Ask Christy

Christy Fantz has relationship advice and she’s not afraid to dish it out. Send your questions to .

Dear Christy,

My boyfriend is a “bronie” — you know, those jackasses who get stoned and watch “My Little Pony”? He spends money on Little Pony toys! And pot, obviously. But then he bitches about money when I want to go to a concert. What should I do with my “bronie”?



No. I don’t know. But thanks, Google.

Your bronie throws like a girl. Get that boy a Wiffle ball.

Keep in mind, “My Little Pony” spreads heartwarming tales of brightly plastic-colored homies who teach lessons of love and friendship. Not herpes. Your situation could be worse.

Broads shouldn’t bogart said sparkling femininity. Those rainbow- and star-embellished haunches want the twinkle spread.

Look, I watched “G.I. Joe” with my brothers. I may have had an Ace or Bazooka interspersed among Barbies.

Sure, I was 11. However, my nieces have a tote stuffed with “My Little Pony” toys and I can still spend hours brushing those shiny manes.

(Old-school ponies. None of this “Dream Beauties” and “Magic Touch Pony” bullshit.)

Tip: When hash candy is jumbled in with Skittles, the pony locks sparkle in fantasy’s wind. Some have wings. Some have unicorns. Fascinating.

Let the boy explore. “A-Team” characters never came with mini brushes. (Maybe one day he’ll brush your mangy mane.)

The main problem: His nays (neighs, neat) about concert tickets. (Not even close to the main problem. Just trying to avoid making you look like an asshole for dating this freak.)

If you lay off him, maybe he’ll lay off you — and hopefully after your Bieber show, he won’t be laying on the ponies.

Remember buddy, not only is friendship magic, but your little ponies are too small to ride.

Dear Christy,

I’m kind of getting it on with the ice cream truck guy. I know, I know. But what will I do when the summer is over?

— Loves ice ‘cream’

Dreams of cream:

You naughty lassie. You inhaled Choco Tacos and Strawberry Shortcake Bars as a pre-pubescent schoolgirl from his father.

Eh, whatever turns you on.

Give him a nice little surprise.

Go smother his Bomb Pop with that Orange Creamsicle in the back of the truck.

Tip: Avoid where children roam. Maybe go to a strip club parking lot. Scratch that. Teenage boys.

Nursing home back alley. Safety first. Then teamwork.

As for summer being over, well, there’s always the milkman. Bastards need a uterus to house them, too.

Also, stay the fuck out of my neighborhood. I don’t want to see your Fudgsicle-covered ass pressed up against the windshield.

Good talk.

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