Dear Fugly,
I recently started dating a stripper. It has been great because she's gotten me hella props from my homeys. But Fugly, there is a problem. My Mindy is a little loose below the belt. I'm of pretty average size, bigger than a pencil rod at least, and every time we have sexual relations it feels like I am humping a warm bucket of oatmeal.
I looked it up on WebMD and I think she may have Twaticus Maximus, for which there is no known cure. I'm caught in a dilemma. On one hand I don't get a whole lot out of banging this chick, and on the other I don't want to dump her because I enjoy the free lap dances her coworkers give me.
Help!
Average Dick
Dear Average,
Mmmmm, oatmeal poon. Sorry, Fugly gets distracted and aroused at the thought of pencil rods and oatmeal bowls. Fugly believes that it is perfectly acceptable to use others for your own personal gain.
One especially sizzling summer, Fugly went steady with a wise old bush elephant named Donald so Fugly could enjoy the shade of his large flanked ears—this was back when Fugly lived in India. Alright, that is a lie. Fugly really just used poor Donald for his agile, vibrating trunk. The sand people didn't take kindly to the affair and declared Jihad on Fugly's salami tunnel.
Anyhow, Average Dick, Fugly's advice is this: keep enjoying the lap dances and explore other, less cavernous holes.
Hugs,
Fugs
Hey Mule,
I'm looking to resign from my job, but I want to do it with a little razzle dazzle, a little shimmy shimmy shake, if you know what I mean. I would like to punish my bosses the way they've punished me all of these months with their inappropriate touches. Would I be out of line to drop my pants and tell them to lick my arse? Would I be crossing the line if I spread my ass cheeks apart? Please advise.
Cuddles,
Clay Fox
Dear Clay,
If you can believe this outrage, Clay, Fugly has had a difficult time finding gainful employment due to Fugly's non-traditional beauty and 18th century fashion choices. When Lady Gaga dresses like a circus freak, it's art; when Fugly does it, she's merely a wrinkled rube. Fugly's grammar school guidance counselor told Fugly that she would amount to nothing more than a casket model. Fugs followed this advice and attempted a career in showbiz but Fugly's agent could only get her a gig as Larry King's fluffer. Lord knows why that hump-backed old crow needs a boner to conduct an interview, but Fugly wasn't there to judge.
So, anyhow, Clay, Fugly has quit only one job. Fugly thought she had finally found her calling as an entertainer at the Renaissance Faire. In case you don't know, a Renaissance Faire is an 18th century themed gathering of white trash dweebs. The men wear tights or centaur legs and the portly women shove their pasty bazooms up to their chins in the name of historical accuracy.
Right before the jousting matches Fugly would dress up as an elf, juggle barbequed turkey legs, and recite dirty limericks for a drunken ungrateful crowd. Those drunkards did not appreciate Fugly's special brand of entertainment and they would pelt Fugs with rotten vegetables and blacksmith tools. Fugly was not about to take this kind of abuse. No sir. One day, after an especially wormy tomato hit Fugly square in the grill, she'd had enough. Fugly dipped the drumsticks in kerosene, ignited them, and fired them into the crowd, shrieking, "Take this job and shove it!" Only one elderly gentleman managed to wheel his way out of the carnage. Fugly followed him out to the parking lot and made him eat pavement, American History X style. Fugly found the whole experience to be very satisfying.
Moon Away!
Fugly
Dear Fuggariffic,
Why does God hate the East Coast so much? It's too cold, too hot, it's ugly, and there are no burritos here. If God loved the East Coast it would be like the West Coast.
Warm Wishes,
Chippy
Dear Chippy,
Fugly happens to moonlight as a taco truck driver. Fugly would gladly drive the burrito buggy across the nation to bring you a tortilla full of goodness. Fugly lives on the West Coast because the hot arid sun helps dry out Fugly's weeping yellow sores.
To answer your question Chippy, God hates the East Coast because it is full of unattractive, brown-haired, pasty-faced freaks. God loves the West Coast because it was chocked full of raving beauties like Fugly and the dozens of serpents Fugly has birthed. So Chippy, the choice is obvious: you must leave that burrito-less wasteland behind and return to California where you can bronze your raisonettes in the sun with Fugly.
Love,
Fugly