D ear Christy,

My man is a meathead and every time we go out he tries to start fights with people. It’s embarrassing and I’m afraid I’ll become involved. I really like him, but I wonder if I should tell him to go to anger management or something.

— Not a scrappy gal


Scrap the man:

I met your dude over the weekend. He had on shredded jeans, a muscle tee and a scorn that made Lucifer’s pants drop.

He and his drunken sidekick were throwing trash all over a Denver bar patio, post-2 a.m., when Husband said calmly from across the street, “Dude, not cool.”

There was lit cigarette thrown our merry way, a tranny remark (for this tall drink of yours truly) and a rent-a-cop intervening when they wouldn’t shut their Diet Coke holes. (Muscle tees need to watch their girlish figures.)

Give anger management a shot, if your man is willing. If that remedy triumphs, we must inform your man’s brand of masses — those Alphas who hump humans’ legs to achieve hierarchy. (With collars a-popped, Abercrombie jeans a-fray, their flippy floppys a-flop through the Summer’s Eve rain.)

They’ll huff and they’ll puff and they’ll blow your shit down.

Until you cross the street.

Then they poop their pants and hide behind the rent-a-cop with their thumb up their butts.

Get your man some help for our sake.


Dear Christy,

I was trying to find my boyfriend at the bar where he was working and after searching for a half-hour, I found him in the alley screwing some drunk girl. He said he would change and wants me to stick around. We’ve been together for a while. Should I give him a second chance?

–Transformed in Boulder


Alley cat:

In an effort to make a point, I was going to reiterate your query, but recaps oft come across as smug.

However, patience is a virtue that I don’t have: You caught your man plowing a broad at his job?

Condolences, pal. What a way to catch a cheater. (However, the best way to catch a cheater is by their bushy-tailed butt cheeks. Dig those sparkly talons into that juicy ham, swing ’em like a lasso and plop that ass into a flesh-eating disease.)

The fact that he cheated on you is deplorable. Nobody deserves that. I don’t care if, and what, circumstances are pending. Cheating = not an option.

Sure, people make mistakes. (I almost fell into the hot grill last night. Shh.) As hard it is to leave a longtime companion who has also become your best comrade — you need to do what’s best for your squishy lil’ heart.

This guy has no respect. The alley? Come on, dude. At least find a supply closet. The beer cooler. A rabbit hole. A fucking soul.

Alas, as much as being a bachelorette blows, it beats having to piece back together the hunk o’ hunk o’ burning heart muscle after it has been popped like Tim Tebow’s cherry.

After he’s married, of course.

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