The coaches converge for a full-panel package intervention.
Dear Fake Life Coaches,
My husband Rob and I went on a seven-day cruise for our anniversary and took advantage of every activity and excursion. Rob was extra fascinated by the endless buffets. I’ve never seen the man eat so much. I understand he wanted to get his money’s worth, but eight meals a day is kinda yikesville.
Rob’s clothes are now all sausage-casing tight and his man parts are embarrassingly, shall we say, identifiable. I suggested he move up a size until he drops the weight, but he’s decided he prefers snug slacks—claims they’re more comfortable.
Personally I think he just likes showing off Robby Junior. Don’t get me wrong. Robby Junior is nice and all, but I’m afraid Rob Senior is going to get arrested. The last time we went to the mall, a woman turned bright pink and covered her children’s eyes and a teenage boy laughed so hard he fell down the escalator. Rob pretended not to notice, but I caught his smug smile. How do I get my tubby exhibitionist to quit terrorizing the general public?
Signed, Married to a Camel Toe
Sound the alarm! We’ve got a public mental health catastrophe. This calls for a full-panel emergency response.
I agree. Losing one’s civil liberties is hard on the mental health. Rob should be free to show off his man parts whenever he chooses.
Hallelujah, brother. Get that Married lady stopped before she takes Rob to that scary building that smells like cleaning stuff. Last time I went there, I lost my balls.
Boys, you’re missing the point.
And my balls.
Rob has to be stopped. There are laws against showing off your man parts in public.
Did the missus include a photo?
Hold your spatulas. I was just wondering how bad the situation is. Is he simply packing a lumpy bulge or can everyone see the full outline?
Doesn’t matter, Gert. An innocent child fell down the escalator. There’s a time and well-lit stage for everything. The mall isn’t it.
Good point, Cinnamon. Mrs. Married, you should insist on keeping Robby Junior under looser, thicker pants out in public, but at home—ha, cha, cha—thin, snug slacks could be a happy thing.
My balls used to be happy. (sniffle) Swinging free in the fresh air and sunshine.
Right? I loved reading the morning paper naked. Every spring, the sun hit my patio at just the right angle, warmed the fellas, erased the tan lines… Until some prude called the cops.
That was me.
Ladies, come on.
Carlos, dude, why? You were a wrestler. You wore tights. You showed off your package to full arenas.
We have too many windows, muchacho, and Freeda has clients. Besides, I see dead chiles all day at work. I do not want to see yours during my oatmeal.
Mine’s not dead. It’s vibrant.
Mrs. Becker hyperventilated in the middle of her palm reading.
See? Like I said—vibrant.
Reminded me of the worms in my vegetable garden.
Lock it up in loose pants, Skip. You, too, Rob.
But only out in public.
And stay away from that scary building.