Mandy R. from Summerlin, Nevada asks: “Dear Answerman, we don’t get much rain out here in Nevada so I’m thinking about replacing my grass with artificial turf. Will my dog Kona be okay relieving herself on the fake stuff?”
Dear Mandy, fake grass, or as I like to call it a “yard merkin“, is as senseless as covering yourself in tattoos to prove you’re “butch” (yes, I’m talking to you Justin Bieber).
Will Kona be okay dropping ass biscuits on your yard merkin? Dogs aren’t picky, we’ll shit in your mouth if you lie on the floor. But, will she like it? In the same way you’d prefer having coitus with an electric toothbrush.
Trish W. from Bangor, Maine asks, “Dear Poppy, last Christmas I made this beautiful wreath for my sister, but it’s still sitting in her basement unused. I really like it, can I ask for it back?”
Trish, looking at this turd I can imagine why your sister doesn’t want it hanging on her front door. Hot-gluing random objects to a round piece of Styrofoam is not a gift, it’s a sign of what happens when you have access to Klonopin and a box of chardonnay. Asking for it back may be the best gift you could give her.
Allison W. from Metarie, Louisiana writes: “Dear Answerman, I work for a small company and we’re about to have a retreat. The owner wants everyone to stay at his vacation home and said “drinking games, bathing suits, hot tub, yee-haw!”. The last thing I want is to see my co-workers drunk, in bathing suits, in a hot tub. What should I do?
Dear Allison, I’m trying to figure out if you work at a frat house or your boss based this “retreat” on the un-made Seth Rogan, James Franco buddy movie entitled “My Boss is a Fucking Perv, Yee-Haw!”
Regardless, my advice is to find a good lawyer and bone up on caribbean tax havens, because you just hit the sexual harassment lottery! Don’t forget your camera, juries LOVE pictures and videos.
LIKE us here and on Facebook if you love bad advice.
Anise R. from Darby, Oklahoma asks, “Dear Mr. Answerman, my husband is a non-practicing Catholic and I’m an atheist. His mom, the hard-core Catholic, keeps telling me that if I don’t convert, when we have kids they’ll be ‘bastards and damned to hell’. What should I do?”
Dear Anise, religious bigots are like spoiled milk. From a distance they look normal, but up close they stink like Oprah’s ass sweat. It’s time your fiance got a sack and let his mommy know that if she can’t behave she won’t ever get to see her unborn “damned to hell, bastard” grandchildren. She’ll understand, Catholics know all about ex-communication.
Walter M. from Dearborn, Michigan asks, “Dear Answerman, I don’t want these sexual deviants dressed as women, pissing in the same bathroom as my daughter and now Obama is saying we got no choice. What should I do?
P.S. I got nothing against gay people, as long as they keep to their own and leave me and my family alone.”
I recommend packing up your kinfolk and moving to Zimbabwe. It’s a lovely country, with rampant inflation, wanton corruption, no national currency, high unemployment, but their one bright spot? No transgender bathroom problem…mostly because they behead gay people. I’m sure you’ll feel right at home.
Of course your other choice is to do something simple, like evolve.
Ken T. from San Pedro, California writes, “Dear Answerman, I just started dating this girl, but I got the crabs from her. How do I tell her?”
Dear Ken, this is your version of Captain Kirk’s Kobayashi Maru test. No one has ever found a solution that doesn’t end with her trying to scratch your eyes out, while simultaneously telling you (and everyone on Facebook) that you have a penis the size of a mushroom cap and the sexual endurance of a slug on Xanax.
Tanya K. from Oswego Wisconsin writes, “Dear Answerman, my fiancee said he wants to pick my wedding gown. I want to do this with my mom and friends, but I don’t want to upset him, what should I do?”
Dear Tanya, let’s talk about what kind of fiancees help pick wedding gowns.
The first kind are control freaks. If your fiancee is one of these you’re in for a life of being treated like a child. Every waking decision will be made for you. It sounds nice, until he tells the waiter, “She’s gonna have the weight watcher plate. She’s trying to lose that lard-filled doughnut she calls a waist.”
The second kind are the closeted gay men. Honestly, this may not be a bad thing. He’ll know what shoes go with which bag, take you to musicals and love to chit chat about the Kardashians. Of course, the downside is that sex will be infrequent and usually end with him saying, “Excuse me while I go throw up and cry.”
Sounds like you have nothing, but joy and happiness in front of you.
Tanya sent us this picture with a note saying, “Good news, he isn’t gay!”
Julia T. from Scarsdale, New York asks, “Dear Answerman, my husband just told me he has a fantasy about wrapping me up in tinsel. I’m afraid if I do this I’ll never be able to look at a Christmas tree the same way. Help me!”
Dear Julia, just to clarify, your husband has a fetish that mixes dominance, bondage and the joyful celebration of Jesus Christ’s birth?!? Never being able to look at a Christmas tree the same way is the least of your problems. Do this and you’ll never be able to look at a Chrismas tree, your husband, or a roll of aluminum foil the same way.
Jimmy J. from Bronx, NY asks, “Yo Answerman, Shyanne be getting up in my grill about marriage and shit. She threatenin’ to leave my ass if I don’t be giving her a diamond ring. I’m a player yo! Jimmy J, can’t be roped into a commitment! Do I break up with her or just string this bitch along?”
Dear Jimmy J., I have begun a Kickstarter campaign to get you a vasectomy. In the meantime, if you feel the need to spread your seed, masturbate and use a tissue…or in your case, an empty pack of Marlboro Lights. Regarding Shyanne, I’m not sure what she ever saw in you, but please break up with her so she can find her true love…an unemployed, middle school drop-out, doing a 15 to 30 for armed robbery.
Anna V. from Beaumont Texas asks, “Dear Mr. Answerman, my fiancee isn’t circumcised so his thing looks like an earthworm. I’m not sure I can spend the rest of my life thinking my husband has a worm in his pants. What should I do?”
Dear Anna, would you be writing me if instead of an earthworm his penis reminded you of an anaconda? Exactly. Let me leave you with some advice my mother gave me, “Size is just a number, but love is unquantifiable.” Of course take that with a grain of salt, my mother liked to eat poop and had six litters from random dog park sex.