Dear Dr. Dave: Volume 2

Well, well, well. My debut column in January was so much fun that I’ve been asked to do another one. Why am I not surprised?

After all, internet wrestling fans are the prototypical geeks who couldn’t score with women if they slam-dunked one into a basketball hoop. Whereas I, on the other hand, can score with any woman I want just by batting an eyelash. It’s good to be me.

To have your questions answered by moi, send all your mail to The Armpit, and they’ll forward your pathetic stories to me. Until then, let’s get started with this month’s mailbag:

Dear Dr. Dave,

I’m what you call a “hard gainer.” I work out every day, eat tons of food, and still cannot gain muscle. I’ve tried everything and nothing seems to work. Do you know what I might be doing wrong?

Skinny in Seattle

This is a sex column, assh*le. I’m here to help you get laid, not muscular. But nonetheless, if you insist…

Look, this is wrestling. Do you think I was born looking like this? No. Do you think Scott Steiner, HHH, and Chris Benoit were born looking like that? No, no, and no. Welcome to the club, flat ass.

Maybe you haven’t heard, but science has allowed us to produce a wonderful substance that blasts your muscles bigger than any amount of weight-training will do. It’s called STEROIDS, jerk. Get on a plane and fly to San Diego. Take a cab into Tijuana, and learn how to say, “Where can I find a crooked doctor?” in Spanish. This is Tijuana, so chances are you’ll only have to ask once until you find a crook. Show the “doctor” a picture of you, and then show him a picture of HHH. Tell him “I want to look like him” in Spanish, and point to the picture of HHH. The nice doctor will gladly shovel you a bag of needles and pills if you slip him a $20 bill. Then go home and see if it works. If it does, hop back on a plane to San Diego, and do it again.

You can’t be this naive, can you?? Look at how lazy someone like the Warlord was in the ring. Do you think that stiff was so motivated and disciplined that he worked his ass off in the gym every day, counting his carbs and doing crunches until he passed out? Give me a break. He was JUICIN’, my boy. And that’s the only way you’re going to get big too. Sure, you’ll probably die before age 50, but what do you have to live for anyway? You’re writing to a sex column, and it’s not even about sex. They don’t come more pathetic than you. Well, perhaps I spoke too soon…

Hey Dave, you’ll forgive me if I’m not quite the lady’s man you are, but I try. Anyway, the last girl I asked out rejected me because she said I had bad breath. Is there a quick fix to this? Because around the guys, they don’t tell me I have bad breath. Then again, maybe they’re just being nice. Please help.

Houston Halitosis

Jesus Christ, you ain’t kiddin’. I took a whiff off the letter you sent me, and I nearly gagged. What did you do, breathe on it until you fogged up your windows? I’m glad you left your return address, because I just might FedEx you some Altoids, extra strength. Take 5 of them at a time, and just maybe you’ll tame that dragon breath of yours.

Look, you’re a dude. Odds are, you like to eat pizza, garlic, onions, and hot sauce. That sh*t makes your breath stink. And so what? A woman’s breath stinks too, not to mention that glory hole between their legs. It’s only human.

Here’s the truth, Stinky. This girl turned you down for a reason, and it ain’t because your mouth smells like a hamper. It’s because you’re a gross, ugly, disgusting, fat, dork-ass nerd. She was lying to you, my man. Yes, your breath reeks. Hell, I can smell it from here, and I’m writing this from a bunker. But girls can deal with that. What you need to do is work on the other 99% of your qualities that girls CAN’T deal with. Style your hair, lose some weight, brush your teeth, iron your clothes, and get a face transplant. They just transplanted a human face in Europe, didn’t you hear? Get on a plane and volunteer for the next surgery. Tell them to put Brad Pitt’s face on you, and that chick will undress so fast you’ll have to race her to the bed. And remember, pop a breath mint before you kiss her.

Hey Dave, what’s up? Congratulations are in order, as I recently got married. Everything was great, but then she got pregnant. Our son was born a few months ago, and now my wife won’t have sex with me any more. It’s hard; the kid’s crying, he’s crapping, he’s crawling around…. it’s always something. It’s cute and all, but at the end of a long day at work, I just wanna get laid. I know that sounds crude, but a man has needs. I’d hate to cheat on her, but if this keeps up, I’m gonna lose my mind. Any advice?

Sexless in Sacramento

Boy if I had a nickel for every time I heard this song and dance…. I hear it all the time. Blah, blah, blah. So you’re saying your son sucks your wife’s tits more than you do? Oh God, what a shock. And she’s too busy and tired from chasing around little Junior to give you a courtesy f*ck?? Goodness, you don’t say? Pardon me while I yawn to death.

Face it pal, you’re a SUCKER. You were once cool, and now you coo. You coo with your stupid baby while you wear sandals and shorts that show off your gross legs. You’re balding, wear glasses, and buy sweaters with flowers on them. In other words, you’re one of those pathetic “dads” I see all the time, and it makes me want to retch.

Lemme guess, when you go to bed at night, you daydream about the days you were single and free?? When you were on the football team, dating cheerleaders, and stayed out all night drinking with the boys? Yeah, that was fun. And now you’re changing diapers and re-filling baby bottles with milk. In short, you live in Dweebville; population: you.

I hate to say this, McFly, but your ass is stuck. You’re stuck in a life of no sex, no peace, no quiet, and no money. Why? All because you wanted a stupid kid to pass on your last name. What the f*ck for? What’s so great about your last name? What, are you a Kennedy? A Roosevelt? A McMahon? No, you’re nothing. And no history book cares if you live or die, so just let your family name drift off into oblivion where it belongs. We’ll survive just fine, trust me.

There’s no hope for you, sucker. But there IS hope for you guys reading this who want to save your lives from the uber-misery that this chump is living. DON’T HAVE KIDS. Find a good woman and marry her. Have sex until you feint from dehydration. Bring home dual incomes. Get up and go as you please. Get a dog or a cat. Save your damn money. Go on trips, buy nice things, and laugh at all your cousins and friends as they fork over thousands in day care expenses and overpriced toys that sit in the garage collecting dust. Enjoy your freakin’ lives.

In the meantime, I’m going to go spend all my disposable income on a brand new car, flat screen TV, and a bottle of vintage fine wine. There will be no babies crying here, and no crappy pants to change. If I want to see crap, I’ll crap in my OWN pants and pay my big-breasted Swedish cleaning lady to change ME. It’s a good life, and your life sucks in comparison. Envy me. And for you young dudes, it’s not too late. Be different, and be free. Ahhhhh, it feels so good.

Until next month, folks, I’m outta here. Keep the mail coming; it gives me something to do in between sex sessions with young models who want to please me. Could life be any better? No, it couldn’t.

Contact us and I’ll answer you in the next column. That is, if I have time. And being that my bedroom is booked rock solid for the next 6 months, there’s no guarantee.

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