Dear Scabby: When will YOU come to Brazil? Does Bruno Mars is gay? -ANONYMOUS
Dear Anonymous: Why would I pay to go to Brazil when Virginia Beach is just a two-hour drive away, where I can rent out my cousin’s converted garage and watch the crime waves for free? I’m sure Brazil is lovely, but if your beach isn’t surrounded by military bases and two for one piercing shops, I want no part of it. I try to stay away from countries associated with headlines like “Hottest Women in the World,” because it’s bad for my self-esteem. You never want to be the ugliest person in the room, so to speak, which is why I spend a lot of time on public transit and in Newburgh, NY.
People have been discussing homosexuality for centuries. I believe it was Sophocles who first posed the question, “Does Bruno Mars is gay?” Although I initially assumed Bruno Mars was some kind of nougat-filled candy or perhaps the name of a no-frills gym franchise, after doing some research I’m inclined to believe he is gay. According to the Kinsey Scale, which is used to determine sexual orientation, we are all gay with the exception of me who scored “desperate,” wherein the test taker will fuck anyone that will have them regardless of sex, gender, body type, and employment status.
Dear Scabby: Ever have that super annoying friend who obsessed over Instagram and clogs your feed with self-obsessed trash but you can’t unfollow them? Wtf! Some of these fools even have apps that tell them if they got unfollowed! Help me navigate this dystopian nightmare with proper social prowess! -INSTASHAM
Dear Instasham: In terms of hurting your own feelings as a hobby, Instagram places just ahead of examining your face in front of a magnifying vanity mirror. Ten years ago, you’d be oblivious to the whereabouts of your high school alumni or your ex-boyfriend, but thanks to Instagram you now know that Drew from your sophomore year English class is running a half marathon to raise awareness for Restless Leg Syndrome and that your ex and his new fiancé are cutting agave out of their diets. Who knew the information highway would lead directly into a dead end?
Instagram affords users the option to mute peoples posts and/or stories, which is kind of like firing someone from the office but still letting them shit in the company bathroom. While this seems like an ideal solution to your problem, there’s something mildly un-satisfying about knowing these people are still out there monetizing “self-care” and subjecting others to pixelated posts of fettuccini alfredo and #mancrushmonday photos of their own husbands. Instagram is part of the pat-yourself-on-the back, self-fetishization culture that allows just enough distraction and disillusionment to let conglomerates moonlight as communities, but at least the interface is simple.
Dear Scabby: I hate my drummer. But I like my band and don’t want to start a new one. What should I do? -FRUSTRATED FRONTMAN
Dear Frustrated Frontman: Of course you hate your drummer. You’re supposed to resent the other members of your band, that’s the rule. When you’re a kid, you get the sex talk, but you never get the hate talk. No one sits you down and tells you that one day, when you reach a certain age, your going to feel urges and desires to induce pain and humiliation upon your fellow man. You’re not told that the mere memory of someone can trigger a gag reflex, or that rage can be as effectively blinding as glaucoma.
Think of your band like a Greek tragedy, and not because the songs are too long, the lyrics are overly dramatic, and the themes are insanely outdated. Audiences come for the music but they stay for the drama, which is why Shakespeare didn’t waste his time writing sonnets about functional families or soliloquies about guys that liked their drummers. No one is buying tickets to see “The Not So Tragic Story of Hamlet” or “Romeo and Juliet Renew Their Vows,” in the park. While hate is most likely the product of throwing low self-esteem and fear into a pressure cooker, it can also be a powerhouse of motivational agency when channeled correctly.
Scabby is the self-proclaimed mother of the Richmond, VA hardcore scene (and also a number of illegitimate children who have been trying to get in touch with her via ancestry.com.) She came this close to getting her associates degree in psychology from an online program that was later shut down for reasons we cannot disclose due to an ongoing investigation. Originally named Gabby F., she started going by Scabby after an untreated bed bugs “situation” in her first squat made national news, and is assumed to be anywhere between 50 and 100 years old. She looks forward to answering your most pressing questions and encourages people to push each other mentally, emotionally, and literally. You can contact Scabby at [email protected].