I was supposed to write the mailbag last night, but then I got drunk on bacon-infused bourbon Old Fashioneds, watched “Top Chef,” and went to bed a little before midnight. Then I woke up at 3:30 a.m. and couldn’t fall asleep, so I decided to answer your questions in the quiet hours before dawn. Now that it’s well into the afternoon, I’m a goddamn zombie and that’s why you’re not getting any kind of sensible introduction here.

Featured below: a follow-up message from the gentleman whose girlfriend has the regrettable tattoo she’s ashamed of, the wonders of Ray Rice and Donald Driver, shtupping roommates and local barmaids, suicide pools, ex-lesbians, bald college poon, and the absolute worst drunken college experience possible. Enjoy.

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Time again for the KSK sexbag, the weekly feature that combines flex positions and sex positions, PPRs and STDs, running back handcuffs and the ones you use on the freaky coworker.

This installment runs kind of long, as I compiled most of it during the World Series game last night and I find facing the choice between work and watching baseball really ramps up the productivity, so hooray for surplus mailbag content. If it’s still too much for you, there’s always a game of Steakhouse or Gay Bar. If you sent a question that didn’t get used, you either sent it too late or it wasn’t interesting enough. My condolences. Feel free to try again next week.

Topics tackled within: Porny appearance as false determinant of freakiness, how much a third wheel has to try to maintain an open marriage, presex masturbatory guidelines, animosity between wives and female drinking buddies, and spicy psycho Peruvian girls.

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Wow. Some really great submissions this week. I would’ve loved to have gotten to every question, but I really do prefer to keep this shorter than a Gregg Easterbrook column. (Good Lord, could you imagine Easterbrook writing this column? (Sour Play of the Week No.2: When TMQ’s wife refused to lube the strap-on with hamburger grease.”)

Anyway, if you didn’t make the cut this week, please don’t hesitate to hit us up for next week’s column. We (I) prefer to receive mailbag submissions on Tuesday or Wednesday, as this unwieldy monster requires some thought and, occasionally, research. In the space below, we’ll address sex during pregnancy, midseason trades, mismatched sex drives, tattoo turn-offs, Catholic guilt, Marques Colston, and more. (People, do NOT ask us if you need to start Colston. Yes. Start him. Every week.)

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Do you think the Pope masturbates? I really don’t have any leaning one way or the other on the matter, but this is where I’m torn. First of all, dude is probably so powerful that he can get his knob slobbered on by just about anyone he wants (bad news for all the youngsters entering junior high in the Vatican). But then, wouldn’t he just be all, “Screw this, I’m the Pope, and I feel like giving the Kid Pope a coupla tugs.” I really don’t know how this would turn out, so if you happen to be a former Pope and could bring some insight to this debate, your correspondence would be appreciated. (more…)

It’s time to discuss football and sex. And once summer ends, you really shouldn’t be investing your time in anything else. There’s nothing better for the soul, and when either is performed well, one is inclined to scream wonderful things from the top of one’s lungs. It only seems appropriate that we pool our resources to be the best football watchers and significant others that we can be. As the flamboyantly profound MC Hammer once said, “Ring the bell, sucka. School’s back in.” (more…)

Welcome back for another edition of the Fantasy Sex Advice Mailbag, the mailbaggiest mailbag on the internet. This week we answer reader questions ranging from your standard fantasy football questions to Dorito dusted naughty bits. This week’s questions and answers are after the jump, and as usual all spelling is correct.

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You people have problems, we have answers.  And I mean you people REALLY have problems.  That’s why we have the Fantasy Sex/Football Advice Mailbag.  This week’s deluge of emails kept us from being able to use everyone’s submission, but don’t worry: the column still checks in at over 3200 words.  So you should probably use the bathroom before you click through to read the rest.  This goes on for a while.  Like my johnson!  BOOSH.

The solutions to all your sick (and [sic]) problems after the jump.  Spoiler alert: you’re gonna need booze.

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Welcome louche libertines to the latest installment of the mailbag for the anally adventurous and the roving of eye. This week, we entertain a few more questions than normal because brevity be damned. Sometime the load must be blown. The usual spate of anal curious male has given way to one dealing with rectally trepidatious gent. I feel your pain, Amanda. Be sure to send your address (or, you know, same goes to people with questions for future editions) here.

Let’s get it on.

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It’s that time of week again. Time for me to open up the mailhole, jam my fist inside, and spread my hand wide like a Texas five-star. Speaking of which, I have a mailbag question of my own for you people.

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Due to a dearth of emails followed by a flurry of post-deadline submissions, last week’s fantasy mailbag was relatively light on content.  As recompense, we’re going to get to some of those emails now.  And, as a reminder, now through tomorrow is a good time to get submissions in for this week’s regularly scheduled mailbag.

But first, let’s tackle the problems of hapless weirdos with weird sexual hang-ups.  Or, as they’re more commonly known, “Lions fans.”  As much bad advice as you can handle after the jump.

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