Christy Fantz
Christy Fantz

Dear Christy,

My girlfriend wants me to do a "couples" costume for Halloween. Like a stupid plug and socket. I can't think of anything I'd rather do less. Plus, I love Halloween and want to make my own something that's cool, but I'm afraid she'll get pissed because she wears the pants in this relationship.



She can be Kim Jong-un and you can be Dennis Rodman. Or you can be anyone ever and she can be Mel Gibson.

You seem to be one of the creatives us Halloweenies need around. It's just you, me and a pocketful of sluts, latex and pre-packaged cheese.

Let's write a song.

We need your flair to spice up the holiday! Tell your broad her idea is stupid.

Well, since you don't want to get (apparently) assaulted, tell her your ingenuity craves Halloween so that those ants in your pants can craft various monikers. Reason with her and tell her you'd be game — only if you can mastermind the costumes.

This way, you can choose whatever in the wide world of guises you wish to be — an STD, a urinary tract infection, what have you. Then add an insignificant, yet genius portion of the costume that she can don. Make it visionary. Be the genius Halloween needs.

See? Now everybody's happy.

Well, unless she's the critter to your crotch. Or or the cloudy urine to your cranberry juice. (You and I both think these are genius, but she won't laugh, I'll assume.)


Come up with various options, then decide on it together. If she refuses to cooperate, then you can dress as the wart that fell off her nose, or the stick that's jammed up her ass.

Dear Christy,

I've been chatting with some dude I met online for a year now and he just spilled the beans and told me he smokes meth. Gross, right? We really got along and now I'm sad. I'm going to have to move on, right?

—Not gonna do it

Oh dear:

He spilled the battery acid!

NOT EVEN ONCE. (Or so they said.)

I thought you fuckers were on to spice these days. (By the way, weed is near legal. Legal. Bitchslaps all around.)

That's sexy that you're "dating" an anorexic twitchy dude with massive diarrhea and meth teeth.

The good news is, you haven't met him. You're just e-railing him. Plus, he's totally a 63-year-old woman freebasing out of her tracheostomy tube. "He" faxed me last week from Fergie's garage. (Cause it's 1993.)

I would think you know better, but you're the fool who emailed me with doubts.

Let him go. Now count to three and emerge from mom's basement. It's neat out here.

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