Hi, Nexus reader. It’s me, Igor, back again to dish out more advice to help you with your serious life problems. If you have a question, write to me at email@example.com, or place your query in the opinions box in the Daily Nexus office under Storke Tower. Now, let’s answer some questions and help some people.
I was at a party last weekend when I met a really cute guy. He asked me to dance, and we definitely got close and sensual on the dance floor. He was trailing his fingertips along my body, I was doing the same to his, and, well, let’s just say it was hot. After we finished dancing, we went to get some drinks. We started talking; our faces got closer and closer; he ran his fingers through my hair, and before I knew it, we were kissing. Well, I guess you could call it kissing. It was more like a lot of pecking on his part, with his tongue darting in and out like a scared hamster. I’m not ashamed to admit it: I like my make out sessions wet and sloppy, but he left me high and dry. He’s coming over this weekend to see a movie, and I know we’re going to make out, so how do I tell him subtly to open my airways and French me like a man?
I’m not going to lie: your request is a little unusual. You might be surprised to hear that wet and sloppy is actually au contraire to the whims of most women. But that doesn’t make your problem any less legitimate, so let’s get his linguistic stick inside your gearbox. What you need to do is get the idea through to him that a tongue isn’t such a bad thing. I’m Ukrainian and, back in the old country, a favorite dish of my grandfather’s was cow tongue. Why don’t you have one of those bad boys sizzling on the grill when he comes over? Then, when you two dig in, let him know how much you love the texture of a fine tongue in your mouth. He’ll get the picture. If he doesn’t, create one in his mind. Many men are visually stimulated. When you two are kissing, whisper softly into his ear: “My mouth is a cave. Find the treasure.” If he still doesn’t get it, maybe you should drop the whole tongue thing. It’s actually kind of gross.
I want to make the ultimate sandwich. Do you have any suggestions?
Sandwichless in Seattle
I’ve been getting a lot of mail about this, so, though I’m very hesitant, I have decided to officially disclose the recipe for “Igor’s Secret Sandwich,” commonly referred to as the Holy Grail. I have made this sandwich for only one other person, who died after the third bite from an overdose of glee. According to legend, centuries before Christ, the Pharaoh Mahutmeket challenged his 300 cooks to make a dish worthy of the sun god, Ra. One of the cooks was my ancestor, the Jew-slave Ehore Shmiller. Ehore created the sandwich, but he was driven mad from its aroma, and the recipe was lost for many years — until a young carpenter named Joseph stumbled upon it. He made the sandwich for his wife, Mary, who took one bite and conceived a child who was so famous for his party tricks that they wrote a book about him. The recipe has been passed down from generation to generation, showing up in some pretty unlikely places. Sir Isaac Newton invented calculus to determine its delectability; it gave Thomas Jefferson inspiration while penning the Declaration of Independence; its taste made Amelia Earhart drop from the sky. So what is the ultimate sandwich? That’s easy: it’s the oven-roasted chicken breast on wheat, now only $5 a foot at Subway.