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D ear Christy,

I got home from work really early one night and my girlfriend was rubbing her body in tapioca pudding. I would be down to lick it off, but she was really shocked to see me walk in. She got really embarrassed and said it’s to moisturize her skin, but it looked like she was enjoying it too much. What is going on here?

–Why not chocolate?


Tapioca is delish, but those little balls in the pudding don’t fluff my fancy so fine. (Balls. I’m 14.) It’s like a curdled Irish car bomb. Or a smelt-roe milkshake.

Oh dear.

Nonsense aside, your girlfriend is a freak. (If you have pets, do cry for them, Argentina. Ahem. Tapioca derived mainly from South America. I win.)

Moisturize, my white ass. You just outed her bizarre fetish and now she’s starch-pearled with humiliation.

If you’re into it, tell her you want to take those bumps for a ride. Talk dirty to her. Tell her you want to pop those pudding pearls with your pearly whites. Whisper sweet nothings about how want to feel the cornstarch between your toes. (You’re weird.)

If you’re too nervous to ask, just dive manbits-first into a pudding cup, walk into the bedroom and brace for the aftermath. Either it’ll be smooth like chocolate fudge or lumpy like your love’s lather.

Worst-case quagmire, she breaks up with you. (Giggity.)

Either way, at least you got some action from a Snack Pack.


Dear Christy,

This guy I’ve been dating for a couple months has his Facebook page blocked from me. When I ask him, he says he hides it from everyone. He’s only friends with a bunch of pretty girls. Is he trying to hide something?

–Scared of cheaters

Naive nursling:

Yes. Yes, he is.

Here’s why people have Facebook accounts:

To talk big game; to put fuzzy pets on display; to boast on Sunday Blackout Drunk Day; to check into Whole Foods (whew, wondered where you went); to boast recreational culinary expertise, coupled with exquisite presentation (you must be rich); to plaster clever phrases all over Gene Wilder’s “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” mug; to show off newly svelte bodies; et cetera.

Regardless, I know this guy. I dated him. He’s cheating on you.

Well, he may not be cheating, but it would appear that he’s lollygaging with panty droppers who can boomerang their lace boyshorts into the next door neighbor’s window (where they’ll late-night collect them, whilst leaving with another satisfied smile).

Is he secretive with his phone? Does he have to leave suddenly, often? Does he frequently cancel plans?

You’ve got to beat it, lady.

He clearly is — and not only to you.

I would get out. He’s hiding something in his closet not worth finding.

Good talk.

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