Dear Christy,

Although my husband looks phenomenal in a Speedo, I personally can’t muster the gumption to don that type of garb in public. Either I am a total wimp or he is just winning on the Kinsey Scale. Your thoughts? (Tread lightly, I am your brother after all).

— Fantz in Hawaii

Brothers Gotta Hug:

Who’s Kinsey to judge? He’s so 1948.

Speaking of, I had drinks with 1948 last night. Getting housed on Hamm’s cans, 1948 recalled an era when the Staten Island landfill was on a track to becoming East Coast’s highest point. (Even higher than Ghostface Killah on Wu Goo. And that’s hiiiiiiiigh, oh my.)

Grand Garbage, I imagine they’d name it. Peak du Crap. Mount Shit.

Anyway, the former Fresh Kills Landfill refuse stopped in its mountaineering tracks early this century when the pile o’ unburnable waste instead churned about 50 years of New York garbage into a giant park. (Mmm. It smells like mob hits and methane.)

Nearing a point, a blathering 1948 told me that also during this time, fashion became more daring and risque. Bikinis became haute shit. And soon after, the men’s Australian Speedo swam over to the U.S. shores and into David Hasselhoff’s heart and hairy drawers.

The Speedo was received with mixed results. Is it too risque, people wondered? Will he bare too much? Is he toned enough to pull it off? Are any portions of his testicles oozing out? Is his bulge too bulgy? Did he manscape?

So — as a self-conscious broad who perceives judgement 3 miles away and can see a look of disdain with her eyes closed — I understand your concern. You’re not a wimp. You’re just not into it.

Drumroll, please, while I sexually harass my brother: You would look stunning in a Speedo. You have the beautiful body of a surfer stud, your skin glows like gold, you have an ass that won’t quit and sexy oozes out of your curly locks.

If you do eventually gain the gumption to don the shrunken garb, wear it with pride. Confidence is half the battle. Rock it like Richard Simmons booty-popping in short shorts. Celebrate the bulge, brother.

Or just let your husband take the itsy-bitsy swim-garb reign while you stick with board shorts. (Your husband does look damn good in a Speedo.)

And now, just like when I was 5, I’m going to brush my teeth with Tabasco. (Which totally backfired, discipline. Thanks for making me a hot sauce junky.)

Dear Christy,

Is it wrong to cheat on Sudoku or crosswords? What about a tinder date you hooked up with twice?

— via Facebook

Sneaky Pete:

Unless you’re engaged in game play with other humans, cheat all you want. Your infidelity to numbers and letters will occupy only your own swindling bowels of filth. (But if you ever illegally swap out a domino out at my table, I’ll make sure it lives in your nasal cavity.)

As for Tinder, unless you’ve cemented that you’re an item, technically you aren’t tethered. So go hump your guts out, you pretty little village bicycle, you.

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