Fuck Buddy Booty Call

I recently called a fuck buddy of mine on his middle-of-the-night departures. He said he didn’t like to do his “morning business” in my house. Have you heard of this before?

Missy, Alabama

Missy, the Corporate Fucker has his priorities. First of all, there’s all those emails to answer, voice mails to check, and phone calls to return. What particular hue of powder blue shirt should he don? Should he press and starch, just steam press or spray that fucking thing with that wrinkle release shit that’ll take his life in about 5 years, or at the very least result in offspring abnormalities requiring more cosmetic surgery than Meg Ryan?

I suggest dating an under-employed artist of some sort to combat this malevolent assault on your dignity. Perhaps some fuck who’s working on an “installation” examining the relationship between one having testicles and being totally full of horseshit.

However, should you be referring to whether a guy leaves a woman’s house to go take a dump at home for fear he’ll lose his fuck-buddy privileges, yeah I’ve heard of that. It’s called “I’m so full of shit I have to go.”

Angry Frank