Ask the Hardass

Fresh from the pub and cured of his amnesia, The Hardass is all too happy* to lend our reader bits and shattered pieces of his craggy advice. The Hardass has been around for a while, but not a really big while, for that would make him sound old. Which, ladies, he is not.

Dear The Hardass,

I have some friends who like to go out drinking all the time, but I'm not really into that scene. I usually end up driving in my own car so I can leave early without dragging my friends out with me. What should I do?
--Stumbly in South Bend

Punch them. Seriously. Wait until they have a shot glass in one hand and punch them in the eye. Then steal their booze and cars and rack up a whole bunch of credit card debt and take off your pants in front of a policeman. You might as well. If you're too stupid to think of an excuse not to go until after you've already gone, you're probably screwed no matter what you do.
--TH

Dear The Hardass,

I am an attractive woman in her mid-twenties. I like to wear revealing clothes and sleep around, but I don't like it when men stare at me or make comments. What should I do?
--Slutty in St. Paul

Call me.
--TH

Dear The Hardass,

I voted for this one guy, but another guy won the election. I'm pissed! How do I handle the disappointment, and, particularly, all my gloating friends?
--Pissed in someplace that starts with P.

Dump on their lawns. All of them. Friends, politicians, whoever. One stipulation, though: You have to gloat about it to their face. No stealthcrapping. You have to take credit. Don't take no shit about your shit, either. Presumably the candidate you voted for was big on accountability as well?
--TH

Dear The Hardass,

It's me again. Are men always going to stare at my breasts if I show them off?
--Slutty

Yes, we will.
--TH

Dear The Hardass,

So what is it with breasts, anyway? What makes them so fascinating?
--Bouncy in Bartonville.

As your pseudonym neatly encapsulates, it's because they're bouncy. Bouncing things fascinate males as soon as their motor skills develop to the point where they can accurately track them. Superballs, trampolines, Silly Putty, basketball...the list goes on. The training starts at infancy with the birth of a "bouncing" baby boy. And seriously. You should call me.
--TH

Dear The Hardass,

I'm not that slutty girl. I'm just a curious dude. But if you know her number, could you hook me up?
--(Not personally) Bouncy in Bartonville

Christ.
--TH

Dear The Hardass,

I've just become a father! I'm so happy, I could puke! How would you raise a child?
--Reproductive in Repr--um, Raleigh. No, wait, uh...

I wouldn't. I would give it away as soon as possible to avoid all the stickiness that children fill your life with. But if I had to, I would definitely, DEFINITELY raise him to hunt dinosaurs.
--TH

Dear The Hardass,

But she's a girl.
--Reproductive

Don't care.
--TH

Dear The Hardass,

A kid at school knocked me down and took my bike. What do I do?
--Dispossessed in Dayton

Find him. Knock him down. Eat his house.
--TH


That's it for this week, Time Wasters! If you've got a question you'd like answered by The Hardass, just Indulge in Stupidity below, and I'll see if I can find him.

*Read: Forced to by his superiors for eating the flags outside the police station.