I started the original “Flag room whore” craze a little over a year ago, and I have yet to see the whore emerge from the depths of the dark whorehouse brothel she resides. What can we do to finally make her come out for the semester and start gobbling cock in her former glory? P.S. There are pictures of this bitch on Facebook making out drunkenly with other equally ugly whores in Canada.

EV: Listen bud, I’ve seen those pictures, and I know for a fact you are dying to get a piece of the action. Well, me too. She looks like one sexy flag room whore. How’s about it, you, me, her, and a bucket of chicken wings one Saturday night? That’s an offer you can’t refuse.

AB: I heard that the best way to lure a whore out from her hiding place is with a bucket of honey and a butterfly net. Or maybe that’s bears? Cartoon bears. Hm.

I think my roommate is totally hot and all I want to do is suck his dick, but he doesn’t know I’m gay. What should I do?

EV: Tell him. Tell him that you’re gay, and tell him that you want to suck his dick. As far as I know, honesty is the best policy. One time, I cheated on my boyfriend, and you know what I did afterwards? I told him. I told him how that other guy touched my hot, naked, sweaty body. I told him how we both came after the most satisfying sexual encounter I’ve ever had. But that really has nothing to do with you. So…. Yeah. Aaawkward.

AB: There is an old quasi-magic trick that works in these sort of situations. You will need to be good with a deck of cards, optical illusion, and slight-of-hand. If all goes as hoped, you will end up inside of him, no questions asked. In fact, you can say “Ta da, I’m in your butt! Poof!” Or try putting on his underwear. I mean, that sounds pretty fun to me. Poof! I’m in your butt!

I have a new gf, but I still hang out with my old one and it pisses off the new one. What should I do?

EV: Well, are you still good friends with the old one? You should ask yourself whether the new girlfriend actually has a good reason to get pissed when you hang out with the old one. Does she? You two still playin’ footsie under the covers? ‘Cause if you are, I can’t blame the bitch. If there’s no real reason for her to be jealous, then talk to her about it. If you care enough, then you should let her know the deal— that there’s nothing going on between you and your ex. Come on, be a man about it, ya sissy.

AB: Keep your fingers crossed that they all perish in a horrible warehouse explosion along with the rest of their kind. Girls are lame. Let’s go gay. What size underwear are you?

You have lost track of this column’s goal as an *advice* column. When I came here as a freshman in the fall of 2005, it was the place for newcomers to turn to for help with odd questions, but it was also funny for the older and more experienced students who knew the answers to those questions. It is the contrast between the answers given and the comical advantage the second answer has over the first which has made this particular column quite popular. Lately, this article has slowly lost it’s focus. From what I’ve seen so far this year, it’s not even close.

Please, take some time and go through some of the past issues, particularly from 2005 to 2006. Recognize the factual information that Ann Marie Olivo provided, and the not only ridiculous, but intellectual humor in Christopher Ahearn’s rebuttal. The name of the column is “I’m Right. You’re Wrong.”, not “I’m Wrong. You’re Wrong.” You’re both trying to play the same role and neither of you are doing it the way Chris Ahearn and Ann Marie Olivo made it to be; the way my friends and I enjoyed it. I understand things change because individuals put their own twist on past practices, but this column has gone too far for me.

Please take time to consider my criticism. I’ve tried to make my point as clear as possible. A response isn’t necessary. A change in the way you write the column would be good enough.

EV: Listen, it’s really easy to sit up there on your high horse and judge other people, but I’d like to see you come down here and answer your own dumbass questions at nine o’clock on a Saturday night. No? Thought so. Eat it.

AB: Blow me.