Fantz
Fantz

Dear Christy,

I'm the best man at a wedding for my douche friend. We grew up like brothers, so I feel obligated, but he's boisterous, demeaning to women, he talks down to his fiance and he said he wants to hook up with a stripper at his bachelor party. I don't know if he's joking, but I'm having a hard time writing nice things for my speech.

— Best Man

Better Man:

He's like the guy every girl wants to bring home to grandma, if grandma is Chris Brown. What a douche. Since a douche (ostensibly) cleanses, let's call him Yeast Infection.

Somebody needs to clue in his future life partner in so she can run like the gale-force tropical-cyclone wind. If she's well aware of his foibles and accepts him for the itchy red mess he is, then very well. They can punch things out over a lifespan. But if she's in the dark, the girl deserves to know before she gets stuck inside Yeast's infection and blows hard-earned cash on nuptials.

For your speech, don't make things rosy if you're uncomfortable with the situation. If you must, spit out some vague drivel about love. Before your speech, eat three chili cheese burritos from Taco Bell and click your heels seven times.

Then laminate this speech and read it at the wedding (you're welcome):


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Love is but a chemical cocktail in the brain, which sustains happy for ages. Some feed their brain cocktail Prozac treats while in search of a perfect mix. (Raise your hand.)

(Insert Yeast Infection's name here) found his love cocktail with (insert bride's name here). But instead of using serotonin reuptake inhibitors to boost his happy, he relies on emotional abuse of women to sustain his privileged prestige. (Produce awkward laughter, then fart.)

Hey groom, remember when you told me that you tried to milk your prostate with your dad's toothbrush? (Fart again, and make it sound wet.)

Best of luck to the bride and groom, may your forever be short, for her sake, and may your therapy remain affordable. Hear, hear! (Drop your glass and run to the bathroom holding your butt.)

On the night of the bachelor party, tell Yeast Infection that just because strippers shed their tops to pay rent doesn't mean they want to plow clients. Those are prostitutes. (Although he probably thinks they're one in the same.)

Sounds like a real gem. Good luck.

Dear Christy,

Me again. The Best Man. Can I get really drunk at the wedding and hit on his mom? I've always thought she was hot. Plus, screw him. No, really. Screw him.

— Best Man

Butter Man:

You again.

I think you mean screw her. No, really. You sick, literal motherfucker.

(Watch your mouth.)

Weddings are for drinking old men under the table, breaking bones and plowing strangers, not mothers.

Plus, you said you and the groom grew up like brothers. Wouldn't that make his mother like your mother?

You're gross.

I guess if she's single and you're single, you can tempt her prune juice with your whipped-cream flavored vodka (you would). Then after the wedding, but before the evening news, you can rip off her Spanx, pour her a nightcap of Pepto and power hose her down with lube — after she power hoses your starfish down with bleach. (Taco Bell, man.)

Then you can go back to the reception and troll the geriatric table.

I guess if you're looking for a way to sever a friendship, that will probably do.

What the hell is wrong with you people?

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