Dear Crabby

I’ve always wanted to run an advice column–well, “always” being the last two weeks. An unfortunate side effect of my attention span being the size of Tyrion Lannister is that my dreams and aspirations are short lived.  On the plus side, failure is infrequent because there is no time for it.  Initially (two weeks ago), I didn’t think starting my own column would be an option because any advice I would give is sure to be awful and, conceptually at least, these sorts of columns should give good advice.  But after reading some of them, I’ve put that myth to bed.  Bad, mediocre, and eighteenth-century advice abound in these columns, leaving a real need for truthful, colorful, come-to-Jesus advice.  In other words, the kind of advice I excel at giving, if only I were asked.  

I’m convinced that I could do an incredible job at it, from everyone’s perspective except maybe the person whose question/comment I am addressing.  But really, these columns are never about the individual making the ask as much as they’re about illustrating that all men lie and/or reaffirming to readers that every vagina looks different and that’s OK. I can do both of those things, with the caveat that I would be lying and no, I’m not a man.

So, I’m going to give this endeavor the old college try, and I’ll put it out to you first, readers.  I realize that most of my WordPress Followers these days are automatically generated adds from dentist offices and travel companies but, whatever, robots need advice too and there is bound to be a human or two in the group, or else my friends really need to start returning the cash I’m giving them to “read” this blog.

Hit me up with any questions, comments, or concerns you may be having and I’ll treat all your submissions as a gateway to some truly horrendous advice.  It may seem like I don’t give a shit about your issues, but I promise I do, or at least will try.  The lines are open.  If you don’t submit questions, I’ll submit them for you …



  1. pp72

    Dear Mrs Pants.

    My work place has a “music festival” every summer, and for some reason I thought it would be an excellent idea to perform some dated mainstream rock music this year as part of a band of overweight and balding 40-somethings.

    As the night approaches I am quite literally crapping my pants (I know you know what I mean) and suspect that I will spend the entire performance rooted to the spot like a statue and fail to interact with the audience at all.

    I wonder, with your extensive experience of making a twat of yourself, if you could advise me on how to lose all inhibitions and put on a show so memorable that I am either revered as a god forevermore, or summarily sacked the following day.

    Yours hopefully, pp72.

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