Dear Dr. Dave: Volume 3

Dear Dr. Dave: Volume 3

Look who’s back? Yes, it’s your favorite guy who love to hate, the Animal himself. After a nearly 2-year absence, I’m back to shower all of you sorry nerds with my words of wisdom that maybe somehow, some way, will get you laid.

Yeah, I doubt it too. But it’s fun trying, anyway.

In case you’ve all been wondering what I’ve been doing these past two years, I’ll give you a hint. It starts with an “S,” ends with an “X,” and rhymes with “Lex.” Get it? Got it? Good.

To have your questions answered by moi, send your questions to The Armpit. Without further ado, let’s got on to the mailbag o’ losers.


Dear Dr. Dave,

I’m sure you saw that show on VH1 called The Pickup Artist. It’s a reality show where 8 guys, all of them virgins, live in house and get lessons on picking up women from some guy named Mystery. They go out to clubs with a hidden camera to apply their techniques, and every week someone got eliminated until one master pickup artist was chosen the winner at the end. Did you see this, and if so, do you recommend their techniques? I’d like to know, because I’m someone who can relate to those guys who have trouble approaching women.

Shy in Phoenix, AZ

DB: YOU have trouble getting chicks?? You don’t say! It’s not like I couldn’t figure that out within the first three words of your boring-ass email. If you talk to women the way you write email, then buddy, get used to lifetime of sleeping alone. Even your pillows and blankets will dump you, which means you better learn how to turn on a heater. Oh who am I kidding, you couldn’t turn on an old bag on her death bed in a nursing home, let alone a heater.

Since you asked, Yes, I did see the Pickup Artist. It was a great show, and I personally taught Mystery everything he knows. He’s got a book out, assh*le, so stop typing boring email messages and go buy it, you f*ckin’ nincumf*ckin’poop.

Basically, it boils down to this. Picking up women is 50% looks and 50% attitude. Well, unless you’re gorgeous and famous like me, in which case it’s 100% looks and fame, and my attitude plays zero part in how I get women to bed. I can’t see what you look like over the computer (thank God, because I’m low on Pepto Bismol, you gross f*ck), but odds are, you’re an ugly motherf*cker. So there’s problem #1. Style your hair, take a shower, lose some weight, get rid of your two-dollar shirts, and wear some deodorant because you probably smell like a cheese factory. Once you look halfway decent, get ready to let me let you in on the true secret to getting laid.

Ready? It’s this: treat women like sh*t.

How do you treat women like sh*t? Easy. Pay attention to how girls have treated you your whole miserable life, and then act that way around women from now on. You won’t become the pickup artist I am, but you might get lucky every once in a blue moon.

Nice guys sleep alone, pal. So do ugly guys, unless you’re rich and/or famous. Look decent and stop acting like the nice guy who so desperately tries to get a chick’s number. Ignore them, don’t call them back, and act like you’re too good to even talk to them. Before you know it, you might fool some dumb broad well enough to spread her fat legs for you.

Oh, and make sure they’re loaded with alcohol. They’d have to be if you expect them to lie naked next to that zit-infested garbage can you call a face.

Next!

Dear Dr. Dave,

Hey Dave, I have to figure at some point in your life you were just a lonely, horny dude like the rest of us. Just wonderin’, when it comes to masturbating, how much is too much? One of my friends said he squeezed in 7 sessions in one day, which sounds like overkill to me. I’m not quite as bad as that, but it’s still a daily habit for me. Do you think this is healthy?

Busy Hands in Bismarck, ND

DB: Sorry Mr. Hands, but I can’t sympathize with your plight. When you “assume,” you make an ass out of “U” and “me,” and that’s what you did. I was never, EVER a pathetic soul like you and the rest of the jerk-offs (pun intended) who read this column. I lost my virginity at age two. Read ‘em and weep. I was two, and she was 12, babysitting me. Or so she thought. I guess my definition of babysitting differed than my parents’. I was a baby, and she sat on me, so technically she was doing her job. And as someone who was put on this Earth to conquer as many women as possible, I was doing mine.

But that’s neither here nor there; you asked about beatin’ meat. If you’re asking about the act of a hand on my penis, jerking it back and forth until it comes, then yes, it’s a daily habit for me too. Unfortunately, when it happens with me, it’s someone ELSE’s hand, not mine. In other words, my c*ck gets stroked far more than yours, or even your little “friend” who can’t keep his hands off himself.

But the body doesn’t know who’s hand it is. Whether it’s mine, yours, your mother’s, your father’s, or the hot blond I picked up at the supermarket this morning, to your body, it’s all the same. In other words, when it comes to shoveling out your love potion, there is no limit. Hell, if there was, I wouldn’t be alive today. I’m living proof that you can almost have a tube attached to someone, constantly pumping out jizz 24/7, and nothing bad will ever come from it. That’s a good analogy for how often I drop my load, except in my case, it always involves a woman (or three, or four). To be totally honest, the only time I’m not producing vasectomized sperm is when I’m writin’ this stupid column. Actually, that’s not true, because last time I did this column, I was getting’ serviced under the desk by my nephew’s math teacher (I gave her an apple, she gave me her pie, and we made apple pie Dr. Dave style). The only reason I don’t have a woman’s lips attached to me right now is that my BlackBerry is broken, so I have to use a backup PC. Breakin’ BlackBerries and poppin’ cherries; that’s how I roll.

So stop wasting my time so I can go get me some… again and again.

How many more letters are there??

Dear Dr. Dave,

Hey Dave, what up?? Shoot, I love reading your column because you put those punk*ss b*tches in their place. You and me dude, we get all the play! It’s cool to know that you can relate to what I go through on a daily basis, man. Ho’s are what it’s all about, playa!!

Getting’ Busy in San Ho, CA

DB: I’m only going to say this once, so listen carefully. You are NOT at my level, you never will be, and you can only dream of living one second of one day of the life I live. Not you, or anyone else, will ever know the pleasures I receive on a constant basis from the bevy of beauties I can beckon at the snap of a finger. Pretending to even act like you are in my social class is not only sacrilegious, but also blasphemous, dangerous, and in some states, illegal. You’ve been warned.

I love how these wiggers shoot their cute little street slang around like they’re some sort of Vanilla Ice knock-off’s trying to be John Cena. Dude, you have no style, no machismo, and no rap at all. You’re a boy, not a man. No one believes for a second that you’ve ever so much as kissed a girl, let alone get all the “play” you so love to speak of. You feel me, bro? Now pull up your ridiculous-looking baggy pants, pop those 23 pimples you have on that grease pit you call a forehead, take off that backwards baseball cap, and put that spinnin’ Cena belt away. You’re a pretender to the throne, so don’t be “playin’” me like that “dawg.”

Dear Dr. Dave,

I’ve been seeing this girl for about 3 months now, and things are going well. The only problem is, her friend is a real hotbox, and I think she likes me. She’s always winking at me, and last night when they were both over at my apartment, she was trying to get me alone in the bedroom after my girl went out to pick up some Chinese food. What do you think I should do? Obviously I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but I don’t want to break up their friendship either.

Confused in Columbus, OH

DB: Excuse me, but did I just hear you say that you cared about anyone else’s feelings except your own?? And how long have you been reading this column for?? If you’ve been paying attention, Mr. “Feelings,” you’d have known that the only one you should give a sh*t about is that little guy you got there in your pants. Everyone else is the scum on our toilets, including the two hosebags you had at your pad last night.

Listen, for once I gotta give one of our readers props. You’re probably a wuss, but you somehow managed to get a girlfriend. You’re still a loser, but at least you’re a step above the other 99% of the people who send me their sob stories of endless masturbation, so my hat’s off to ya.

But man, we’ve gotta change your attitude.

First of all, girlfriends are for sissies. Real men don’t have girlfriends. Real men (write this down, Pointdexter) don’t know a woman long enough to even know her name, and if she ever tells you her name, throw her out the window. Find ‘em, f*ck ‘em, flee ‘em; that’s my philosophy. The most they can stay is overnight, and even then, they’re out the door first thing in the morning. No breakfast, no shower, no nothing. In fact, I don’t even care if they had an orgasm. As long as I had mine, I couldn’t give a sh*t about their G-spot, X-spot, or blind spot. The only “spot” they’re gettin’ is the exit.

That’s your first problem. But assuming you don’t do that (and you won’t, because like most guys who are with ugly chicks, they’re afraid of dumping them for fear that no other woman will go out with them, and in your case, you’re probably right), let’s assess your current situation:

Your girlfriend’s friend wants you. Ok, fair enough. Why does she want you? Certainly not because of your looks or personality, because you clearly lack both to an alarming degree. She “wants” you because you’re taken, and therefore, she can’t have you. People want things they can’t have, which explains why a wedding ring is the single best thing a man can wear when trying to pick up chicks. I have a wedding ring, and I’m not married, engaged, or even seeing anyone steady. I use it because it’s a p*ssy magnet, plain and simple.

In other words, if you left your girlfriend, her friend would see you as available, and that’s an enormous turn-off. She wouldn’t want you anymore. The result? Instead of having one girl and having another want you, you’ll end up with neither of them wanting you. Reality will set in, Don Juan.

Instead, you need to play this smart. Keep your girl, and boink her friend until you get sick of her. This will keep your affair hot and steamy, and if your girl ever finds out, so what?? You had your play, the two girls will stop being friends, and you’ll then have the confidence you need to pick up some real women. It’s a win-win situation for you. Sure, the girl’s feelings will be hurt and the mistress will lose a best friend, but that’s no sweat off your back, is it? No, it isn’t.

Dude, I was dealing with those problems in the 3rd grade. You’re way behind the curve, so step up, pronto. And next time, ditch the bitch the minute she tells you her name. You’re in this for your personal pleasure and enjoyment, not hers. You’re a man, so start acting like one.


Well, I’m bored and horny, which is a dangerous combination. I’ve got two young, hot, wet 18-year-olds in my Jacuzzi, and I’m typing on a keyboard. There are other uses for my finger, and typing isn’t one of them.

So dudes, keep those letters coming, because from the looks of things, my services are needed here for a long, long time. The holidays are drawing near, so go to the mall and try to pick up some chicks that don’t totally retch when they look at you. That’ll be a challenge, I know.

Contact me and I’ll answer you in the next column. By that time, my BlackBerry will be fixed, so I’ll be writing the column while in the “act.” Download, upload, and drop my load. Oh yeah, droppin’ loads.

Disclaimer: Dave Batista didn’t really write this. The Armpit did. But we know it’s what Dave would say.

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