Fantz
Fantz

Dear Christy,

If I get crabs, can I sit in a hot tub or a hot bath and kill them off? The hot chemicals seems like a winning death sentence for the creatures.

— Curious Crustacean

Crabby Pants:

Incognito browsing, "Hot tubs and pubic crabs."

Throwing up into work trash can.

Trying to pull myself together with a cigarette. Opening phone to peruse Twitter. Realizing I didn't close hot tub/crab incognito tab, as bedbug-looking creatures refresh themselves on my phone at the scan of my fingerprint. Diagram of eggs living in a bed of pubic hair pops up.

Throwing up in work shrubbery.

Woe is me.

You're disgusting. From what I could stomach, you should buy a crab/lice kit and (I think) kill the eggs and crabs individually. I don't know where one can purchase a kit, but I am confident you can pound out a quick search engine query like you did to geriatric porn last night (thus spreading the crustaceans to your paws).

Do not bring your crotch critters into a shared hot tub. Do not gyrate your privates all over the jets in an attempt to power-hose them away while inadvertently popping an orgasm when the right spot is power blasted.

I don't know if they'll spread in a hot tub, but I am doubtful they'll be eradicated. Try it yourself: Draw a hot bath with potatoes, corn and some Old Bay. Report back with results.


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I need a priest and some whiskey.

Dear Fantz,

I found a paper trail that my husband is sexting. (Do people say "sexting" anymore?) Do I need to be worried if he's swapping his goodies across hidden apps? We met when he cheated on his girlfriend, which I wasn't aware at the time, but since have been lacking trust.

— Suspicious Mind

Weiner's Wife:

I don't know what people call it these days, but "sexting" reminds me of Anthony Weiner, so let's abort it from the lexicon. Also scrape out chillax, screenager, twitterati and feels with a wire hanger. Thanks.

I think if you found any trail that your husband is exchanging flirtatious shenanigans with someone else — be it message in a bottle, hidden apps, film reels, Polaroids, telegrams, conversation hearts, emojis — you're entitled to suspicion.

When you say "paper trail," did you find his exchanges on a fax machine or did you look through his phone?

Whatever the case, there's clearly a lack of trust, so either confront him or kick rocks. There are so many other dicks in this world that have no interest in being disloyal. As in penises, not assholes. (Jerks, not starfishes.)

Nobody deserves a cheater or a liar, so let's rise up, stick a vacuum hose inside the world's uterus and suck out the trash. I should coin that phrase. Let me type it in my notes ...

Crabs tab. CRABS TAB. Dry heaving.

I'll learn tomorrow — or after trying to show my mom that cool recipe I found on my phone later tonight.

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