A while ago you said you don’t “reward musicians with your pussy”. A recent piece of ‘fun-sized-advice’ suggests you would be willing to reward Assange with it. How do you reconcile this? Through the uniquely powerful position JA has come to inhabit, or through attraction alone?

I reconcile this by you missing the fucking point.

It wasn’t musicians, by the way. It was artists, and it’s true, my instinct isn’t to reward them with my pussy. That’s because it’s not a reward. My pussy’s not for them. It’s for me. I fuck who I wanna fuck because I wanna fuck them.

What assholes like you never quite seem to grasp is that neither you nor anyone else has the authority to turn my pussy into a commodity. Only I get to do that, if and when I so choose, and believe me, if I ever decided to put a value on it, somebody would be calculating mortgage payments. I know better than to treat my shit like it’s a gold star or a Gap gift card.

Assange is Bond-villain sexy. He’s brilliant, he’s got that deep voice with the accent, and he wears the shit out of a suit. I can just tell sex with him would be kinky and athletic. Still, my instinct would never be to reward him with my pussy.

I know you’re probably not used to women who captain their own sexuality, but fucking him would be its own reward. My reward.

I hope you see the distinction.

So you support Assange? I’m no Republican, but America is the only country in the world that would put up with this. Anywhere else, they’d put a bullet in the back of his head. And they should.

A bullet in the back of his head? Fuck you. Assange is at the vanguard of a new form of revolution where all the bullets in the world won’t mean shit.

Maybe you’re too shortsighted to recognize the magnitude of this controversy, but what we’re witnessing cuts to the core of the American experiment. They said the revolution wouldn’t be televised, and they were right. That shit’s gonna be downloaded.

Everyone is screaming about whether WikiLeaks deserves First Amendment protection. Fuck that argument. I say it deserves Second Amendment protection, because in this day and age, the right of the people to keep and bear arms depends on what you’re calling a weapon.

Quite frankly, it doesn’t matter whether I support Assange. Mine and everyone else’s opinion of him is immaterial. That’s the point. WikiLeaks is an important and dangerous societal tool that can’t be unmachined. It’s out there, and it’s bigger than any one man.

Besides, the state knows better than to make a martyr out of Assange when it can just destroy his reputation.

I have two very good friends, a married couple, who live far away. We’re not able to see each other often, but when they visit, they stay with me, and when I visit, I stay with them. Here’s the problem. They love to smoke out, and I have asthma. I learned the hard way that smoke, including weed, is not my friend. They know this. When they stay with me, this isn’t a problem, but when I stay with them, they break out the pipe and then I have to break out my puffer and/or discreetly excuse myself for bed, no matter how early it might be. (And I’d rather stay up and hang out with them since our face-to-face time is rare.) I really only stay with them a couple nights a year, so it’s not like I’m in terrible danger, and normally I could deal. But tonight—yes, I’m staying with them tonight—I also have an upper respiratory infection and have been using my puffer every few hours anyway. They’ve seen this. So when the pipe came out as usual I was pretty surprised—and annoyed. Here are the options: should I ask them not to smoke when I stay with them (which is imposing on them in their own home) OR just stay in a hotel next time and tell them at that point that it’s because I can’t be around when they smoke OR do I stay in a hotel next time and say nothing at all?

Sure, your friends know you’ve got asthma, just like they know where they left their keys. Come on, man. Any couple that smokes weed errday is bound to blaze up without doing the math on your medical condition.

Not that you need a lesson in the difference between stoner absent-mindedness and genuine thoughtlessness when your lungs are on fire, but still, it’s on you to say something if you’re annoyed. You don’t have to be a whiny little bitch about it, but feel free even in their own home to tell them the smoke fucks you up, and not in a good way. You’re a guest, after all.

And damn, Weezy. How hard is it to politely suggest baking pot brownies instead? Seriously, turn that shit into a win-win. Bring a box of Duncan Hines next time and start a new tradition.

So I am sitting here in the hustle and bustle of Sydney’s metropolis watching the world go by and writing to you while a fat guy sits next to me eating $3 pasta. Do you think there’s anyone else in this city seeping your wise words of wisdom right here, right now?

As a matter of fact, there are a hundred sixty-two others in Sydney, sixty-four in Melbourne, forty-two in Brisbane, twenty-four in Perth, eighteen in Adelaide, and another twenty-seven spread out over the rest of the territory, and those are just the visitors that google is counting at the present moment. Lord knows how many Aussies are reading shit off their tumblr dashboards.

And yes, my decision to answer your question was based entirely on the fact that “the number from down under” instantly popped into my head, and there was no way I was gonna be able to resist a title with that much hair on its ass.

I’m a huge dork.

Right when I’m super close to coming, I always have these really weird and fucked up imaginations pop into my mind, and sometimes my boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend also comes into the picture. And then it delays the coming process and it takes me forever. What the fuck am I supposed to do? What does this mean?

Go back and read your question over again, only this time, read it in the nebbishy, hand-wringing voice of Woody Allen.

Did you read it in Woody Allen’s voice? Good, because that’s pretty much how you sound. Yeah, that’s right. You’re Woody Allen with a vagina. Does your boyfriend know he’s basically fucking Woody Allen? I bet if he did, it’d take him forever to cum too.

Oh, and guess what? Now that I’ve planted that shit in your head, Woody Allen is gonna haunt your orgasms for the rest of your life.

Just kidding. Woody Allen won’t haunt your orgasms. Actually, all those crazy thoughts will pop into your head during sex just like they always do, only this time you’ll suddenly be picturing Woody Allen fucking your boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend, and after that, everything will be fine.

Did you see Inception? That shit is for real, bitch.

Happy Hanukkah, Woody.

One of my friends is a very pretty girl, but she has one fatal flaw—lady has a beard. Not just some peach fuzz, that’s one thing. She actually has a full on, blonde, lady beard. More than half my well-natured male friends could manage. How do I tell her, gently, that she would be absolutely perfect looking—minus the beard? I don’t just want to give her a can of shaving cream and a gilette razor.

Yeah, no. She’s well aware of her facial hair, and she knows better than to start shaving it, so unless you’ve got a couple grand laying around to pay for her electrolysis, I suggest you shut the fuck up.

Fucking Finally! Took me three times to break up with him! I think he’ll leave me alone this time! I feel like a complete asshole though! He’s an absolute mess because of it. I know its emotional black mail, but I still feel responsible for his agony! What do I do? Do I stay friends with him?

Fuck no. For your sake and for his, no contact for a good long while. None.

When it’s messy and one-sided, the person doing the breaking needs to treat that shit like an execution. Don’t let it be slow and painful. You gotta be strong enough to make it clean, fast, and permanent.

There’s no need to be mean about it. You don’t even have to be cold. Just be firm and unwavering in establishing the new boundaries, and don’t for one second put up with any emotional blackmail.

He is responsible for his own emotional state, and you are only responsible for his agony to the extent that you keep prolonging it by giving him false hope. It’s over. Don’t even stick around to see which way the body falls. Just walk away and don’t look back.

I understand and agree with your definition of cheating, but what constitutes a partner? One with whom terms have been discussed? Do I have to be the one to discuss them if I really don’t care who these girls are sleeping with other than me, but I’ve inferred that they care in regard to me?

A partner is anyone with whom you have a relationship with mutually understood and agreed upon terms. That relationship can be based on love, business, crime, or whatever. In the context of love, the terms are usually based on fidelity, which centers around acts of intimacy.

The key here is “mutually understood and agreed upon.” There is no partnership otherwise. You can have a relationship, but until you both establish and agree upon the terms, it’s not a partnership.

Of course, the terms can be anything you want. People have all kinds of arrangements, and when it comes to romantic partnerships, those arrangements usually focus on some kind of physical or emotional exclusivity.

Unfortunately, people don’t communicate very well in this aspect of their lives. They assume shit. They infer shit. They apply rules from prior relationships without really discussing it, and what passes for tacit understanding for one person often flies right over the head of somebody else.

That muddling of expectations is where you run into problems, so yes, if you want to avoid the potential mess, you should take it upon yourself to be the one to discuss the terms in whatever manner you deem most appropriate. If you don’t give a fuck either way, then fine. That’s the risk you take.

Again, there is no right or wrong here. Shit doesn’t have to be all cut and dry. Hell, it never really is. I’ve just always found that it’s better to be open, honest, and up front with expectations.

Do you wonder whether this “rando lawyer” who apparently has paid a lot of attention to your blog will see your recent fun sized advice and deduce your true identity?  Bruce Wayne has to deal with this shit all the time, and now so do you.

Nope. Lord knows how many times he busted out that line in front of a group. Even if it was just the once, at best, he has a hazy memory of some girls he was trying to impress, none of whom he knew, and any one of us it could have been.

Besides, do you have any idea how many letters I’ve gotten from guys either trying to confirm or being dead-to-rights sure that they were that lawyer? Apparently, that shit is highly quotable.

Bruce Wayne ain’t got shit on me.

I think your explanation about the reason why poeple like jazz is wrong. Yes, jazz can be difficult. But it can be simple too. Especially when it’s good. The thing about jazz is flow. You start with a musical idea and you don’t know where you’ll end. Most pop/rock muisc starts with an idea and stays there. Of course, both genres can lead to amazing music. Progressive metal, that’s mental masturbation!

I didn’t say jazz was difficult. I said some folks will always insist on doing things the hard way, which pretty much sums up the whole “don’t know where you’ll end” thing. By the way, you’re not helping your case by defending improvisational jazz. That pretentious atonal cat fuckery is the very worst any musical form has to offer.

You say the thing about jazz is flow? Well, I say who gives a fuck? Lots of thing are about flow. Long division can be about flow. Hell, jerking off a horse is about flow, but that doesn’t mean the resulting sounds are music.

I’ve never met a jazz afficionado who didn’t readily admit to it being an acquired taste. I’ve also never met one who wasn’t an insufferable, fuzzy-chinned, finger-snapping parody of himself. Contemporary jazz is deliberately esoteric and aloof, quite often for no other reason than to mask the truly god-awful musicianship.

Maybe it’s better in your town. Whatever. I doubt it. Even within jazz’s upper echelons of genuine talent, unless it’s blended with another musical genre, like soul or funk in the case of Herbie Hancock or even bluegrass in the case of Bela Fleck, the stuff is absolutely unbearable. In other words, even when a contemporary jazz artist really shines, it’s in spite of the music sounding like jazz, not because of it.

And sure, it may not be my flavor, but I can still recognize the genius of greats like Miles Davis and John Coltrane. Everyone respects the classics by Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald. I’m not the kind of asshole who’s gonna talk shit about legends, but I’m also not the kind of asshole who would have lumped them into the same record bin as Kenny G or Diana Krall. Call that shit jazz if you want to. The rest of us will just call it painfully boring music that our parents listen to while waiting for the viagra to kick in.

And you know what else, Thelonious? Fuck what I think. When it comes to your own personal music preferences, don’t let anybody’s opinions keep you from bebopping your way down to whatever underground jazz club makes your favorite appletini.

Fair warning, though. If our first date is to that jazz club, there probably won’t be a second.