Dear Marigold,

My boyfriend and I are mad, crazy, batshit in love. Like, make your friends hate you together in love. We know everything about each other and have a really satisfying sex life, complete with spooning and sometimes even post-coital conversations! I know, you hate me, too you jealous bitch. Here's the problem; he has frat boy humor. Like, he farts on me, on my fucking leg, and in my fucking face on purpose. He likes terrible god damned movies, we own all the National Lampoon offerings, with the titties and the road trips and the farts. Also, I have been roused from my sleep with balls on various parts of my body namely, my boobs, my hand (lowered into them teabag style), but worst of all my forehead. There is nothing quite as terrifying as opening your eyes from a restful sleep and seeing hairy balls and taint staring back at you while the love of your life giggles like a fucking schoolboy. I am sure that you are saying to yourself, ew, leave him immediately, but everything else is so good. He actually has this absurd sense of humor that is hilarious, like it is really funny to talk about balls on the forehead but experiencing it is a whole separate matter. I have tried to bring up the fact that we don't share the same pop culture affinities and trust me, the balls thing gets him a day of punishment. Please help, otherwise this may end in violence...to his Shecky Green balls. 

- Teabagged in Tallahassee

Dear TIT,

Is your boyfriend Canadian?  Because it’s a well-known scientific fact that Canadian boys are awesome and hilarious and also sometimes French.  And any kind of nebulous connection to the Queen or another, lesser-known royal family automatically adds a protective glucosamine-based coating to the Y chromosome.  True story.  Regrettably, dudes born without this protective coating, or who lose it over time from smoking too much chronic, are susceptible to a host of unfortunate disorders including trashy frat boy behavior (amongst other things, both appalling and contagious).  Sadly, science has yet to discover a cure for this heartbreaking disease, which can indiscriminately ravage even the most harmonious couples.  Already you’ve witnessed one of its more insidious forms, wherein you’re lured into blissful spooning slumber only to wake up *BAM* balls on the forehead.

But don’t worry, TIT, you do have options.  First, I recommend ballsack etiquette classes.  For him, not for you.  Appropriate ballsack etiquette is a sorely overlooked method of propriety in our society and obviously he’s in need of some education, both swift and fierce.  If you have trouble finding a class or chapter near you, I recommend that you start one.  And also a Facebook page and probably a Twitter thing.  Spread the word by organizing a school bake sale, marathon for the cure, or benefit concert.  Because society is fucked up enough without adding mischievous hairy ballsacks to the list of things that keep you up at night.  If that doesn’t work, I recommend roofing the crap out of his beer.  Just as the snuggling and nuzzling begins to wind down for the evening, drop a handful of the date rape drug of your choice into his booze and encourage him to drink up (take off your shirt and yell, “Woo hoo CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG!” if necessary).  It shouldn’t take too long for the drugs to take effect: 10-15 minutes max or you’re doing it wrong.  He’ll wake up with one hell of a case of amnesia and I guarantee he won’t have the wherewithal to arrange his balls into any type of configuration whatsoever, let alone find the damn things for at least a couple of hours.  If he farts in your general direction, well, he probably just had to fart so keep your distance, particularly if he ate some horrendous gut-busting meal the night before (he won’t have much self-control until at least late afternoon).  If for some reason that STILL doesn’t work, then he’s clearly just another troglodyte douche that doesn’t realize how good he has it and you should heave his useless carcass down the stairs and go for someone far more French Canadian.

 Dear Marigold,

If a dragon was given a magical amulet which gave it the power to shape space and time, yet this dragon was at that same time confined by said dimensions, could it, or could it not, turn a broken refrigerator into a baby seal?  And would they be friends?

- The Baron

 
Dear Baron,

The fuck?  Is your name really “The Baron”?  As in you genuinely have a name with “the” ensconced firmly therein or you’re just taking liberties with your parentally-bestowed moniker? Awesome.  The next time I have a kid I’m totally naming it Baron, regardless of gender.  Like Baron Maximillian Argylach March VII for a boy, or Baron Ogylvie Rouxlix March, PhD for a girl, yeah?  Totally.

So anyway, Baron, everyone knows that space and time are ridiculously infinite so any attempt to “shape” infinity would be met with uproarious laughter and someone’s grandmother would patronizingly ask if you’d like some more pound cake, dear.  In other words, the dragon totally got swindled and the amulet is bunk so I would suggest that he first spend some quiet time alone examining his psychological underpinnings that manifest as a tendency toward emotional impulse buying, then hunt down the charlatan that sold him the amulet and (assuming he’s a fire-breathing dragon) scorch the fellow to a bacony crisp.  Also be sure to leave a note, in case the deceased’s family comes looking for him.  There’s just no excuse for bad manners. 

To answer the second part of your question, the dragon (being a dragon) would eventually realize that his dimensional confinement exists only in his mind and, regardless of his level of self-awareness, would in fact be capable of turning a broken refrigerator into a baby seal whilst simultaneously supporting an infinite number of miscreant turtles, freeform clogging atop the Tabula Rasa, and sweetly humming Grecian limericks about causal loops and chains.  Despite this feat, however, the dragon would NOT be friends with the baby seal because his bloodthirsty dragon instincts would eventually emerge so he would be compelled to char-grill the baby seal and serve him for brunch, as a clutch of blubbery meatballs atop a well-seasoned goulash.  Being a sensitive dragon, though, he would howl a mournful requiem deep into the depths of night for his star-crossed chum.