Dear Christy,

What’s with all the hatred with humanity? It sucks to see people in agony over things that can be helped with maybe therapy, medicine and education. I think if everybody got laid more often, our brains would be more at peace. What do you think?

–Make love


Bob Marley:

One love, man. Let’s get together and feel all right. And spank hippies.

Look, Miss Love, if we could pop kernels of you across popcorn machines worldwide, we’d toss you in a vat of salted butter in a jiffy. (Double entendres, ahoy!)

Unfortunately, each person’s brain is wired individually. Some are bred and buttered genuine, like your sweet tushy, and some are inbred and salted fabricated — like folks intentionally cruel to other breathing beings.

Sure, the world needs a therapist (and an editor, but who am I to judge), happy pills and education, but aside from healthcare hiccups, there’s also a societal lack of a desire to be educated.

Sex, though? Ears are a-hear, here.

Coitus makes our brains explode, like smelt roe on hallucinogens. While that big fat ‘O’ is engaged in successive screaming downstairs, those neurotransmitters are upstairs yelling, “I feel a gusher!” (I believe that’s Gray’s Anatomy, verbatim.)

Sex is a nice break from our brain’s typical spinning. Afterwards, it just smokes a cigarette and passes out.

So yeah, go sex!

But let’s start by all being nice to people, people. We’re in this together. It’s them or us, man. (Them = Gary Busey.)

Now, Miss Love, go pack that wax freshie and hash things out with your peace pipe.


Dear Christy,

My boyfriend likes to have sex when it’s my time of the month. It grosses me out and I’m never even really horny during that time anyway. What the hell is his deal?

–Up a creek


Red-tide ride:


I mean. To each his own.

This reminds me of two instances: One involves a football player in high school who got his first redwings from a cheerleader under the bleachers. Another involves a buddy who loves a good clown-dive on his lady.

People are strange.

As are we, equally, friend. (Quit jamming My Little Ponies where their glitter goes to cry.)

Tell your man you aren’t comfortable with the whole operation (including the fact that you want to toss your fallopian tubes into oncoming traffic to stop the stabbing pain) and he’ll probably be supportive.

If he isn’t sympathetic, then make compromises with him. Tell him it turns you on to shove floss picks in pee holes. Now you two can switch off.

Last resort: You could quit your bitching and embrace being that fortunate female who gets laid 365 days a year.

Good talk.