Free of all this.

We frankly doubt you have the stones to follow through on any of these bold proposals. So we won't even bother describing The Abattoir or The Cerberus. That shit is too advanced for you.

my boyfriend wants me to shit on him.

2011-11-01T16:47:00.000-05:00

my boyfriend wants me to take a dump on him. why?

as a person who's watched both brazilian fart porn and an agonizing twenty seconds of "two girls, one cup," i consider myself pretty well-versed in the area of weird butt stuff that some people find sexy. as a person with crohn's disease, ulcerative colitis, and pretty much every other classification of gastroentological disease on the motherfucking planet, i consider myself a veritable EXPERT in all things shit-related. in other words, this is a question my gross ass was MADE FOR.

i'm not a judger when it comes to strange fetishes. i'm pretty sure that curious sexual desires come from some deeply-rooted psychological torture inflicted on a person during his childhood. or maybe dude just jerked off SO FUCKING MUCH that conventional porn just doesn't do it for him anymore. seriously, how much fake writhing and melodramatic moaning can a dude watch before staged pajama parties and sexy bubble baths no longer get his sexmotor running? if boys start masturbating at what, eight or nine?, they could easily exhaust the archives of ordinary pornography by the age of twenty-three. and then what? THEN you gotta watch bitches having sex with machines and farting on birthday cakes and shit. so there's your why, i guess. i mean, maybe. if you want a real fucking answer might need to consult a psychologist who specializes in dudes who get hot for bestiality porn or whatever. people are really into some fucked up shit, and i'm too dumb to intelligently articulate why.

i've never been into sub/dom situations, but that's 100% because i like MANLY MEN who will PUT ME IN MY GODDAMNED PLACE. i'm not fucking kidding. if someone would kindly make a porn featuring a dude with a full beard bossing some hot lady around while killing an antelope with his bare hands i would be most grateful. sassy, smart-mouthed girlz want to be told exactly what the fuck to do by a hirsute dude who sounds like his testicles have fucking dropped, and i would never let some sugarpants who wanted to be scolded while i sprayed diarrhea in his mouth give me the what for. a BRUTE would never ask for something moist like this, and those are the kinds of dudes i fuck. brutes smell like gasoline and dead animals, not someone else's fucking defecant. i mean a real man with some meat on his bones and a firm handshake who looks you in the goddamned eye while telling you exactly where you can put that backtalk, young lady. this is a man who bear hugs; NOT a weasel who delicately grandma-pats the air near your back with twelve full inches between your bodies lest he have actual physical contact with an adult human female. this is a man who will haul your new air conditioner upstairs under one arm while carrying two loads of laundry, all of your dry cleaning, and a container of cat litter in the other; NOT a man who would tremble and whimper, "please poo on me" in a little girl voice smack in the middle of some hot lovemaking.

i like humiliating dudes in the only way that counts: in a battle of brains or wit. the comedy game is a fucking beast, man. and EVERY DUDE ON EARTH WHO EVER TOLD A MOTHERFUCKING KNOCK-KNOCK JOKE thinks he can throw the funny gauntlet down on my ass. seriously, i got an email just this morning that had the words "comedy challenge" in the subject line and thought, "here we go again. another precious ego imma have to destroy." so i get my rocks off shutting down nerds in word battles, and maybe that's why i've never been interested in spanking a sobbing gentleman with a paddle while angrily yanking on his leash.

WITH ONE NOTABLE EXCEPTION. i used to bang this dude whose shoes were a little too fucking pointy for my liking (a dead giveaway that some fruity shit is about to go down, for sure), and that dude asked me to URINATE ON HIM. i was young and mentally retarded, so i did it. multiple times. i mean, i know the makings of a good story when i hear one masturbating outside the bathroom door while i'm on the toilet. and i'm nothing if not a miner of my personal tragedy for comedy gold. so i peed on that dude all the fucking time, even though it made me feel fruity and weak, because i was bored and i liked him and it makes for an excellent story to regale people with at parties.

but pee is different. if i told you i'd just peed myself, you'd probably giggle and go run and fetch me a towel. but if i told you that I JUST SHIT MYSELF, you'd recoil in horror while covering your face and silently wishing i would stop talking to you. this IBD has been destroying my body from within for six messy years (and counting!), so believe you me i have seen every single possible face that a person makes when confronted with the information that i am on the precipice of soiling my pants. "delighted" is not how i would ever describe any of these faces. i performed a piece once about how difficult it is to try to date like a normal person when stricken with a disease that involves shit, because bitches would rather do ANYTHING than deal with shit. if i had a vomit disease or a bleeding disease or whatever it would be no fucking problem. i know people with HERPES who have happy sex lives! but tell a motherfucker you sometimes wear a diaper and what do you get? *crickets*

i would kill to stumble across a dude like this. not that i'd be interested in banging him, because being called "mommy" sours my stomach, but it would be nice to have a conversation about bloody stools without a person backing away from me trying to mask a look of disgust. i could care less about the why, frankly. i mean, do we really want to know all of the deep dark secrets that make a person we're interested in relating with a goddamned sexual deviant? NO, NO WE DO NOT. guaranteed if you knew the real reason some dude wanted you to tie him up and blast his rectum with a cattle prod you would never have sex with that sociopath ever again. so let's just focus on the HOW. as in, "HOW ON EARTH DO YOU GO ABOUT MAKING THIS REPULSIVE SHIT HAPPEN?"

dumps are smelly and full of bacteria and germs. but so is your mouth. that said, i'd much rather kiss a person who hadn't brushed his teeth in a couple days than have his soft serve bowel movement dropped on my stomach. because that's where you'd put it, right? a relatively smooth and flat surface? omg, WHERE DOES IT GO? what position does one assume as the shitter? AS THE SHITEE?!

i don't like a whole lot of discussion as a precursor to sex, i find it incredibly difficult to maintain my erection through a whole bunch of blah blah blah, and i've already posed more questions on this one subject than i have about every sexual possibilty i have ever encountered. where do you do it? who cleans it up? do you have sex while it's on you? do you touch it? DO YOU SPREAD IT?! how do you deal with the smell? does he prefer runny poop or a solid, formed stool? how do you relax your sphincter enough to shit on a dude in a romantical setting? do you squat? spread your butt cheeks apart? shit in your hand and wipe it on him? just thinking about all this makes me gag, and i'm comfortable with my dirty, poopy parts! i can't even imagine how you ask a person to do this for you. i have a hard enough time asking a dude to bite me and fuck me on my period, i cannot even imagine how the "hey honey, i was thinking we might add a little number 2 to our sexual repertoire" conversation goes. can't talk about it over dinner, that's for sure.

maybe that's the solution. just stop eating altogether. then you'll never have to take a shit. no shit = you never have to figure out how to take one on this young man's scrawny bird chest. and while he might get his soiled panties in a knot about it, i know dozens of dudes who like to pretend women don't have bodily functions i can introduce you to. you're about to become most men's sopping wet dream, sister.

fun size candy = devil's gateway

2011-10-31T13:16:00.000-05:00

Dear i+i:
I don't wish to disappoint my children, but I am a Christian, and I don't want them trick-or-treating. Halloween is a pagan holiday, and I feel very strongly that it undermines the Christian values I'm trying to instill in my kids. Am I wrong? - Party Pooper for Jesus

Great question, PPJ:

Rest assured: you are very much NOT wrong. Halloween is a heathen holiday intent only on corrupting young souls. There are those who contend that it's a harmless means of letting kids engage in a bit of fantasy and escapism. THIS IS A LIE!!!!!!!!! Halloween is a remorseless pageant of Wiccan bloodlust and carnality that aims to sap the Christian resolve from this once great nation. Is by accident that Obama's birthday (his REAL birthday - not that trumped-up one in "Hawaii" or wherever it is he's claiming to have been born - the one that took place under a blood moon in a Haitian swamp with not fewer than SIX DOZEN actual zombies in attendance, where he was "baptized" in the blood of Pentecostal missionaries) is on Halloween?!??!?!? OF COURSE IT'S NO ACCIDENT!!! IN THE SAME WAY THAT IF YOU ADD UP THE DIGITS FROM ANY BAR CODE, THEY ALWAYS ADD UP TO "666"!!! *

* We are fact-checking this paragraph, because certain elements of it don't feel quite right. We'll report back. - Eds.

Not only should you forbid your kids from trick-or-treating, compel them to spend the evening in reflection and prayer (shackled to a boiler or radiator in a windowless basement is best - since I'm pretty sure that in Leviticus someplace, it ID's a "cheerless underground chamber" as the "piousest place in the eyes of the Lord" - I don't have to check this, it just feels right), beat them with flails if they request meals for bathroom breaks, and remind them that "Fun Size" is an acronym for "Drinking the Blood of Innocents"!!!!! **

** Again. This doesn't seem to line up, really. I mean, we'll bust out the Scrabble® tiles to run down this lead, but we gotta be honest, we're finding it suspect.

Beyond your unambiguous rejection of the Godless practice of candy-whoring from door to door, you should take the following precautions to safeguard the souls of your family on this the least Christian night of the calendar:

Douse the lights and tape around every window so you're not corrupted by visits from the little infidels in your neighborhood - they may smell of Starburst® ("Pop one in your mouth and unleash the juiciness" - which is right there on their website - seems a pretty BRAZEN reference to satan spooge), but this is just to MASK the brimstone that's leaching out of every pore. It's been proven by science *** that a costumed kid on Halloween represents a greater concentration of satanic energy than Uday Hussein presiding over a torture orgy or Ed Gein hosting the Emmys.

*** These findings are unpublished in any scientific journal we could find. - Eds.

In the event that an especially persistent group of trick-or-treaters continue to ring your bell/knock on your door, you are authorized BY LAW to spatter them with battery acid **** from the window of an upper floor.

**** Please CHECK your local ordinances regarding this recommendation. It is only in effect in parts of Alabama.

Avoid use of the google search term: "looping video of the crucifix masturbation scene from The Exorcist." *****

Avoid purchase of Jack Skellington rape porn fan fiction. *****

***** These seem advisable for pretty much anybody, regardless of faith.

Avoid viewing John Carpenter's "Halloween" since Jamie Lee Curtis is a hermaphrodite sent by Satan to confuse you.
Avoid acceptance of apples at any point today - they are packed with urban legends about razor blades, and will dissuade you from keeping your focus squarely on vanquishing Satan and His minions.
Avoid listening to rock duo The White Stripes, for Satan is RIGHT BEHIND THEM!!!
Avoid listening to blues rock duo The Black Keys, because everything they record just sounds dirty.
If for some reason you DO find yourself in some heathen neighbor's house that's got one of those "blindfolded chamber of horrors" things set up - it's actually OK to put your hands in the "mummy guts," since that's just cold spagetti; it's also OK to feel the "werewolf eyes", since those are really just peeled grapes; DO NOT, however, stick your finger into "the devil's anus," because while it is true that it's just a dollop of chunky peanut butter. It is also true that it's actually inside Satan's ass.
Avoid listening to Alice Cooper. Not only does he kind of suck, but he's a total fraud - he's a staunch Republican retiree who goes golfing all the time. Seriously - all that makeup and guillotine shit he does onstage? Total horse shit. Same with Rob Zombie.
If you eat candy today - and chances are excellent you will, since the data suggests a correlation between being an avid Christian and being a lumbering giant fat-ass - ONLY eat full-size candy bars. The letters in the words "Fun Size" have been proven to be an anagram of "Mmmmmmmm… Satan Cock."******

****** Well this is clearly just flat-out wrong. There are no ellipses in "Fun Size"

Refrain from wearing a costume yourself. Wedging that fat ass of yours into a naughty nurse get up or a sexy witch costume will just ruin it for everybody else. We are totally not kidding with this - any garment the back of which carves those haunches of yours into four ass cheeks is just ruinous and hateful. Honestly, it's like a fucking garbage bag filled with lumpy gravy back there. Stick the Tweety sweats you wear most days.
Do not, under any circumstances, make candy corn fangs on yourself. This is a known Satan-summons. Plus, they make you sound lispy and ridiculous.
Avoid watching Elvira, Mistress of the Dark - though totally evil, obviously, she's pretty severely developmentally disabled, so she doesn't know any better. I mean, she's still going to Hell and everything, but in her case it makes you a little sad.
At work, don't answer the phone "Accounts receivable, this is Debbie" in that Vincent Price voice. This has less to do with avoiding Satan's influence than it does the fact that your impressions eat ass and everybody hates you enough as it is.
Refrain from watching Laughton's Night of the Hunter, as the artistry and audacity of it may cause you to reevaluate your entire relationship to your faith, and to cast doubts on Christianity as a force for good in the world. Anything that causes you to ask questions was sent by Satan to test you. And, yes, the test is Pass/Fail, but a failing grade means an eternity spent as Lucifer's anal bead, so seriously - call in sick.
Listen to all the Decyfer, Rush of Fools, Eden's Bridge, Soulger, or King's X you feel like. Actually any Christian rock you have lying around sucks so bad Satan will totally leave you alone. Blast it. Fair warning, though: this stuff really, really sucks. Like a shit-ton. So you better be pretty goddamn committed to your faith. Because it's like these dudes are forcibly sodomizing coolness every time they tune up. Plus, the irony is that all these bands, in order to attain "success" on the Christian "rock scene," have signed pacts with Satan.
Don't be taken in by "holiday" versions of your favorite snacks. The secret ingredient? Satan's nut sweat. I'm looking at you, Krispy Kreme.
And again: stay vigilant! Even if they are from that bowl in the break room at work, a Fun Size bar will enslave you to the Dark Lord for all time. Because as everybody knows "Fun Size" is an anagram for "His Infernal Majesty Awaits the Eternal Feast of Ass-Rape With His Barbed Cock That Your First Bite of This Krackle Bar® Represents. This Is a Binding Contract. You Cannot Hope to Extricate Yourself From It, So Don't Even Try. HAIL SATAN!!!"*******

******* Again, in the interests of thoroughness, we'll check this, but it honestly doesn't seem like this matches up. - Eds.

If you follow these simple suggestions, you MAY awake tomorrow morning with your immortal soul intact. Don't forget to unshackle the kids, cause you don't want DCFS coming down on your ass on top of this whole "being locked in a mortal struggle for your soul" thing. And be sure and have them wear long sleeves - shackle bruises are a dead giveaway.

Yours in Christ,
i+i

border dispute

2011-10-28T17:31:00.000-05:00

Dear i+i:
My neighbor and I have a long-standing dispute about our property line. He contends that the fence we put in FOUR YEARS ago is on his property and wants us to tear it down and move it. I say if he wants us to incur that kind of expense, HE has to pay for a new survey of both properties to help us figure this out. Can you help? - Fences Make Good Neighbors

Sure thing, FMGN.

Property rights are pretty central to the Constitution, and the Founders obviously put great stock in protecting the rights of individuals against the incursions and curtailments of the State. But that's not what I'm seeing in this case. What I'm seeing is two white people. Unhappy about other things. Afraid to fight each other.

To you, the letters"FMGN" stands for "Fences Make Good Neighbors". To me, they stand for "Fucking Motherfucking Goddamn Nontroversy". I'm betting you both wear fucking sweaters draped over your shoulders in that little fucking cashmere bitch-cape you fucking shitbirds are so fond of. I bet I could get on the roof of your house and throw a rock in any direction and hit a golf course, am I right?

Bet you're a big golfer, aren't you Skid Mark? Except you say "avid". You describe yourself publicly as "an avid golfer". Which is the rough equivalent of saying to a black person: "Yeah, you know something? My share of your reparations for slavery? You know where that's going? Green fees. And I realize I'm wearing all pastels on the outside, but my boxer-briefs? Confederate flag." Your life has all the fucking authenticity of Elvis fucking Presley singing "In the Ghetto." In fact, I'm pretty sure that your continued prosperity constitutes a hate crime. Against fucking everybody. We could bring you up on seven billion counts of being an oppressor douche-face. If every man, woman, and child on the planet took say 8 seconds to punch you in your hypocrite face - and believe me, we all want to - it would take over 1,700 years. So plant your feet, dickhead - here it comes.

I know. You're cowering behind "my family loves me." This is a ridiculous thing for you to say. Because of the model you have provided, your daughter will date an unbroken string of date rapist bro-ham assholes. She is cutting herself as I write this, and at the back of her spacious closet, she has eleven shoeboxes lined with Target bags that she's filled with sour bulemic puke. LOOK at her, you fucking swine - she makes Britney Murphy look zaftig. Go look up "zaftig", shit-for-brains. Now go look up "Britney Murphy". Your fucking HOUSEKEEPER knows about this, but she a) has no fucking idea how to cope with these white people problems, and b) is afraid you get INS on her if she says anything - so she leaves the puke-filled boxes as a rank little shrine to your epic shittiness.

And that wife of yours? Doesn't fucking MATTER what she thinks, because lemme tell you something: I could fire an arrow in her left ear and it would come whipping out her right without hitting a goddamn thing in between. She may look like Shannon Tweed a little bit, if the light is poor, and you've had like 13 drinks, and you don't have your contacts in. But, shit, dude - is it worth squinting at the off brand star of White Cargo and The Dark Dancer when every fucking syllable out of that collagen mouth is more bone-crushingly stupid than the last? Are fake tits honestly that appealing, even where they are attached to the Grand Marshall of the Irritating Retard Parade?

And the reason your son is pissing away his Tufts tuition on an Art History degree is just to spite you. He has no real interest in art or its history - he just wants his fucking might-as-well-be-printed-on-Charmin BA to serve as a $200K dick-slap to your face on graduation day.

And your partners down at the firm like you well enough. Except that they define "like" as "find you so hopeless and stupid that they're stealing from the company like crazy." You're a fucking chump and they hate you for it.

You are so fully horrible, I don't even know where to begin. Your anchorman hair white as cocaine? Your giant red scotch face? That fucking shoulder sweater? Seriously, dude. The bitch-cape cunty epaulets look has got to go. Like yesterday. I'm not like super-butch or anything, but even I know that any individual wearing a motherfucking duckling-yellow cardigan tossed over his shoulders has relegated his manhood to the dustbin of history. You would need a radio telescope to pick up the ghostly signal of your manhood, you arid little turd. That fucking sweater cape is a shroud for the sad, puckered corpse of your manhood, son. You are a little bitchbird and those limp sleeves are your flightless fucking wings.

And here's the real trouble: your neighbor is every bit as insufferable as you are. He's every bit the vein-ruptured drunk you are, exactly the same kind of sweater-shouldered limpdick, precisely the same form of smug and disengaged trauma-peddler to everybody around him. The fact that both of you douchebags drive Audis* speaks fucking volumes.

* Studies confirm that it's uniformly the biggest dickstains under the fucking sun that drive Audis. It's science. If you drive an Audi, then I am sorry to report that that fuckface staring back at you out of the mirror is a weapons-grade asshole.

So here's your answer: my solution involves a bulldozer. But the fence will stay intact. The bulldozer will be used to crush you and your worthless neighbor into a long red streak on the street out front of your houses. And here's your legacy, dickwad: 6 months after you're both squeegeed up off the asphalt, you'll have faded so completely in their memories, one of the assholes down the way will be watering his lawn one day, and some other shithead will be taking out the trash. And they'll gaze out at the spot where you died and go:

"Man. That was a such a shame about… Greg and… Todd, was it?"

"Ken, I think. And… I wanna say, Doug, maybe?"

And they won't think about it too hard, because they don't give a rat's ass about you, or your neighbor what's-his-name. Or about anything else.

And the way you can tell there's no God is that a gas main doesn't explode and incinerate everyone on what was once your cul-de-sac in this gated little slice of hell on earth. For if there was any justice and you people got anything like the fiery retribution you deserve, the ONLY thing left standing in the aftermath of the just desserts that cause you each to be reduced to a charcoal fucking briquette should be the fucking fence you douches were arguing about in the first place.

FACECROOK.

2011-10-27T14:56:00.000-05:00

Today at school, someone came up to me after social studies and asked me why I said mean things about her on Facebook. Then I found out that my best friend got into a fight online, and to fix things she hacked into my account and backed herself up. It got me into trouble with my friends, plus she lied to my face about it. Should I forgive her or not?

FACEBOOK IS A FUCKING LIFE-RUINER. stupid assholes insistent upon tagging the most awful and wretchedly disgusting open-mouthed pictures of your flabby arms and sweaty skin beard; your nonstop stalking convincing you that that one dude you're obsessed with is fucking all nineteen girls that constantly comment on his statuses (EVEN THE DUMB ONES) and post pictures of themselves in catsuits on his wall, forcing you to sit up all goddamned night trying to discern the nature of his online relationships from a stream of suggestive comments with zero fucking context or background; misinterpreted messages from your friends that read as bitchy or dismissive and you have no idea whether or not that jerk is mad at you for real, so just in case she is you respond with an equally terse, vague message for her to try to translate; spoiled attention whores littering your newsfeed with pictures of their labia all fucking day long (or links to their STUPID FUCKING BLOGS, omg); bitches you HATED in high school flaunting their happy lives and handsome husbands and adorable children in your face every goddamned motherfucking day while you post about tv shows and what the cat is doing: I'M SURPRISED WE HAVEN'T ALL COLLECTIVELY HEAVED OUR COMPUTERS OFF THE NEAREST CLIFF.

but then how would we know what restaurant you just checked into?!

i wish i never had to meet anyone in real life. god, i am SO MUCH BETTER ON THE INTERNET. i'm so much smarter, so much funnier, and the cropped parts of my face and upper body are so much better looking in the thumbnails on my profile. am i right?! i fucking DARE you bitches to act like it's just me. it's amazing to have that level of control over how other people perceive you. on the internet no one has to know how much you don't have your shit together unless you want them to, and what kind of idiot would ever do THAT?! my real life is fucking stupid, but my internet life is AMAZING. because i designed it that way.

i love facebook. how else would i know so much about people without having to spend even a minute in their company?! i can decide, based on your religious and political beliefs and your taste in music, whether or not you're the kind of person i could tolerate in real life. i can determine, based on the kind of shit you post, whether or not you are dumb. do you have stupid friends? do you still live with your mother? all these things are right there for me to click through, and i can make you into whomever i want you to be with even picking up the telephone. that's some magic shit right there.

but omg, i CANNOT EVEN IMAGINE what my life would have been like if facebook had been around when i was in school. it makes my stomach hurt just thinking about that shit. seriously, i got stress diarrhea just reading this fucking question. i'm not kidding, I AM IN PHYSICAL PAIN imagining what a fucking nightmare my life would have been if the jerks i grew up with could add FACEBOOK to the arsenal of tools with which they tormented me. good luck being the ugly kid in these modern times. to go from school, which is a microcosm of everything that fucking sucks about real life, to facebook, which is an even smaller distillation of everything that sucks about school, must be fucking ridiculous. it's like bullying, concentrated. the thought of even having had a cell phone when i was in high school gives me the meat sweats, all that texting nasty shit about people and spreading camera phone pictures all over school. there were three thousand kids in my high school, every single one of whom would probably lunge at the chance to humiliate one of our fellow classmates. myself included. just think about it: health class, swimming during gym, THE GODDAMNED LOCKER ROOM?! all opportunities to take a grainy cell phone picture likely to make some bitch drop the fuck out and opt for homeschool.

i'm too goddamned old for internet fighting. and even when i was a kid i was pretty docile and harmless. i just wanted to read books and stay out of everyone's way. don't believe me? CHUBBY KID MARCHING BAND. pretty much sums up everything you need to know about my high school experience. AND I SANG IN THE FUCKING CHOIR. for honors credit! next time you see me, be sure to pull my underwear out of my pants or knock all my science books out of my hands. i'll tape my glasses for the occasion. anyway, my fertile imagination is coming up with all sorts of sordid reasons your girl got into a comment war with some mean girl on the jv cheerleading squad. did they show up at homecoming wearing the same dress? choose the same project for physics class? develop crushes on the same soccer forward?! it KILLS ME not knowing.

the real question, though, is WHY DOES THIS BITCH HAVE YOUR PASSWORD? you can't tell that kind of shit to regular people! if someone figured out any of my passwords or pin numbers i would have a LOT of explaining to do. you know how many shitty emails i send in a day?! DOZENS. and they're usually about some bitch who thinks we're friends. guess again, asshole. I HATE YOU. but you'll never know because the trusty internet keeps all my secrets safe. i perish at the thought of someone reading who i want to bang or what's really in my checking account, and no one ever will because i don't do dumb shit like jot my passwords on the back of things for safekeeping. that shit is locked in my mindgrapes, and when i die all my nasty gchats and slutty sext messaging dies with me. even if you just happen to be sitting at my desk and open the internet, ain't no passwords saved there! and the history is deleted, too, because I DON'T WANT YOU TO KNOW HOW MUCH PORN I WATCH. i could die at any time, and i shudder to think that bitches will be at my funeral shaking their heads because they found out i like to watch dudes straddling a fucking sybian.

this shady bitch. fight your own battles, trick! you kids need to learn how to junk punch a ho the minute she picks up your fucking laptop. i'd set this bitch on fire for fucking up my e-lationships, because they're all that i live for. i mean, you probably shouldn't go searching for your dad's blowtorch just because i would. you're still young, and this too shall pass. but forgiving her sounds weak to me. yes, i am one of THOSE PEOPLE. i don't forgive anyone, i just cut them out of my life. i feel like after a certain age you shouldn't be doing a whole lot of shit you have to apologize for, and that most times someone offers an apology it's not really for the intent of that action (because bitches usually mean the fucked-up, horrible shit they do to you). it's mostly to make themselves feel better and to try to convince you to keep them around so they can cut your fucking throat and shit down your goddamned neck again.

"i'm sorry i got caught" or "i'm sorry you got mad" is what people really should fucking say when they apologize for stomping all over your bruised feelings with their football cleats, then you won't feel so bad when your answer is, "YOU ARE NOT FORGIVEN." i wasn't allowed to say sorry when i was growing up unless it was to apologize for having embarrassed myself in some way, and even now i'll only say it when i look dumb in front of someone whose opinion matters to me. you already know, within this once incident alone, that this asshole is a liar and identity thief, so the answer seems pretty goddamned clear to me. unless she hacked some encrypted codes from a remote location to pose as you in the battle of katie versus megan and you can harness that brain for some evildoing of your own, fuck her. clean up the mess she made with your other friends and then ICE THIS BITCH OUT. isn't that the sweet shit about high school cliquing? ostracizing some jerk out of the popular group? wield that adolescent power, little kittenface. she'll be overdosing on black eyeliner and hanging in the parking lot with the deadbeats and burnouts in no time.

AND CHANGE YOUR FUCKING PASSWORD. kids is so dumb.

the thong: plot perpetrated by Tuck's® Medicated Pads?

2011-10-26T16:58:00.000-05:00

Dear i+i:

My boyfriend wants me to wear thong underwear, but I find them really uncomfortable. Do you have a solution? - Bifurcated Backside

Sure thing, BB:

It's often been observed that men respond to visual stimulation, which takes the form of naughtywear; slutwear; whorewear; trampwear; hoochiewear; floozywear; hookerwear; streetwalkerwear; togs of the strumpet; concubine fashions; apparel of the fallen woman; minxwear; dragonladywear (for that Asian flavor); trollop threads; Jesus God, you look like a prostitute!; vampwear; tartwear; lady of the evening gowns; Jezebelia; wenchwear; nympho gear; courtesan clothes; painted lady vestments; St. Pauli girl get ups; ho-tards (really, these are just leotards, but the male brain turns everything whorish. This can also mean "retarded whores," so you should probably go ahead and verify which it is you're dealing with - dick-look before you dick-leap, am I right?); nun's habits; meter maid uniforms; spectacles (it honestly does not matter in the slightest what you're wearing - if you got on glasses, you are reduced [elevated?] in the male mind to Naughty Librarian or Hot For Teacher); slagwear; You're Not Leaving Any House of Mine Dressed Like That, Young Lady; naughty school girl (the kilt is like a dick-seeking missile to us - you put Sean Connery in a kilt and we'd still part the low-hanging Yeti-curtain of his man-satchel for some ass play - I'm talking about breeder dudes, here - gay guys, if I understand my cursory study of cliches correctly, like hairy nads to be like melting like candle wax out either leg of cut-off shorts - this is what Freddie Mercury tells me when he comes to me in my dreams. Which are in no way gay.); pretty much any uniform you could name - hospice care worker? yup. garbage collector? you bet. slaughterhouse sluice-cleaner? if this is even a thing, yeah; bondagewear (within reason - if it turns out stomach and involves a lot of fisting, then we'll take a pass); latex; aluminum foil; Saran Wrap®; um, let's see, burlap; a vest of raw chicken - for some of us, yeah; and sweaters. And every halloween costume currently available in the U.S. Oh, and in a pinch, if no apparel is available to you, you can always opt for the old standby of nakedness, which is a classic.

Point is this: where the getting of our rocks is concerned, the visual data you provide us is key. Speaking as a dude who is upwards of 85% straight (damn you, Freddie Mercury, for nightly luring me on shirtless dream picnics, and no-pants dream bike rides, and dream wrasslin'), I can report that I am actually of two minds where the thong is concerned.

On the one hand, they look awesome. When compared to the oft-maligned granny panty, the showcase provided by say an emerald green thong versus a threadbare and sagging pair of Band-Aid-colored cotton drawers, well this is no contest at all. The thong renders the already alluring female ass all the more magnetic by dividing it neat as a can be, creating a 50-yard line, if you will. And like football, anywhere there are borders to cross and territory to conquer, you will have captured our attention and aroused our interest. You can go ahead and insert your own riff on what else might have been aroused - we're not here to be making dick jokes, OK? We're HERE, BB, to try to HELP folks… Oh. Wait. Hold up. Sorry. We are totally here to make dick jokes. So yaddayadda 50-yard line yaddayadda - gonna spike it in the END ZONE, you know what I'm sayin'? Huh? Up top! Woo! No? Nobody? Very well, then.

On the OTHER hand, there is some portion of my mind - whenever I see a thong (for which I am always grateful, by the way, Wearer of Low Rise Jeans Over Thongs While Bending To Retrieve The Selsen Blue From The Bottom Shelf At The CVS Lady), I cannot avoid having a murmur in my mind that just keeps repeating: Assfloss.

Again: always happy to see a booty bethonged. HOWEVER, there is some portion of my mind that cannot shake the mantra: assfloss, assfloss, assfloss, assfloss, assfloss, assfloss, assfloss, assfloss, assfloss. Which can in my experience tend to undercut the erotic power of the thong, and by extension the thong wearer. Because once the Pandora's Box of assfloss is open, it is followed by visions of shit-encrusted lace, sawing back and forth with every step, shearing off ass hairs and the dingleberries thereon. It's not long before all you can see in your mind's eye is the sad, stretched-out elastic befouled by poo, gasping for a fresh breath of non-ass air, only to remain cheek-clamped and anus-ground. The shit-friction on these things has gotta be enough to burn clear through them sometimes, doesn't it? Aren't there stories circulating about overtaxed thongs pushed beyond their limits and going sling shot? With the dried little shit-pellets rocketing out of the pants and into the eyes of anybody with the misfortune to be shopping at the CVS that day? This has gotta happen sometimes, yeah? Ass David to Eye Goliath? Because, from a design standpoint, was not the assfloss inspired by the ancient weapon of the sling? I would be surprised if the thong remained contented with merely abrading the ass walls - I should think that a thong with any ambition would wanna launch some turd balls out of those pants and into the unwitting eyes of anybody in the Hair Care aisle. Perhaps there is even a kind of Sisterhood of the Traveling Underpants, Intent On Working Themselves Free of Ass Cracks to Fling Poo On the Unsuspecting.

And even if this never happened, not even once, the fact remains that this thing is in there like a goddamn bear scratching its back all goddamn day. Let's face it, fellas - if your lady stuffed a square of silk up her nose for eleven hours, how sincere are you gonna be when you say: "That is super-hot, baby"? OK, yes, IF you subscribe to Big Booger Bitches or White Hot Snot, then YES, you will be completely sincere in this. [Red Hot Snot is for bloody nose enthusiasts - those guys are freaky fucking pigs. Steer clear of those guys. - eds.]

But if your dude remains adamant on the point of your wearing assfloss despite the clear and present danger of shit-slinging it represents, you tell him that you totally will IF he will take one of those paper doilies, crumple it up, and hold it between his ass cheeks all day. If he makes it to lunch without screaming in agony from thong-burn, it'll be a miracle. By mid-morning, he'll be hauling his pants down and plucking that skid-marked doily out of there, I can guarantee you. And if he doesn't, that means that he's super-determined and you can maybe work out some kind of joint ass-custody, whereby you alternate between assfloss and the well-worn ass hammocks you prefer.

Or it could mean that he's into it. And if he's into having his asshole scraped at, in which case, eww - what are you doing with that guy? Nasty. Nasty, nasty Anus Scrubber Guy. Uch. Tuck some fucking sandpaper between there and walk the fuck away, sweetheart. Because once they get a taste for this kind of thing, their bunghole becomes not unlike the plant in Little Shop of Horrors - always hungry for more. More anus friction. Always with the anus friction, these guys.

how to have sex over the telephone. like a goddamned winner.

2011-10-25T15:30:00.004-05:00

This guy I've been seeing for a couple weeks just left for Oklahoma for business and he will be gone for 2 or 3 weeks. How would I go about having phone sex with him?

in case you were wondering, the working title for my autobiography is, "i'm only interested in sex that is not actually sex." seriousface, if i could get away with blowies, handjobs, and mutual masturbation until i drop dead my life would be AWESOME. don't get me started, because i can write ad nauseum about how i'd really just like a reasonably interesting dude with a decent sense of humor to HUG ME A LOT and LIE NEXT TO ME WITHOUT INTERRUPTING THIS BOOK I'M TRYING TO READ. but not sleeping over, because i fucking hate a hot bed full of someone else's body hair and smelly nightfarting.

is anyone other than me even having phone sex anymore? i feel like dudes just jump right into sending you blurry pictures of their genitals and trying to get road head while driving you home from your first date. phone sex is like a goddamned lost art, and i am determined to bring that shit back. i haven't had real human sex in, like, two years, but i had phone sex three times last week. BECAUSE IT RULES. the first time i had phone sex (maybe ten years ago?) i didn't even know it was happening. i was talking to this dude on my phone while dropping off mel's suits to be dry cleaned and picking up his lunch at foodstuffs and other assistant-type shit, when all of a sudden this pervert got really quiet and started panting into the fucking phone. and i was all, "are you having a heart attack?!" no he wasn't, he was just RUBBING HIS BALLS WHILE LISTENING TO ME ORDER A CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH ON BLACK BREAD. men are feral, despicable creatures, and anytime you start thinking otherwise please mentally reference this post.

but i quite enjoy the sound of some deep-voiced grunting and open-mouthed breathing, and after that first time i was hooked. nothing feels better than tricking yourself into believing that this dude is so hot for you that just the sound of your dulcet tones bouncing off his eardrums can bring him to orgasm. and even though 99.9% of every dude you meet in your life can probably rub one out to the mechanical computer voice that announces that you are unavailable to take his call, PHONE SEX IS STILL AMAZING. here's why:

1 no aids or screaming babies. phone sex is the safest goddamned sex there is. i should go speak at high schools or some shit about the virtues of partially-clothed auditory self-stimulation. i mean, you beat off all the goddamned time anyway, why not let someone listen to it while telling you how smart you are and how that sweater you were wearing the other day wasn't really that ugly. or whatever it takes to get you hot. personally, i could masturbate just listening to a dude laughing for five minutes, but that's only because i write jokes and am a RAGING EGOMANIAC. babies are gross and STDs are real. i've never had one, but i've had enough ingrown pubic hairs that i've mistakenly self-diagnosed as the vaginal flu to know that just the thought of something crawling around in your privates is motherfucking terrifying. every year i hold my breath for two goddamned days after my annual at the gynecologist while patiently waiting for him to call and say i dodged the hiv bullet, but if you just stick to phone sex you ain't gotta worry about all that. i mean, you might get brain cancer from pressing your cell phone to your head for hours at a time, but everyone fucking gets cancer nowadays. at least you've come by yours the sexy way.

2 no having to explain why your thighs touch. we all have body issues. ladies, dudes, cats, dogs, EVERYBODY. and listen, my body is totally gross, too, but there is absolutely nothing LESS SEXY than the whole "please don't hate my belly" apology dance we all have engaged in once or twice before banging someone new. first of all, he should feel way more self-conscious about his dick than you should about your wide ass, because he could at least gauge its girth while you still had pants on. and second of all, THAT'S SO DUMB. and on the phone you're spared from all that business. you get to be as amazing and sexy as you want to be without some asshole disputing it to your face. plus, you can wear your meat-eating shirt.

3 no spending all goddamned day cleaning your gross apartment. hands-down the worst part of getting laid, for me, is being forced to live like i actually give a shit about organizing my books and making sure there are hand towels and whatever. imma need to ask a real dude what dudes actually pay attention to when they come over to bang you, because i know broads who are running around wiping down light fixtures and scrubbing window sills when there is an impending booty call situation, and i have never met a penis in my entire life who was worth all of that EFFORT. maybe the reason i don't get laid is because men really care that there are two old, broken dvd players sitting on top of my stove? the bathroom is usually clean because butts are gross, and my kitchen contains more pharmaceuticals than it does edible food, but the rest is a fucking crap shoot. plus: CAT HAIR. but none of that shit matters when he's looking at his own disgusting bedroom, so this shit is a WIN.

4 no need to turn the tv off. also, you can do chores. one of the best phone sex sessions i've ever had occurred while i was WASHING THE GODDAMNED DISHES. for real. he didn't notice, or maybe he thought i was peeing, but when you text a dude "call me when your dick is hard" guaranteed he doesn't give a shit what you're doing at the time of his call. not that you shouldn't enjoy yourself, too, but sometimes you have shit to do and it's enough just to listen to someone else have a hot time. i'm a motherfucking giver, obviously. the fucking mother theresa of audio banging. it's also killer that you don't have to get dirty or sticky or sweaty, and it's nice not to have to sleep with a washcloth jammed between your legs. (am i the only one who does that?) no muscle aches or sore neck, no bruised knees or gnarly hickey marks. in other words, NO GROSS SHIT.

5 no awkward goodbye as you shiver in your pajamas at the front door. THIS IS THE WORST. you cuddling bitches probably don't worry about this, but i start thinking, "when the fuck is he going to leave?" the minute some dude trips over the bags of feline pine lined up in the entryway inside my door. nothing fucks up getting to work on time more than some dickbag who isn't a morning person dragging ass when you need to be up and on the fucking train by 6:55. what a bonerkiller, a dude with sleep in his eyes and pillowface standing in front of my empty refrigerator asking why i only have two bottles of coconut water and a half-empty pitcher of crystal light. god, and fumbling with the remote control and asking how to work the french press when ALL I WANT TO DO is brush my teeth and feed the cat so I CAN GODDAMNED GO. phone sex spares me from that uncomfortable, "i know it's cold and you parked nine blocks away, but you are going to have to GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE SO I CAN GO TO SLEEP" conversation. and then you have to stand there while he slowly gets his shit on, hoping that you'll change your mind because his big man boots have so many laces, but i never do. GO HOME ALREADY.

6 no weird "i think i'm in love with him" anxiety just because you let some talking gorilla with a nice car come inside you. you don't have to be in a relationship to talk a dude through some sexy spanking. this ain't me, but i know a lot of broads who end up long-term dating some dirtbag who would better serve the earth if he were put to death, and it's mostly because they shared their cookies with him and then felt some sort of "connection" afterward. um...okay. i guess? well, there are no eyes to stare into when you're phone boning, so the risk of becoming psychotically attached to a dude who might be, ahem, less than desireable are pretty goddamned slim. ps, this is the reason you need to squeeze your eyes shut or only fuck doggystyle. JUST SAYING.

finally: HOW TO DO THIS SHIT WITHOUT LOOKING LIKE A TOTAL ASSHOLE.

this question is a little out of my depth because i refuse to have phone sex with someone i've banged before. half of the phone sex thrill is all of the crazy shit you can say and get away with, and the other half is pure mystery and fantasy. so, if i've already seen your wilting boner or fallen asleep while you were going down on me how am i going to turn that into some sexy shit on the fucking phone?! "yeah, i'm licking your balls. is your dick still hard? the other night it wasn't, so..." THAT IS NOT HOT. so we're just going to pretend that you're not the kind of slut who would bang a dude within two weeks.

1 learn to dirty talk. now your definition of dirty and mine are probably WAY DIFFERENT. i'm a fucking pig, and i'll just say any nasty, horrifying shit that pops into my ladybrain. like, you'd be embarrassed to listen to it. unless you were a freak. but you're going to have to get comfortable saying some dirty words. if you need help, google that shit. my friend natalie is one of these puritans who thinks saying shit like, "ooh, you're so strong. hold me in your big man arms," qualifies as phone sex. and if oklahoma goes for that, LUCKY YOU. i have to use my GODDAMNED IMAGINATION to get off the phone sexperts i play around with. these jerks are professional. seriously, it's like the fucking PSAT. i have to fucking study and concentrate. just say whatever you can that feels believeable when you say it. and...

2 don't let your mouth write a check your ass can't cash. SUPER IMPORTANT. this dude won't remember your birthday, he won't remember how you take your coffee or what you like on your pizza, but six months from now he will recall, WITH CRYSTAL CLARITY, that you said you couldn't wait for him to wrap barbed wire around his penis and buttfuck you with it. (I'VE SAID THAT BEFORE.) and that's not a problem with someone you aren't going to be in a dark bedroom with anytime soon, but if there is even the slightest chance that you might end up naked in this dude's presence, then you might want to scale back any promises you are unknowingly making. because talking shit and not backing it up is gross. that said, if i ever hang with mister barbed wire i better have an ambulance waiting downstairs. seriously, that's why i burn up my anytime minutes with dudes who live across the country. that lessens the chance any of them will show up on my doorstep demanding i let him vomit on me. (I SAID THAT, TOO.)

3 prepare yourself to be disappointed. for me, the talking is the thing. so it is A GIGANTIC BONERKILLER when some unimaginative jagoff is saying something boring in my goddamned ear. or if he's grammatically incorrect. so get ready to find out that this great guy you met two weeks ago has a language problem and isn't the least bit creative. figure out what you like to hear and then clobber him over the head with it. seriously, you might have to just come out and say "WHY DON'T YOU TALK ABOUT BITING ME?" when he doesn't get your subtle hints about vampires and dentists or whatever. more often than not my decision not to chill with a dude is based on his terrible phone sextiquette. i'm not asking about the space program, homie, i just want you to talk about how long your balls are! and you can't even get that right?! LATER FOR YOU.

4 miscellany. candles and soft music are for jerks, but if they help you get in the mood then GO FOR IT. i like to get a little dirty movie action going (gay porn featuring kissing dudes is the best) and put on my grimiest, pee-stinkiest pajamas; the kind of shit you could NEVER wear and expect someone to want to fuck you in them. and i'll maybe have a bottle of water and a crossword and some sexy snacks at hand in case he's one of those dudes and i have to find ways to entertain myself while he chafes the skin off his dick for forty-five fucking minutes. if i can be done in three, SO CAN YOU, BUDDY. my parts are more complicated! what the fuck are you doing over there, your taxes?! the first time will be hella awkward, and you might hate it in the beginning, but pretty soon you'll be able to do this in your sleep. LITERALLY. i have, sister. you can just disguise your snoring as, um, "unbridled passion and lust." totally works. homeboy finished and everything. like i said, THEY'RE ANIMALS.

papa wheelie

2011-10-24T11:56:00.000-05:00

Dear i+i:

I have a disability and work in an office. The facilities manager has had to make some alterations (restroom, my work station, etc.) to bring this workplace into ADA-compliance. He's done the work, but it always takes multiple requests and a ton of follow-up. He drags his feet on everything, and it's frankly a real pain to get these things done. It might be worth mentioning here that I've served in the Guard for two tours of active duty in Afghanistan, and an IED took both my legs just above the knee. How can I handle this guy? - Tiptoeing Through the Minefield

I hear you, Hopalong.

First of all - thank you for your sacrifice.

While I have never served in the military myself, since I understand it's pretty much nothing but gay dudes, now. I COMPLETELY identify with your plight. I'm a pretty avid runner, and despite everything I've tried, I still over-rotate pretty bad, especially my right foot. Which leads, you guessed it, to uneven wear on my shoes - the outer edge of my heel wears out way before the inside. I've calculated it, because of my condition - a condition that is no fault of my own, that I am forced to replace my running shoes a full 12% sooner than someone who just happens to have been blessed with better form. Over the course of like 18 months, that's almost a full pair of extra shoes I have to buy.

So. You know. Solidarity with you, brother. Since I'm sure it totally blows for you having to go all suddenly legless. And when you're struggling to wedge your chair through the door the club, I'm sure it gets you a ton of pity-trim. Oh. Hold up. They didn't shoot your dick off or anything, did they? Cause if they did, my advice will be totally way more in the "roll yourself out in front of a delivery truck" vein. I'm gonna go ahead and assume you've got operational manquipment downtown and not outline the reasons life's become a moot exercise you oughtta end ASAP. You know all that. I can only assume, since you're bellyaching about this work sitch, that the squirt gun is loaded with chowder and the trigger's fit for squeezing, if you follow me. If you don't - this is in reference to your cock and balls, and the semen therein. Hope this helps.

And so to business. I will table for now discussion of how totally freaked out I am by stumps. On the few occasions I've had to look at them - like there's one dude at the gym who one diabetes leg shy of a full set that just gives me the goddamn willies every time I see him, like when he's shimmying his way out of the shower or whatever - I am not even kidding when I tell you I get a little lightheaded just looking at 'em. If that makes me a pussy, or like I'm supposed to be insensitive, or whatever then you know what? Fuck you. It's not my fault stumps are gross and everybody knows it. And I will further set aside my curiosity regarding amputee porn, which I'm not sure you would necessarily know more about than anybody else, just because you've recently become qualified to star in it. Which if you have, totally not judging at all. Just, you know, not my scene.

But so you're at work. You're trying to get shit done - you don't need some fuckwad giving you hassles. Here's what you do, man: you stand (figuratively) tall and you let him know that you are VERY NEARLY HUMAN and that you deserve the same level of respect he would give a centaur, say, or a monkey android. The days, awesome though they may have been, when we would cage "people" like yourself in a freight car lined with straw, under a garish banner with a crude painting of you as a limbless grub kind of a thing, where the yokels could pay a dime to gawp slack-jawed at The Half Man Who Somehow Continues to Live (you'd be in a like a goat fur loincloth and there'd be these two giant cloudy jars with things in there that might be legs - you know, tasteful) - those days? They are OVER! (I'll just let that hang there a sec to gauge how receptive you might be to maybe not letting those days be totally like over-over. No? Nothing? OK. Right - we are DONE with that shit. I knew that. Just, you know, just verifying. Seems like me and you could maybe make some nice coin resurrecting the freak show, but I can see this proposal does not interest you, so I'll just move on. Forget I said anything.)

So you should totally make a like impassioned speech in front of him and everybody else at the office - and then he will be so ashamed, and you will get so much pity from your co-workers it'll be a total win-win for you. Because, man, I'll tell you something: if I could get me some pity, I would never fucking do anything for myself. I'm not talking about not opening doors on my own - I'm talking about not wiping myself. That would be awesome.

Earlier? When I said I was an "avid runner"? That may have been overstating things a little. It might be a little closer to the truth to call me "an obscene fat-ass with stress fractures in my shins due to the monstrous and unstable load of blubber tottering atop my weak-ass little stem-legs". So if I could get somebody to wheel me around all the time that'd be fucking sweet. You don't know how freakin' lucky you are, dude. I wasn't lying about the uneven wear on my shoes, though.

So anyway. You should get up on the table like Sally Field in Norma Rae and get everybody to chant some like super-inspiring thing. Oh. Wait. Table. Might as well ask you to parkour through a construction site, am I right? Headsmack. My bad. Sorry, bud - big time.

No, for real, though. If he brings his lunch from home, and leaves it in the fridge in the break room, you should totally piss in it. Oh, snap. Are you wearing a bag? Are you a catheter kid? Cause if you are, again: super sorry. But also, easier, really - just dump a whole sack of piss in his lunch. Or just REPLACE his lunch with a bag of piss. With a straw taped to it. And a Post-It™ that says: "Tastes like justice, bitch." And time it so that you roll by WHILE he's discovering it, eating his lunch in a super-casual way. I think that would really drive it home - if you were like chowing down on his ham on rye. Or his tuna - whatever he brought. You get the idea, though.

That's your Norma Rae moment, man. That'll get you the doors widened and access ramps, dude. That shit will get you handrails all over fucking everything. I guarantee it. Then you can focus up on rounding up more pity pussy. You're welcome, brother - and I'm joined by a grateful nation as I say:

Dude. If you steal this guy's lunch and replace it with a catheter bag of your piss, you should TOTALLY video that shit. I would laugh my ass off watching that. As would citizens across this great land.

the artist formerly known as your boner

2011-10-21T11:43:00.000-05:00

Dear Irby+Ian,

Why are married broads more alluring? Why is it that a girl that would, if she were single, get an "eh" from me, gets me all aroused if she is married? Do I have some fucked up reverse cuckold fetish? Is it because I know that somebody else is already on the hook for all of her incessant bitching? I realize the horrific karma generated by wanting to have an unprotected, hair pulling, throat choking, good old fashioned SKEET on someone else's old lady's pelvic bone, and I feel guilty for this fetish. And yet, I find myself watching bored mature housewife porn on the reg. Please explain. - Two Tone

Wow, TT - this is a corker. I get it, though - believe me. The cougar thing. With the boobs and a few years on 'em and the slightly hag-like, mannish faces on a lot of them. Makes for a more layered experience, am I right? They're like an orgy in one, yeah? Cause with those sort of gaunt faces, you're sort of doing a dude a little bit, but then the boobs is like a whole other person. But still, with the zits on the ass. Always with the zits on the ass, am I right?

But this isn't just about you and me hashing through our own boner-makers. There's a lot going on here. In order to give this complex issue its due, I've opted to depart from our usual form a little bit. Because there are some many dimensions to your quandary, I've invited a panel to weigh in on this thorny pickle of a conundrum. Going around the table - to my right is Husband, Berserk With Jealousy That's Largely Unfounded, For His Wife Is No Prize, I Can Tell You (HBWJTLUFHWINOICTY); next to him is An Actual Wife - Because God Knows You Clearly Have No Fucking Idea What You're Wishing For, You Sad, Backward Man-Child (AAWBGKYCHNFIWYWFYSBMC); An Eight-Year-Old, Who Stumbles Half-Asleep Into Her Mom's Room To Find You Rutting Away At Her Mom, You Swine (AAEYOWSHAIHMRTFYRAAHMYS); and finally Emma Starr, one of the MILF porn's brightest luminaries - she really puts the STAR(r) in "porn star(r)"! Am I right, fellas?

Ian: Well, panel, I'd like to thank you all for joining us - why don't you each say "hi" t –

HBWJTLUFHWINOICTY (Interrupting). You lissen to me, you worthless little garlic fart - you keep your filthy mitts offa my wife, you hear me?

Ian: Whoa. Hey. Dial it back, there, HBWJTLUFHWINOICTY.

AAWBGKYCHNFIWYWFYSBMC (Staring into the middle distance.) …

Ian: Mmmmmkay. She's… got a bunch on her mind, I guess.

AAEYOWSHAIHMRTFYRAAHMYS (Weeping, inconsolable.) Why did you hurt my mommy in the night? Why? She was making ooky noises and I hate you.

Ian: It's OK, sweetie. It, it'll be OK.

Emma Starr (as Mrs. Shakewell): Sorry, Two Tone, but Candy's not home yet. You're welcome to come in and wait for him if you like. Here. Sit with me on the couch. You know, Two Tone, I'm glad we have this chance to talk. Maybe you can tell me why you're with a girl like Candy, when you could be… (Takes off naughty librarian glasses) with a woman. (Takes off her gardening gloves that have clearly never been used even once, which sort of ruins the illusion a little bit. NO! Must… suspend… disbelief!)

Ian: Um. Wow. That's… y-you're… it's… ahem.

You are the single greatest panelist we have ever had. On this or any other topic.

HBWJTLUFHWINOICTY: I KNEW it! You sunnuva– you stay RIGHT there! I'm getting my gun. (Door slam.)

Ian: I'm – he's, he's joking, yeah? That's not… nah. He's just gonna cool off a bit.

AAWBGKYCHNFIWYWFYSBMC: (Swatting your hand away.) No. Look. We've gotta figure out Thursday. I have that late meeting with the department heads; you've got that faculty thing; Sophie's gotta get from school to soccer to violin to home; and Jake needs to get from tap after school to basketball, and then home. And we've gotta figure out dinner. Can you email Lily's mom to see if Sophie can get a ride with them to soccer, then email Eva's folks to see if they can get her from the park to violin? Uch. Hang on. We need to get her violin from school to her music place. She's gonna be pissed if she'll have to lug it to soccer. I'll call Christopher's dad to see if Jake can go with them. Then if you can snag dinner someplace, I can swing by and get her from violin, and Jake can walk from Chris'. And? We gotta get the shocks on van checked - they're doing that weird thing again. And did you call the Alderman about the property tax thing? (She goes to sleep - she sleeps the sleep of the fucking dead, friend, so if you think you are getting anything like some school night sex, you think again. I am not shitting you, dude - you might as well head down to the fucking museum and try to wake a Pharaoh.)

Ian: Wow. Pretty steamy stuff. You gotta be rock hard about now, huh, bud?

You realize this shit is on a fucking endless loop, right?

You realize that this is what wives talk about? Ever. Like sixteen hours a day?

And that they murmur this shit in their sleep, too? How's it feel, big boy?

You think you can claw your way outta this fucking mineshaft of obligation?

Go ahead and try, hoss. Better men than you fucking die down there, every goddamn day.

AAEYOWSHAIHMRTFYRAAHMYS: (Wordless, agonized. pees on carpet like Regan in The Exorcist, a puddle of panic piss streams from the cuff of her Spongebob jammie pants that are too short for her, spreading on the carpet, like a pool of solvent that will dissolve every hard-on in your bonerless future.)

Ian: Well. At this point, I would hope Ms. Starr would have something to offer in the way of a silver lining. Cause I gotta be honest - this shit is getting bleak.

Emma Starr (as Mrs. Shakewell): Candy tells me your… cock is too big for her to handle. Do you think… I might be able to help? (locks eyes with you, reaches for your fly, now tenting above your swelling member)

Ian: And we're back on track!

HBWJTLUFHWINOICTY (Kicking in door, chambering round): You put that filthy dick away, and get on your knees, you scumbag! I am gonna empty this clip into your piece of shit face, you home-wrecking piece of shit! (Bawling, crushed by despair, he sinks to his knees, tucks gun under chin, fires. You are spattered with his brains. And skull. And scalp. If you live to be a billion years old, you will never have an erection again. Coma cock. That's you.)

Ian: Annnnnnnnnd off the rails we go.

Emma Starr (as Mrs. Shakewell): (unbuckles belt, unzips fly.) Well, well, well. What have we – um. (She waggles your forlorn little wiener. It's about as hard as water balloon full of pudding. For real, dude - it is like sad slide whistle/mute trumpet time down there.)

Emma Starr (as herself): Can we get a fluffer in here, please? Jesus. Be a fucking professional, man. Guys shoot themselves every fucking day. Look at yourself. You're all: "I got brain matter on me. It makes my wee wee soft. Wah. Wah." Seriously. Be a goddamn MAN for once in your life. You shit. Look: little leave puddles of terror-stricken pee on the rug all the time. And stare at you mute, while you try to get it on with a stranger. That's life. Grow up, OK? Get it together. I'm gonna go get my asshole bleached. I'll be back in an hour. Get yourself cleaned up, and for fuck's sake have a dick that works right, or I swear to God, I will be boning – YOU! What's your name?

Ian: Wha? Me? Ian.

Emma Starr (cont.) Or I will be boning this pasty bastard. And you can tug on that useless little thing while you watch. (Crosses to door, muttering) Swear to fucking Christ, I am only doing girl-on-girl from now on - these dicks, man, they fuck everything up. (she leaves.)

Ian: Um. Wow. You just got porn-fired, dude. Sucks to be you right now.

Looks like I'm getting called up to the big show. (Dropping pants.)

But isn't that what they say? Porn door closes, a porn window opens?

Not to be a dick or anything, but can somebody come get this eight-year-old outta here?

She's harshing my boner pretty bad.

There's like popsicles in the break room, I think. That's right.

Bye, sweetheart. Feel better! (PA leads her into next room.)

Well that's a relief, no?

And AAWBGKYCHNFIWYWFYSBMC's doing this squeak-snore thing that's pretty distracting.

Get her outta here, too. (Crew wheels bed out.)

Better. Nice. Good. Yeah. I am stoked for this. I am AMPED for some porn fuckin'!

(Dropping skivvies.)

Which is where you come in. You been demoted, bub.

Ain't nobody else here, so that makes you Fluffer One. OK, champ?

I'm new to the porn game, and I gotta say, I'm pretty nervous, so I'm gonna need an assist. OK, big guy? There's some flavored lube on the craft service table. Take your pick. What're you a French Vanilla guy? Chocolate Mint? Raspberry? Go nuts.

And get busy over here. Emma's gonna be back pretty soon. Chop-chop.

Let's go. Less stallin', more ballin'. Get crackin'. And don't skimp on the ass-play.

And that is the image that will stay with you. The next time you have skeet-thoughts about somebody else's wife, you will see me. Doughy, middle-aged me. White as the inside of an untoasted bagel. A shivering dick with your name on it. No, no. Don't look away. I want you to fucking memorize every dimple and goosebump on this nutsack. And if you think this is less than fully horrifying, you image-search me on Google right now. Yeah. I thought so. Quit screaming like a bitch, Bitch.

Now. Close your eyes. Take a breath. And enjoy the what shards of your fantasy life you can salvage, shit heel.

my baby daddy is a fucking scumbag.

2011-10-20T14:27:00.000-05:00

My wife calls me at work to talk about our toddler, and gets ticked off when I'm too busy to talk to her. I'm just not interested in EVERY LITTLE THING the kid does all day. So I tell her I have to get to work, then when I get home she's a total bitch to me. What can I do keep her off my back? Help me out.

OH, YOU POOR THING. getting a full night's sleep and uninterrupted shower; stuck all day in a bustling office full of adults with whom you can carry on intelligent conversations and share funny little anecdotes; entering and exiting as you goddamned well please; spending as much time as you want taking a shit while reading the newspaper; emailing and gchatting and facebooking ALL FUCKING DAY; taking clients out for delicious gourmet lunches on the company dime; getting fresh air; working those traps and delts and glutes at the gym; wearing clean, pressed clothes that you didn't sleep in and aren't covered in similac vomit; fondling the penis that didn't have to spend thirty-six hours trying to stretch itself to ten fucking centimeters and force out another human being; having drinks with your boys after the 4pm meeting; making starbucks runs; water cooler gossiping with the hens who answer the phones; afternoon delights with that cute HR girl from upstairs who's always busting out of her tight sweaters; earning all the income and depositing a percentage of it in that bank account the wife knows nothing about in case you have to buy old HR an abortion and some silence; having uninterrupted quiet time alone in your office; listening to something other than yo gabba gabba and caillou on a continuous loop; smoking those cigarettes you promised you'd quit in the alley behind your office; texting your ex-girlfriend about how much your life sucks and what a huge fucking mistake you made and now there's a baby and your parents would be so disappointed if you left your family but life with her is killing you and hey what are you up to remember how much fun we used to have when can i see you i love that thing you used to do with your hips this dumpy bitch and her episiotomy scar are no fun in bed anymore; and, you know, "BEING BUSY." it must be so hard.

my fucking heart breaks for you.

but kids are fucking boring. i mean, maybe not all kids? and maybe not all the time? but i'm going to guess she's probably not calling you to report that junior just ripped his shirt off and challenged a cop to a fight in the middle of a bridgeport bar and was shot during the scuffle, and anything other than that is TOTALLY FUCKING BORING. no one calls me ever, and that's probably because i answer the phone, "SKIP TO THE EXCITING PART." seriously, i don't even say hello. i don't need ten minutes of background, just get to the killing or the fucking so i can get back to eating cereal and taking pictures of the goddamned cat. you know, IMPORTANT SHIT.

i go to all these literary readings and storytelling circle jerks, and the gigantic bonerkillers at that type of shit is 1 no one hits on me EVER and 2 people love telling boring stories. every story should have: gratuitous fucking, angry shit, something horrifically embarrassing that makes you either squirm/cringe or throw up your dinner, destruction and heartbreak, larceny or other criminal activity, or death. at least one of those things. SO I GET IT. this jerk has the nerve to call your important ass at work to tell you how the baby hates peas and the UPS guy drop-kicked her new dishes from crate and barrel and the redhead at kindermusic was rude to her yet again and the carpet cleaning people charged twice the estimate and blah blah boring BLAH.

but didn't you know what you were signing up for? what is it that dudes expect when you wife some bitch up? haven't you ever watched television before? you REALLY thought this woman was going to shit out a kid and then call you at two in the afternoon to breathe heavily in your ear and describe her thong or whatever? women want to get married so they can finally let their shit hang, and once they've borne your demon seed they can let it hang EVEN LOWER. she didn't walk down that church aisle praying not to burst into flames because her whore ass wore a white dress to keep tiptoeing around fucking her knees up in some stiletto heels. THESE ARE HER CROCS YEARS, HOMEBOY. if you wanted some fucking excitement you should've stayed away from kay jewelers. but now that you've got a mortgage you either need to 1 fake your own death or 2 get an unlimited mobile to mobile plan. i'm irritable as shit, so i fully understand sighing and rolling your goddamned eyes the minute a number you are sick of answering shows up on your phone for the fourth time in a goddamned day. which is why i married all of the inanimate objects in my apartment because i love them, very very much, yet they won't bother me with a grocery list when i'm busy listening to shit on youtube.

dang man, i thought the sweet shit about marriage was that finally, I'VE FOUND SOMEONE WHO VOWS TO NEVER GET TIRED OF LISTENING TO MY SHIT. isn't that why you do it? because you found the one person who you always want to talk to? now i have to worry that i am calling the UNDYING LOVE OF MY LIFE too much?! i thought you got to stop fretting about that at the end of dating! i have a hard time imagining it, because people are mostly stupid and horrible, but this is fucking with my whole fairytale outlook; YOU ARE KILLING EVERYTHING I BELIEVE ABOUT TRUE LOVE, DUDE. i thought that you just have to kiss a bunch of frogs until one day you find one that's less slimy than the others who says, "hey girl, every word out of your mouth is fucking genius. you are so much smarter and funnier than i am and you have amazing taste in music. i want to spend the rest of my life letting you tell me what's cool. never stop talking to me." (that might just be me, but THIS IS MY FANTASY. so hush up.) and then you get nine jobs apiece and take out a monster loan to throw a fancy party that lasts for three hours you have to invite a bunch of assholes you hate to just so you can make sure everyone knows how in love you are and is totally jealous of you. then house, babies, death, and so on.

kids are also sticky and noisy and always trying to BUST YOUR FUCKING BALLS, plus they get sick all the time and they cost so much money and you really have to pay your bills and shit so that they have heat in the winter, so i'm going to do the universe a favor and not have any. but i want to kick your jaw off your fucking skull for this. this right here is why NO DUDE gets to do this to me. not ever. sorry to crush your dreams, but if you had designs on me letting your alien offspring hijack my womb for nine months you better let that shit go. trap me in a house with no life and no friends with a little tyrannical asshole who has no motor skills that i can't take my eye off for one goddamned millisecond before she's ingesting poisons and poking her fingers in light sockets and otherwise trying to get my ass locked the fuck up by dcfs? NOT ON YOUR LIFE. i can't call any regular people, because they are all at work. and even if they aren't, they don't want to listen to this little infant bitch caterwauling into the phone at the top of her goddamned lungs because i can't put her loud ass down for one fucking minute. i can't take a shit or a shower or brush my goddamned teeth or make a sandwich or drink a beer because that SCREAMING BALL OF NEED wants a bottle or a rattle or a cuddle or is miserable and teething or rife with colic and can't situate herself comfortably. i can't get my hair done or my eyebrows waxed or my feet tended to, so i am ugly and itchy and sad and tired and fifty pounds heavier than i was before this whole nightmare started because i can't walk more than five feet at a time and my sore-ass nipples make it impossible for me to breastfeed so i'm not burning any calories that way either. not to mention i have a tenuous grasp on my fucking sanity. i am on the precipice of a complete emotional breakdown because i have no one to goddamned talk to. all my single ladyfriends are out getting fucked in the ass by hot bodybuilders, and my pregnant and/or married sistergirls are too busy trying not to SHAKE THEIR LOUD-ASS BABIES TO DEATH. so when i call the ONE PERSON who should be caring and supportive and INTERESTED during this horrific time in my otherwise ruined life, the one person who swore in front of god and a judge and my cousin karen that i didn't even want to invite but mom forced my hand to love every single word that falls from my lips for the rest of my life, and he is "too busy" to give me five minutes of his precious time, forgive me if i am a little "ticked off."

i hope you get mauled by a bear and your baby gets a sexy stepdad who loves law and order: SVU marathons, buying flowers for no reason, giving oral without reciprocation, watching the kid so this broad can take a fucking yoga class, and making tv-watching pajama snacks. seriously, though, someone should stick a hornet's nest in your asshole. you're the worst.