As the internet continues to embiggen, I notice certain . . . communities coming together to help its members out. Where before you had to either 1. figure out your own stupid life or 2. beseech sages such as Erma Bombeck or Marilyn vos Savant or [insert astrologer here] for advice, now you can ask several of the anonymous maniacs who happen to frequent the same websites as you for help! Got a droopy dick? Maybe FARK can help you! You'll at least get some good Photoshop jokes. Got a fellow marine biologist who always farts in the diving bell? Hie thee hence to Yahoo! Answers for several pages of "LOL FARTZ" comments! Or you can always head to the cream of the crop, Ask Metafilter--disclaimer: I am a member--for the best of the best. On AskMe (as it is known), you can always count on the bottom line, the best research, the most cogent analysis from an impressive crowd of people you've never met and have no reason to trust.

But that's mean. AskMe is often quite an amazing resource; it's made even more impressive by the fact that this "community" of thousands of sun-deprived gripers frequently give good advice. Predictably, however, you have to wade through pounding waves of horrible bullshit to find it. And then, when you do find it, you have to sit there a moment and worry about the fact that this community--like all communities--is filled with a colorful band of assholes, half of whom hate the other half; a full two-thirds who are illiterate or insane; an unidentifiable portion who are basement-dwelling hate-wraiths; ten percent who are axe-grinding creeps, possibly with real axes; and your average random smattering of mean-spirited shitheads. But somewhere in there are some good answers! Usually.

Well, I figured, I can do this. I can give shitty advice and nonfactual answers! I do it all the time. "Hey, Skot, what's up? I got a fucking parking ticket," someone might say. And my reply would be, "I guess you shouldn't have parked like a goddamn idiot." See? And maybe next time they won't! I was born for this. So I asked several friends to send me in some questions for me to answer. I can't wait to enrich their lives. And since you're reading this, yours.

Dear Skot,

I want to make a mix tape for my gal. She really likes Richard Thompson, Diamanda Galas, Yma Sumac and Chylandyk throat singing. Any suggestions?

You sound depressed. Have you considered therapy? I am not a doctor, and this should not be taken as medical advice.

(Look, don't tell anyone I said this, but seriously, she's fucked up.)

Dear Skot,

I saw this movie once about a robot chick that fucked a dude. It's driving me crazy. I think it came out in the 80s.

You are thinking of the immortal Cherry 2000, which starred Melanie Griffith, Harry Carey Jr. and a young Laurence Fishburne as "Glu Glu Lawyer." I have yanked it countless time to this timeless piece of smut.

Alternatively, you are thinking of Body Double, which starred Melanie Griffith, Craig Wasson and Dennis Franz, in which she robotically fucks some guy and admonishes him not to come on her face.

Or, now that I think about it, you may be remembering Shining Through, which starred Melanie Griffith, Liam Neeson and Joely Richardson, in which Griffith claws up your pantsleg, scrabbles at your crotch and screams, "This is an important movie!" right before you wake up in a cold sweat, thinking about that one time that friend of yours actually watched this movie and told you about it.

Dear Skot,

Remember that one time? Wasn't that the best?

Yeah. No.

Dear Skot,

I've always been a big girl, and really, I'm cool with that. The thing is, I've met this guy--he's skinny--and while we click so well, I can't help but wonder if he's just a "chubby chaser." I really like him a lot, and I like myself a lot, just the way I am, but sometimes I can't help but feel like I'm his little fetish project. I don't know if I'm being silly or what. I want to trust him! But I don't know how. Help!

Lose some weight, widebody. Gross.

Dear Skot,

Hi. So a lot of people wouldn't even think I have anything to complain about, but here's the thing: I'm a pretty college girl, blonde, no trouble getting attention, about 5 foot 9, 105 pounds. I'm pretty happy, get a lot of dates, but a lot of times, it feels like my heart is a lawnmower engine and that I might fall over and die into my pallet full of dry crackers! Is there something wrong with me?

There sure is. You have an eating disorder, fatstuff. Get some exercise and for God's sake, consult a nutritionist for some serious advice on how to drop some of those extra pounds. And can we lose the "victim" tone? That's not attractive to anybody.

Dear Skot,

So I've been seeing this guy on the side. He's all I want in a mate: he's a famous, wealthy, piratical glass artist from right here in the great Pacific Northwest. The bullet is, he loves handjobs, and I love to administer them. The problem is, he comes so hard! He's always blasting out my tracklights with his freaky ejaculations! He never offers to pay for the replacement bulbs. What's the best way to approach him about this? I'm tired of making lame excuses to Home Depot about always replacing these things.

Tie him to the bed, put on Richard and Linda Thompson's Shoot Out the Lights, and say "Now think about what you've done!" Then leave him there to die.

(This is not legal advice, and I am not your lawyer.)

Dear Skot,

I wake up. I go to work. I come home. I eat. And that's all I've got. This is no way to live. What do I need to do?

Ouch. This is a tough one. Have you considered making a fun mix tape?