Dear Christy,

I hate working. I’ve been out of college and in the work world for three years. I don’t want to do it anymore. How can I do to get a rich man to marry and take care of me?

–Lazy graduate

Young, dumb and full of bum:

Oh, woman.

Or child, shall I say. Have you bled yet?

Ahem.

If I had your answer, would I be journalist-ing for the wage of a … uh … (something inappropriate)?

Disclaimer: Fantz in Your Pants has been on a mini hiatus, since you asked. Ergo, cynicism has been bottled up like a can of black beans partying in my gut. The need to hurl insults has been growing like Willow Smith’s conceit.

If I could slap you, sans a trip to the slammer, I would slap you right in the phalanges. However, I’d do it last week, so you couldn’t type me this ludicrousness.

I’ve been working my ass off since you were suckling at nourishment’s teat.

Since I sound elderly, let’s flip to some sound advice:

Secret sex tape yourself pounding a politician and release it to TMZ. That will satiate your bank account for a Paris Hilton season. (Like a hurricane season, but way shorter.)

You shouldn’t rely on the riches to bring you happiness.

(Screw that drivel, I like your style. Call me.)

My eight ball told me that your inactivity will meld you one with the rich Scandinavian bed sheets. Your back will atrophy due to lazy. Result: Gotta shelf doggie style.

Great. That’s rich husband’s favorite position.

Now look who’s back on East Colfax for meth money.

You’re welcome in advance.

Dear Christy,

I’m in my late 30s and going through a divorce. Shortly after the break up, I hooked up with a married pastor’s daughter, who is now going through her own divorce. She is 24. Am I just asking for trouble or should I enjoy this ride while I can? Luckily we both have a fondness for Captain and Coke.

–Tappin the youth.

Toys in her attic:

Was she married when the banging began? If so, you’re fired.

The pastor’s daughter. For shame, Diablo dick. I bet your scrotum still hemorrhages holy water.

So, you’re both busting the nuptial bonds of age? (Bondage. I’m clever.)

As long as you both are, in fact, split from Beelzebub squared and not cheating — gold star. Cheaters go to a place where abstinence flows like box wine.

The age difference doesn’t matter. And it may be a match made in alcohol heaven, but make sure your ripened beanstalk can still be jacked like that magic bean of hers.

Good talk.

blog comments powered by Disqus