Hey, what up, bitches?
You can tell from my hip and witty opening that in the time since my last entry, I've become much more relevant and in tune with today's youth. You might even say I'm slammin'. I'm not entirely sure what slammin' means, but at least it's better than being the shit, right? Nobody wants to be excrement.
You may recall a confession made in here a little while ago that I'm not quite a scholar in the pleasing-womanly arts. In large part due to the fact that I've had few relationships and all of them were terrible. This, however, is no longer the case. I've become quite the Lothario since last week. In fact, you might even say I've become something of an expert on the matter of monster-battling - and by monster, I do mean genitalia, for those of you who weren't entirely clear on that.
As such, I am now just as qualified to write a sex advice column as that girl who goes to your college and is okay with talking about how much she sleeps around and feels that she's so knowledgeable and not-at-all-shallow in regards to the matter that she should be writing a column on sex for your university newspaper. (Note: She's actually quite shallow, and the utter meaninglessness of her relationships is regularly reflected in said column. Apparently 'nice guys' will never win because they're not 'bad boys,' and therefore they'll never be "hott" enough to sleep with anyone.) One might even say that I'm quite the sexpert now. In large part because women frequently refer to me as "teh smex," or "the sex," for those of you not quite as overly familiar with today's internet lingo. (Note: No one has ever referred to me as either of these things, nor is anyone ever likely to. People who use these phrases in real life are frequently killed for completely unrelated reasons.) Of course, "sexpert" may be copyrighted by someone, so you can refer to me now as your resident El Sexperto. (Because all women are apparently extremely attracted to all Spanish-speaking men. Except for the white guys who speak it as their second language. Funny what internet research can turn up. But not really.) Das caliente, non?
(Also, in order to improve the hipness quotient of this blog by 35% - a real figure that I just made up - I had to misspell "advice" in the subject. Studies have shown that today's youth demographics on the internet are way into improper spelling and outright incorrect grammar. Tubular, dudes. I can dig it.)
At any rate, without further ado, I'll be addressing some totally tripped/whacked/trundlebed'd out questions from readers. After this column, you'll be so enlightened about the ways of the horizontal spasm party that you might just go out and get yourself a piece! (Note: Advance studies have indicated that reading this column will not make you a better lover, and may in fact make you sterile instead. 89% of test readers went on to die alone. These are figures to take into account.)
Q: Der Smexperto,
lulz, I'm like, totally mackin' on my girlfriend and she won't gimme sum. Itz liek shez rooted 2 the ground. Wut do I do, dued?
- Angus in Albuquerque
A: Angus, you're probably dating a tree stump. It doesn't have a gender and it will never put out. I'm also certain that violating said tree stump would constitute some sort of abuse. As such, in the interests of being eco-friendly, I suggest seeking help. Professional help. And please, stop writing. I ran out of bad 'wood' jokes a long time ago. Your fetish for all things tree is deeply troubling.
My boyfriend and I have a really healthy sex life, and all, but I do have one complaint - the splinters. What we have may be hot, but I'm considering breaking up with him because I'm in so much pain after sex. It's hard to even find where to use the tweezers.
- Stacy in MA
A: Stacy, I hate to break it to you, but you may be dating a piece of plywood. Have you been reading Angus' letters? This isn't Wood Fetish Anonymous. Seriously, only write to me if you have a serious question about sex - but only with another human being.
How do you know if you're HIV-positive? I do a lot of needle drugs and this is a pretty pressing concern. Back when I was growing up - in the mid-90s - it was generally said to be okay to share needles. 'Be a pal, shoot up together!' Remember that slogan? How those marketing wizards came up with that (expletive deleted) is beyond me.
- Dan in Lizard Lick
A: You know, this is a sex column. What is wrong with you people? Do you not believe me?! Anyway, it's a good idea to take the initiative and go to your local clinic for an HIV test. If you're a candidate for the AIDS, it's better you be careful not to risk spreading it, at least until you know for certain. By which I mean you'd be especially certain not to spread it then. I don't want another backlash like I got from my science column ten years ago, "You Can Fly!: An average human's guide to defying gravity through sheer willpower." Nobody seemed to object to all the crippling and death that resulted from people jumping off of buildings, but you make one off-hand AIDS joke and you're an outcast in the science community for life. Also, that slogan you referenced? It never existed. Are you on dru- oh, yeah.
Q: I'm a little concerned,
Whenever my boyfriend and I make love, he calls out his father's name upon climax. How can I get him to call out my name instead? Or at least stop this. I'm at a loss.
- Catherine in Idaho
A: Wow, Catherine. That is one grade-A creepy situation you have on your hands. From my vast knowledge of the human psyche gleaned from a couple of basic level Psych classes in high school and college, I can diagnose that without a doubt, your boyfriend is actually transgendered, and has one hell of an Electra Complex. I'm not sure what to suggest beyond either breaking up or therapy. Or maybe he could get a sex change and you could become a lesbian. At least a temporary one, like those Girls Gone Wild chicks. They sure don't agree to be exploited and end up regretting their experimentation on tape for the rest of their life in any case, no sirree. Why do I hear from all the weirdos?
D00d, check out my grandma-
A: NOPE. Not doing this one.
Q: I'm bleeding pretty badly here,
Sexperto man, how do you sew your mangled genitals back on after losing them in a freak wood chipper accident when trying to get to those sweet, sweet tree pieces?
- Bleeding to Death in Boise
A: That's it. I'm done.
So, were you enlightened? I know I wasn't. In fact, I kind of feel like killing myself now. What the hell is wrong with you people? You're all sick freaks. Stop screwing around, we don't need any of you accidentally reproducing!
That said, I'm never writing one of these ever again. Not only will I never be able to be intimate with a woman ever again after reading your letters, but I burst into tears whenever I see a tree. Especially those poor conifers.
If there were a god, you'd all be dead.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to cry myself to sleep in the fetal position.