I have a shameful and unflinching addiction to advice columns. There’s something so profoundly voyeuristic about reading other people’s problems and how fucked up some people really are. Half the time, I feel bad for the advice seekers because they seem to be in a situation with little outside help.

The other half of the time, I’m wondering what personality disorder causes people to write in to shit like that, because all they want to hear is how right they are.

That’s where That Bad Advice comes in. It takes letters to advice columnists and gives the original letter-writer the bad advice they wanted to hear. It’s snarky and perfect.

I Can’t Wait To Get Married Right After I Make Sure I Don’t Have Any Other Options Still Waiting Out There!

Ladies Be Shoppin’/Men Be Leavin’ The Seat Up Part 837592

I Wonder What My Incarcerated Ex-Boyfriend Is Up To These Days.

My Father Is Happily Married To A Nice Lady With Nice Kids, And It’s Killing Me Inside

–

This Week’s Thursday Throwdown Wimbledon Is:

Mayor Gia: Most Likely to Show Up in a Porno

Congrats! Here’s hoping you feel as cool as this dude.

Fun Fact About How Sad Life Can Be: I graduated with THREE girls who had Winnie The Pooh tattoos, one of which was a tramp stamp surrounded by tribal designs. I wish, so badly, that I had a photo of it from prom when she wore a cut-out dress to show that shit off.

Vote for your favorites! Winner announced tomorrow.

I spent last night at a High School Graduation that was as soul-sucking as I remember my own being. It’s all the same: you’re proud of your graduate, and everyone else and their speeches can go fuck themselves right in the tassholes. My favorite part (besides reading the large number of stupid names and the show choir presentation of Don’t You from The Breakfast Club) was reading the superlatives in the program. Mr. Popular? Miss Personality? Most Likely To Succeed?

Lies. All of them. Let’s be honest about these. Put your submissions in the comments below! We vote for the winner tomorrow–and they get an internet-prize!

Joke-Off: Honest High-School Superlatives

• Most Likely To Drop Out Midway Through Freshman Year For Being Homesick
• Mr. Dick
• Hiding A Pregnancy Queen
• Miss Thinks Her High School Romance Will Last
• Most Likely To Drink In Class
• Mr. Douchebag
• Most Likely To Star on Bridezillas
• Miss Lifetime Mean Girl
• Miss Popularity Based Solely On A Lack Of Personality
• Most Likely To Have Already Peaked
• Most Likely To Be The Most Excited About The Reunion
• Mr. Future Date Rape Offender
• Miss Finds Herself In Portland
• Most Likely To Be The Only Good Thing Coming Out Of Here
• Valedictorian (Of A Mid-Level Public High School…So, You Know…That)
• Most Likely To Discover Weed
• Most Likely To Have Sexually Misused 50-60% of Chemistry Equipment
• Biggest Personality Disorder
• Mr. Mouth Breather
• Most Likely To Not Remember Senior Trip
• Miss Daddy’s Dime Forever
• Most Likely To End Up On Maury
• Miss Needlessly Dramatic
• Most Likely To Be Arrested In Thailand On A Sex Trip 30 Years From Now
• Most Likely To Have Nervous Breakdown In College
• Most Likely To Be Seen At The Spearmint Rhino
• Miss Bruised Knees
• Mr. Compensation

–

I moved last week. Adrian was out of town on business, which meant I had to do it alone. We hired movers for the stuff, and cleaners for…cleaning, but there was one thing I couldn’t hire anyone else to do. The most dreaded task of all.

I had to get my cats in their boxes alone.

Past history dictates that while one cat, Tobycat, moves both cheerily and efficiently into his kennel, the other cat, AsshatBlackCat, demands a stronger hand. Like 4 grown men with heavy blankets. Or me, being painfully mauled while shouting, “IT’S OKAY KITTY JUST GET IN THE BOX KITTY NO ONE WANTS TO HURT YOU.” You know, like a kidnapper might shout at a struggling victim.

I had to come up with a better action-plan for this move. I consulted a vet, made a plan, and I was so ready.

The plan was to sedate her by hiding sedatives in her food, after containing her in the smallest, emptiest room. Then she’d just pass out and I could slip her right in the kennel and move and SLAM BAM GO FUCK YOURSELF CAT WE’RE ALREADY MOVED BY THE TIME YOU’RE AWAKE.

I fed the sleepy-time food to Tobycat first, as he is willing to do almost anything for Friskies Chicken Dinners. He immediately began to throw up. He puked up his pukey-time food and then went to sit in a corner alone, staring at me like I’d filled his piñata with nitroglycerine.

With the ruckus of Tobycat horking up $10 worth of Friskies and kitty-sedatives, AsshatBlackCat had hidden behind the couch in my office, up against a wall. This is about 40 feet from where she needed to be, and with an endless amount of hiding/running options between her and the tiny loading closet.

It was at this point that I chose to make the full transition from Kitty Torture House to Kitty POW Camp.

I straight-up made a very narrow box-barrier  between the couch and the closet, leaving her no option but to go to The Hole. I unscrewed the mop head from the pole, and poked her out of her hiding place like John McCain.

AsshatBlackCat leapt out of the spiderhole and into the cat-run I had created. She was disoriented and angry, but my light pole-taps kept her moving towards the intended target until she had no choice but to run inside to get away from me. It was very much a prison-transfer for a high-security inmate.

Once inside the closet with her, I fed her a treat with sedatives in it that blessedly did not make her puke, and then shoved her in her kennel.

No blood.

No lacerations.

Just cats in boxes.

I was, of course, now operating Catanamo Bay, but my goddamn cats got moved, and that is worth something.

Ever feel like the news is bullshit? Ever feel like the news is not just bullshit, but also sexist and awful? Ever wish it was at least funny?

Enter Reductress, The Onion of lady business. It is my new favorite thing forever and ever.

Woman Dumped Via Text Message, Goes About Day Unfazed

Turning Your Weakness Into Strength: Investing In Your Food Cravings

Sexual Appetite: Tips For Hiding How Hungry You Are During Sex

Dove’s Sketch Artist Leaks Drawings Of The Women Who Actually Were Ugly

8 Sex Positions That Will Blow His Mind And Destroy His Penis

How To Bring Politics Back Where It Belongs: Your Wedding!

The Most Flattering Swimsuits For Your Crippling Self-Loathing

If customer service and returns was this hilarious, I wouldn’t want to stab myself every time I needed to swap something out.

Vote for your favorites!

Anyone who has ever worked more than 12 minutes in retail knows that returns are the great divider. You have one of only two people who return things.

1. People who return within the necessary limitations, or are at least so nice that you could give a shit less about rules.
2. Assholes

People used to try to return wedding gowns to my store after they got married, because “what am I going to do with it now?” Custom-made, custom-fit and horribly sometimes jizz-stained dresses they brought in to return. Fucking asshats.

I’m sure there are some really ridiculous reasons to return products to stores. Submit your entries into the comments below.

Joke-Off: Terrible Reasons For Returning Products

• My dinks had too much shrink
  
• My bleach smells like bleach
• My pads took flight
• My hot dogs are too phallic
• My lettuce tastes like lettuce
• My makeup smells like a horse (to be fair, my foundation does for some reason)
• My tea bags aren’t balls
• My Nair boiled my skin off
• My otter pops sliced my face open
• My toilet paper make my butthole frown
• My Country Time Lemonade Mix is a poor substitute for Fun Dip
• My Summer’s Eve made my vagina smell like Autumn Afternoons
• My German Pledge Spray, Heil, makes me anti-semitic
• My Bra fits too well
• My Head N Shoulders doesn’t work on my Dick N Balls
• My electric toothbrush isn’t the vibrator I wanted it to be
• My Rolls are too rolly
• My ice cream sandwiches are having a love affair with George Bluth
• My asparagus tastes like it should, but it doesn’t make it better
• My Bacon Bits don’t take away the taste of the salad completely
• My Ice Cream hurts my feelings
• My Oxy-Clean reminds me of Billy Mays
• My Tostitos didn’t bring the party to me
• My guacamole is too heavy
• My Cheerios support equality
• My Sour-Patch Kids gave me herpes
• My Kashi is Kashi
• My Spanx Stank

Phillip Phillips released a song a while back called Gone, Gone, Gone. Some people hate it because it’s country. Some hate it because it’s almost exactly like his first hit, Home. Some hate it because his name is Phillip Phillips.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Hate it all you want for as many different reasons as you want, but we can all agree on one thing: the song is about begrudging favor-sex.

You may think it’s about love, or long distance relationships, or even Nicolas Cage’s career options, but you are wrong. Phillip Phillips isn’t gonna love you forever, he just wants a handy in exchange for some half-assed lovin’.

Let’s look at the evidence:

When life leaves you high and dry
I’ll be at your door tonight
If you need help, if you need help
I’ll shut down the city lights,
I’ll lie, cheat, I’ll beg and bribe
To make you well, to make you well

What our boy PP is saying here is that if you’re horny, he will literally beat a path to your door to do so can get off. HOW NICE OF HIM. Nicer things have been said to me to get me into bed, but hey, for a guy with the same name times two, you could do worse.

When enemies are at your door
I’ll carry you away from war
If you need help, if you need help
Your hope dangling by a string
I’ll share in your suffering
To make you well, to make you well

Oh my god, what a nice guy is he? No matter how horny you get, dangling by a string of hope of your impending orgasm, and he’ll be right there beside you. He’s not gonna leave you high and dry, no way. He’s not like those other guys.

Well, not as long as…

Give me reasons to believe
That you would do the same for me

Dick move, PP. Literal Dick Move. He’ll give you a helping hand (get it?!), as long as you promise to give him one in return. Shit ain’t free, y’all.

And I would do it for you, for you
Baby, I’m not moving on
I love you long after you’re gone.
For you, for you.
You would never sleep alone
I love you long after you’re gone
And long after you’re gone, gone, gone.

As long as you jack him off, he’s gonna love you for a long, long, long time. Long after you’ve gone and gone and gone, he’s gonna be there for you, sleeping beside you. Begrudgingly.

When you fall like a statue
I’m gon’ be there to catch you
Put you on your feet, you on your feet
And if your well is empty
Not a thing will prevent me
Tell me what you need, what do you need

I surrender honestly
You’ve always done the same for me

It’s at this point that most people stop thinking my, “PP is singing about favor-handys,” is correct. How could such a nice song be about that?

This straight out of a goddamn romance novel, right? He’ll catch you in the throes of passion. He’ll help you up after he’s given you so much. After all, it’s what you’ve always done for him.

Like a drum, baby, don’t stop beating
Like a drum, baby, don’t stop beating
Like a drum, baby, don’t stop beating
Like a drum my heart never stops beating

Gross, PP. Gross.

–

Are there any other songs out there that don’t mean what people think they mean?

Beth Evans, AKA Butthorn, is my spirit animal.

I suspect she is yours as well.

ONWARD, COMICS THAT SPEAK TOO DEEPLY TO MY CURRENT LIFE AND SITUATION.