Advice Column: Three For The Price Of One

J-Wunder had a couple of short and sweet advice questions that needed answering, and he wanted the shortest and sweetest member of THE CREW to answer them, but Flo-Rich is busy as fuck being a boss bitch so he let me have a crack at it. Normally, I don't take three of anything on at once... Just kidding, I do that shit all the time. Three is a magic number! Just ask the people who created School House Rocks. If you are old as fuck like me, you now have the "Three is a Magic Number" ear-worm. You are welcome.


What do you think about a couple that has been dating for a year and yet the boyfriend won't accept her on FB? Or what about a boyfriend who wants his girlfriend to post that she's in a relationship but feels it’s unnecessary for him to do the same?

Are you new to life? Not to be a cynical cunt, but that fucker is hiding something. OR, he is not really her boyfriend and bitches be delusional, making up boyfriends and shit. Now, if he wants to flip the script and make her post that she is in a relationship, but he won’t, that is the FB equivalent of pissing on a bitch to mark territory. He wants everyone to know that he is tapping that ass on the regular, and all others need to step the fuck off. If you two are into golden showers, then by all means, carry on with your R. Kelly-selves. Otherwise, tell that controlling fuck-stick to kick rocks and find yourself a man that is just as proud to have you on his arm as he is to have you sit on his face.

　
　
"I work in a small office where all employees have to share the bathroom So, why do some people like to take a fat shit without spraying or leaving the fan on? Do you have office bathroom etiquette you can preach to the world?"

Oh, this shit. Literally. This shit makes me queasy, because I deal with it all the time and as all the people at GG know, I am not poop-friendly, just ask L-Train - she knows what the fuck is up with me and poop. I get that men are foul and disgusting creatures that will shit bomb a bathroom and call that shit Hiroshita. I just don’t get why women are doing that foul shit, too. I have walked into the bathroom at my office and found all sorts of no-no business: floaters and remnants, stank so wretched it could wake the dead, piss on the seats, 1/2 a dookie with spaghetti in it. YES. 1/2 a dookie with spaghetti in it. Some bitch wanted me to know what she had for dinner last night. I have been tempted to put a sign up that says, "You know what you did and you know what you need to do to fix it. Don’t make me karate chop your nasty-ass in the froat for being a discourteous fuck." However, my bosses are all, "We are a law firm, imagine the lawsuits if you put that sign up." But they don’t smell the shit I do. Haters. Just go to Pinterest and find some cutesy sign with flowers and shit and put that up. If it continues, feel free to use my sign.


Do gentlemen still exist? I recently went out with a guy and the third time we went out he wanted me to pay! I must have given him the look of death, because he said, "well I payed last time." What is going on with guy's these days?! Am I just meeting all the wrong guys? How do I find a good quality guy?"

Yes. They do. I actually happen to know some! Andrew, Kevin, Andy (these are all real people, btw, not just some rando names I made up), just to name a few. One of the aforementioned I have dated, and two are just friends. When I hang out with Kevin and Andy, I rarely have to take my wallet out. However, that is not what makes them gentleman, sweet-tits. In this day and age of women’s lib and equal rights, just because a guy pays for dinner does not make him a gentleman, It’s how they treat you after dinner, regardless of who pays, that makes them a gentleman. Andrew, who I dated, would always offer to pay (and I would offer to pay sometimes), but what made him a gentleman was all the other nice things he did. Like not try to fuck me on the first date, going to do things I wanted to do, instead of just what he wanted to do all the time, respecting my boundaries and wishes, etc. Those are the qualities that make a gentleman. Are you looking for a free dinner or someone to date? If you are just looking for a free meal, there is this magical thing out there called "food stamps" and I hear they give them to bitches like you all day, erry-day. If you are a pay-for-play kind of girl, you might want to let the guys you are "dating" know your rate up front, because no one likes to be tricked into paying for sex with a hoe if they don’t know they are on a date with a lady of the night.

Here is the real simple breakdown to all of this: You get back what you put out. Act like a lady and you will find a gentleman. Act like a prostitute and you will get johns.

　
I am spent after this quick-fire of advice. Holla at THE CREW if you have an issue that is niggling at your brain. But, right now this bitch needs a scotch and a nap, like 5 minutes ago. I am out, bitches.

XOXOXOX

H-Bomb

Dear Shitter...

Why to laugh WITH pants-poopers and not AT them

Compliments of Holdin' Holden

There was a time, back before I birthed my first crotch fruit and decided that sending him off to a snot infested childcare center that I could just barely afford with my measely wages, that I was a workin' girl. No, I'm not talking about the fucking corner - I'm talking about a fucking cubicle in an office with a computer AND a stapler. An office where I never saw any customers, but the management still saw it pertinent for employees to "dress to impress".

I've never been a DRESS girl, but clearly I couldn't go in jeans and a t-shirt, and flip flops were forbidden, so business casual it was. I took pride in how I looked (not that I still don't, but let's face it, I don't have to leave the house if I don't want to so I can wear all the jeans I want. And not MOM jeans, but I digress).

I was young 20's. I was single, and I was ready to mingle; and I had not yet learned the art of self deprecation as an art form...and a hilarious art form at that. Therefore, even the slightest embarrassment was a marr on my stellar record of "young and awesome".

It's not that I was a dainty young thang, but y'know, being single - you're trying to hook a dude - so being horrifically disgusting is sort of frowned upon.

Those of us who are but mere-mortals have all experienced the "urgent poo" at least once in our lifetimes. You know the one i'm talking about - where you are sweating, ass-cheek clenching, rocking back and forth and praying not to shit your pants before you can make it to a bathroom and unleash the forces of hell via your rectum. You let out a HUGE sigh of relief, because - holy fuck - what if you'd shat your pants? What then? It would be an absolute nightmare. A tale never to live down if anyone ever heard about it - so most of us who consider ourselves ladies do not speak of such horrors. At least not to those of the opposite sex who are not related to us. Unless we want them to NOT want to have sex with us - then it's open season.

Then came the time I caught a horrible terrible stomach bug. So horrible that I literally could not stop shitting for weeks. Yes, I said weeks. And after straight up shitting for hours on end turned into a nasty case of the sting ring, I decided it was probably a good time to visit the doctor - who laughed at a 21 year old girl who couldn't stop leaking from her ass. I did not find this amusing. I also did not find it amusing that I was "highly contagious" and not to go to work. Neither did my job. You know, the one that stuck me in a cubicle but made me dress nicely.

One might think I could take Immodium - the shit stopper - and all would be right with the world again. I'd go back to being the young and single 21 year old with decent self esteem and a stupid job in a cubicle, and my pooping would cease other than on the regular occasion. You'd think wrong. It stopped my ass up so hard that I had cramps like I'd be pushing a baby out any second. A poo baby, mind you, but a baby nonetheless.

I finally fell asleep after hours of tossing and turning and what did I wake up to? Poo leakage. That's right, poo leakage! And the dude I was casually dating? Right.fucking.next.to.me. Let me tell you how sexy he found me at that very moment! Fuck my life. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It finally got to the point where I'd been shit-crazy for so long that my job began to threaten me. Yeah, even with the doctor's note. Told me they were considering firing me because I couldn't stop shitting, that sure was nice of them. I informed them that if I came back to work, they'd all be shit-crazy too, and did they really want that? Yeah, I didn't fucking think so. Bitches.

Still, the damn pressure and lack of money due to using up all of my sick days got to me - and I finally decided I had stopped shitting every 5 minutes and could make it to work. The bathroom wasn't far from my desk. I COULD FUCKING DO THIS. So I get dressed in my nice clothes, get into my car, and make my drive to work. Not even halfway through that oh-so familiar feeling overwhelmed me. The one we discussed earlier y'all, only this time, I knew urgent wasn't just urgent, it was an IMMEDIATE kind of thing. I needed a bathroom RIGHT THAT FUCKING SECOND... only...I worked in a not nice area of town and I'll be DAMNED if I was going to hover over one of the gas station holes and release the demons.

No, that was not going to happen. So I held it. But it was not easy. I was cursing, and crying, and rocking - all while trying to drive - and when I finally pulled into the parking lot at work, I swore I saw heaven's pearly gates open up...only...work made the measely low paid employees park in the extended parking lot. Down the road and across the street. Thank you so much, work, I love you.

By the time I did that ass-clenching poo waddle across the street and began making my way down the next, I knew it was too late. I was going to shit my pants. It was no longer something I could control, but I had come to terms with my fate: Pants-shitting. In public. Going in to work.
I felt super fabulous at that moment, and by super fabulous, I meant a sobbing swamp-assed mess.

I rushed into the door and into the nearest bathroom (one floor below mine) and assessed the situation. The level was red. Fucked. Totally fucked. Through the underwear, through the pants - but I knew if I didn't make an appearance at work I was done-for, and although my job was full of bitches and cunts and the pay sucked, it was a job and I needed the job.

So what did I do? I took my jacket, tied it around my waist like I was back in the mother fucking 90's, and did the walk of shame to my supervisor's desk.

Let me tell you how much fun it is to be a 21 year old female and have to explain to your boss that you shit your pants right outside the door and need to go home... NOT FUCKING FUN.
You can tell by someone's eyes when they are judging you, horrified yet laughing at you on the inside - this was one of those moments.

I cried the entire way home and then washed myself with bleach. Ok, not really, but I scrubbed until the top layer of skin was gone.

And THAT, my friends, is why I will not laugh AT people who have the misfortune of shitting themselves in public ever again. Not even my kids, who tend to do it on a more frequent basis than adults of a healthy disposition. Instead, I will laugh WITH them - because they may not be laughing now...but one day, like me, they will.

Shit Happens