Christy Fantz has relationship advice and she’s not afraid to dish it out. Send your questions to firstname.lastname@example.org .
My girlfriend makes more money than me and it’s a little emasculating. We both have desk jobs and she doesn’t think anything of it, but it still bothers me for some reason. Thoughts?
Get over it:
How’s 1963 doing? You know, that whole equal pay act thing?
Oh right. When history was partying, you were on the toilet.
Let it go. She’s clearly smarter than you are. She deserves it.
If it doesn’t bother her, you’re the emasculator, not her. (Is that a word? Whatever, I wear the pants here. Plus, the red squiggly isn’t underlining it in Word. Like you don’t know what I’m talking about.)
Does she pay for everything? If so, I can see your insecurity. Stop spending all of your money on hair gel and buy her some flowers. That’s all a girl needs. (Well, besides a listening ear, a sensitive soul, a sharp-dresser, a hot ass and big feet. You know, for carrying her across the threshold.)
You need to re-masculate yourself. (I know that’s not a word.) This is your problem. Here are some tips to mature out of puberty and into manhood (money is required for these items, but there’s always prostitution):
1. Purchase the largest truck you can find.
2. Dress that beast up with monster tires and “No Fear” stickers.
3. Strap a pair of TruckNutz on the ass end.
Holy hell. Your dick just grew three inches. Now go tell mama. You’re a man, baby.
My boyfriend is a sloppy drunk. He drinks shots and beer like it’s his 21st birthday every single time we go out. Then we go home and he passes out, usually in front of the pantry after he tries to cook something. I go to bed alone. This is no fun. What should I do? It happens at least twice a week.
First of all, if you’re sober, then you’re just lame. Lame I say!
Well. This sounds like a night in the life of everyone I know. Except for that one asshole who sulks at the bar. But I’m only friends with him because he buys me whiskey.
Anyway, that sucks because your man will always have a (literal) little case of the Fuzzy Navel Flaccidity. Please. Like he doesn’t drink chick shots. I saw him ordering a Kamikaze with a side of Cosmo at a martini lounge. What a girl.
Let’s have fun with this and scare the booze out of him.
When he gets shitfaced, put him in the car and tell him you’re going to Taco Bell.
Drive him to his parents house and place him on the couch, naked. Hang a condom out of his mouth. Put a bottle of lube in his hand. Go home.
When mom and dad head out to church Sunday morning, you can bet that boy won’t touch booze for a long time.
Well. It could backfire and he could forever cry in the bottle. At least you had a jolly time.