Mondays can be tough. That’s why every Monday from now until you die, I’ll be doing the Manic Monday Mailbag to keep us both entertained. You can submit your questions by clicking “Mailbag” on our submission form, tweeting me at @WRBolen, or emailing firstname.lastname@example.org.
Q: I’ve been dating this girl for about a year now. She’s beautiful, smart, funny, republican, and was a virgin before me. It’s perfect. I could marry her. However, she doesn’t like me getting blacked out drunk with my friends, even to the point where she says I couldn’t have a bachelor party if we did get married. I’ve never gotten drunk and cheated or hit her or anything like that. I’m just your average drunk guy with his buddies. I always hear these stories about a guy that marries a chick, is sober till death and never sees his friends again. Is this true? Will I really not be able to go on golf trips and get blacked out? Will Vegas be something I end up masturbating to? Is this normal behavior on her side, and what course of action should I take on my side?
You’re in a tough spot. You either say goodbye to the beautiful, smart, funny republican with an untarnished vagina, or say goodbye to everything you love about your current life. It’s a very, very bad sign that she’s already attempting to keep you from having a bachelor party. You can’t let that happen. What’s next? No football on Sunday? The bachelor party is an American tradition that no woman, regardless of how morally prude she may be, has the right to deny you. I’d say that’s a serious red flag. In fact, I’d say that’s a deal breaker if she refuses to change her mind. I mean, if Candice Swanepoel wanted to marry me, but insisted that I couldn’t have a bachelor party, I wouldn’t have a fucking bachelor party. But I’m pretty sure you’re not dating Candice Swanepoel, because you would’ve mentioned that, or never asked this question, or never gotten on the internet in the fucking first place, because you’d be too busy making sweet love to Candice Swanepoel.
Q: I’m 25 and just accepted a pretty good new job back in my hometown. I’ve lived/worked in several cities since graduating college. Since I took this position, I’ve been living in my parents’ basement. What is the longest period of time I can set up camp here before it’s sad? I love not paying rent.
—Bryan in Cincinnati, OH
It’s sad from the second you move in. However, you’re stacking paper and living rent free in your parents’ basement, assumedly devouring delicious home-cooked meals on a regular basis. When the downsides outweigh the lack of having to pay rent, that’s when it’s time to grow up and bail.
Q: While at the bar on Saturday night, talking to a decent looking guy, a recap of the day of football came on TV and I said, “Did you see Clemson get their ass kicked by FSU?” In my defense, that is a true statement, but immediately the conversation went to football, then baseball, then my drink was empty so I went to the bar and BOUGHT MY OWN DRINK. I know I’m 23 and no spring chicken anymore, but buying my own drinks? That’s when it hit me: he friend zoned me. I’m certainly no stranger to the friend zone (I put guys in it all the time), but I always assumed guys don’t friend zone girls (at least girls who aren’t hideous), because that just limits their options, but what do I know, I’m just a girl.
So my question to you, sir, is this: do guys friend zone girls? If yes, what would constitute a guy-on-girl friend zone? Am I my own biggest hurdle to meeting guys? Thanks.
It is entirely possible that not every single member of the male sex wants to stuff you like a Thanksgiving turkey. Maybe he was just wasted and really likes sports. Maybe he has a girlfriend. Maybe he’s gay. Maybe all three. I have no idea if you’re your biggest hurdle when it comes to meeting guys, because I don’t know you. You’re welcome.
Q: I need a ruling on condom etiquette. I live on the West Coast but was raised in a certain large Midwestern city. Whenever I visit friends and family there, I inevitably have relations with a lady friend at her apartment after spending some time at a few bars. The last time she was mad I didn’t bring my own condoms, even though I never had before. Do I have to become “that guy” who carries rubbers in his wallet at the bar or should she keep enough on hand?
Keeping a rubber in your wallet like a high schooler is incredibly lame. Do not be that guy. However, if you’re going out for the night, and plan on attempting to get laid instead of blacking out and eating pizza until 4:30am while you watch Seinfeld reruns on your couch alone, grab a condom or two (in case you blow it with the first one) and stuff them into your pocket with your keys and phone. This seems like an incredibly easy fix. I can’t believe I took the time to answer this question.
Q: I have a mustache issue. I love them and my wife hates them WTF. I remember wandering the halls of my fraternity house in college, seeing the incredible masterpieces sported by my predecessors, and wondering how a 20-year-old in 1983 grew such wonderful lip foliage. It took me until my late 20s to be able to grow one, and damn it, I want to sport it. Is it worth the dog house?
Women…can’t live with them, can’t live without them. It’s hard to ignore a request from the only female that you’re allowed to have sex with, because she can obviously just stop having sex with you and then life is hell. You’re married though, so odds are you’re not getting laid anyway. Tell her your mustache is for men’s cancer research in Movember. How can she not support that? If her hate for your snot mop is so strong that this could end in divorce, I’d let it go. It’s not worth losing your wife to look like a homosexual fireman or a pedophile uncle.
Q: So I was looking up strange fetishes last night and I think I discovered I have Autassassinophilia (being sexually aroused by the risk of being killed). This is not normal right?
No, it’s not normal. That’s why it has a ridiculously long scientific name, and you discovered it while you were researching strange fetishes. The word “strange” might as well be defined as “not normal.” Stay safe out there, Jeff.
Q: Dear Mr. W.R. Bolen,
I have a serious question. I’m a college-aged writer and am wondering how I can write about living life as an absolute asshole like yourself, and still see some mild success in the book game. How many New York executives did you jerk off to make the Best Sellers list? You seem like a kind of assertive but friendly guy who may have even cleaned up their miracle whip mess afterwards.
Legally change your name. Nobody is buying a book written by a guy named Stefan.
Q: What does the future hold for Matt Schaub?
Fuck you, Mitch. Fuck you for asking this question. I don’t want to talk about the Texans.
Q: It’s almost 4:00pm and the urge to escape is building. I stare through another’s open door, out a window not my own, in anxious anticipation of my departure. As the seconds pass, I sense a sudden realization that I may never leave, and the minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, and decades left to toil in corporate purgatory distract me from the tide inching closer. Waves of anxiety wash over my sedentary figure, dragging me under as my mind thrashes and my lungs gasp for air. The door stares, unresponsive as I reach for it to pull me to safety, but its cold expression is emotionless and it seems to enjoy my plight. I am caught in the undertow, unable to alter my course as desks and chairs turn to mock my descent. Will you save me, Bolen? Will you take my hand and never let go? It’s so cold.
No, no I will not. I think we’re done here. I’ll see you freaks next week.