Dear Christy,

Have you tried cannabis lube? My friend's boyfriend bought her some and we were curious about it.

— Asking for a friend

Dear 'friend':

I haven't, but I wouldn't be opposed to it.

Lay(wo)men, I wrote a column a few years back about the trend of enhancing sex with cannabis. It apparently gets the parts high while providing that extra slip 'n' slide for those whose juices don't flow like boxed wine. It's also strong enough for a bro but pH balanced for a broad. (Don't drink it, assholes.)

A high on top of the Big O sounds delicious. Why don't you go try it out and report back? I'm a starving journalist — my spare change goes into smoking cannabis, not greasing up in it. Plus, some of us are already well-oiled.

Speaking "for a friend."

Dear Christy,

You don't work for the Colorado Daily no more? How are me and my boys going to get our jollies every week when we read your column?

— Fantz Fan

Butt squeeze:

You can start by not dry humping Page 3 of the Colorado Daily on Tuesdays. Maybe try a Victoria's Secret catalogue — or a Macy's ad. (I won't judge you if you still hump the Daily. You know I appreciate loving gestures.)

Oh, not those jollies.


Thanks for the kind words. Fret not, I didn't go far — I'm still in the same newsroom. I made a jump into a features position at the Daily Camera, Colorado Daily's sister paper. That jump was to the same desk, so I can still type filth at you on Tuesdays while also penning fun features for other papers. I wanted to write more, dammit.


Can't a girl spread her smut via a family newspaper that takes quarters? Hey, just like an adult arcade.

But you should definitely call me next time you guys hump the paper. We'll toss that photo in Get Social. (Clothed, perv. We have levels of class.)

Also, dear, it's "my boys and I."

You just got red-penned. In your face. (I love you.)

Dear Christy,

You have a trash mouth. Trash mouth. Trash mouth.

— A voicemail

Old Man:

I don't remember the extent of Old Man's words, but he kept calling me a "trash mouth" in a really long voicemail.

Dear Old Man, I'm sorry I've offended you. (Mercy, mercy me. Am I in the confessional again?)

Sometimes my vibrant adjectives and tongue-lashing isn't for everybody. But somebody's gotta bring home the preservative-laced bacon. Somebody's gotta rake in the bucks for cigarettes, diapers and Kentucky Deluxe. (That KD will go straight through a broad.)

I appreciate your concerns, but you don't have to read it.

But you will. And you'll laugh on the inside and decree judgement that contradicts with your values on the outside. (Forgive my reasoning, for I have sinned.)

Now spin 90 times, click your wife's heels together and power blast your conscience before your next confession.

I'll see you next Tuesday, Old Man.

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