Read You're a Horrible Person, But I Like You: The Believer Book of Advice for Free Online

wooden matchstick, and, as they burst, kiss a jar of our grandmarm’s famous hand-marmed marmalade between each of the crisp crackles, take a deep breath, hold it, and then immediately eat as much of the dog’s rectal output as you can stomach. You should awake the next morning to find your hair has more bounce, more luster, and more sheen than you could have possibly foreseen!
Vernon and John
    …
    Dear Vernon and/or John:
    Since arriving in New York about a year ago, I haven’t been motivated to cook. I haven’t had sex, either, and I’m beginning to think the two are somehow related. My friends have suggested the “pity lay,” but I feel that’s cheating—sort of the equivalent of a microwave dinner. Any suggestions for turning these two worrying trends around?
Lauren Marks
New York, NY
    Dear Lauren:
    Manners! Never, ever, ever turn down a “pity lay.” It is also considered bad form to reject the offering of a courtesy cuddle, a grievance grope, sorrow sex, a hunger hump, a shame shag, an ennui shower, a gloat scroting, a phantom-limb handjob, an anosognosian booty call (with one’s own booty, no doubt), a gymnophobes dry hump, a rusty-trombone marrow transplant, a free falafel (shoved up your ass), or a sincere, sensual session of meaningful lovemaking.
    As for your question, what you feel is natural. Food and sex fit together like a penis made of olives fits into a snug vagina knit from hen cutlets. Our advice is, be careful out there. Don’t want those olives to spoil. Always keep them in chilled brine before serving (penetration).
Vernon and John
    …
    Dear Vernon and/or John:
    Why is it that every time my family sits down for a Sunday dinner I simultaneously feel the urge to massacre each one of them with my bare hands, ripping every fiber of their being into obliteration and leaving no shred of evidence except for their as-yet-untouched plates of barbecued chicken and mashed potatoes, which I will surely eat once I wash my hands of the evidence, and want to hug them until they bleed?
Ben Siegel
Williamsville, NY
    Dear Ben:
    You’ll be happy to know that this is not your fault. The only thing to blame here is that dastardly rascal known as “your emotions.” This horrible fiend has revealed the thin double-edged sword between love and hate. Again, not your fault. And fear not; we have a solution to your woes. But to ensure that our advice isn’t bogged down in crass feelings, we have printed it in binary code: 101101001 10101 1010110110, 111 0010 101 0111. 1010 10101 10 01010101 1010 Coca-Cola 1010111 10101 1011 01 0101010 10101 … 0101 01.
Vernon and John
    …
    Dear Vernon and/or John:
    I am a forty-eight-year-old who has been enjoying the occasional use of cannabis since puberty. Because this is an illegal substance controlled by a mafia of seventeen-year-olds, I find that it has become difficult (if not impossible) for a middle-aged suburbanite to hook up with “the man.” Should I just grow up and go cold turkey, or go back to high school and hope to hang with a cool crowd? Please advise .
Theodore W. Oestendiek
A rural part of Arizona
    Dear Theodore:
    It is well-known that Rodney Dangerfield went back to school for the same reasons you are thinking, and now he’s dead. Or, let’s put it this way: It’s like my beloved Aunt Clorvis always used to say. “Let me make this very clear. We are not related. Kindly remove your withered bodyclaw from my ladybags.” In other words, follow your heart. But whatever you do, do it au gratin. And just in case you still missed it, let me dumb it down for you a notch: make like a fig and fuck off, stoner.
Vernon and John

Rob Corddry
    Dear Rob:
    I’m seriously considering buying a houseboat. I already know about all the bad reasons to do this—my friends and family have been very helpful in that department—but nobody has bothered to tell me why this would be insanely cool and bad-ass. What do you think?
Chad Lewis
Waukesha, WI
    Dear Chad:
    Just