Ask Chris Tolles

I love how society finds avenues for the venting of frustration. Whatever your aliment is, there’s always someone to ask.

Another great part of our world is that sex sells. Sex sells everything. In fact, I would argue that the only reason you’re reading this is that your eye unconsciously saw the word sex mentioned three times in this paragraph.

The natural combination of these two phenomenas is “Ask Nell.” Personally, I just stick to my gut (and possibly a magic eight ball), but Nell’s “The Mix” section has quite the buzz to it.

I’ve heard many a rumor, however, about Nell. None of them are true (as far as I know). For instance, the guy that cleans the billiards room in Boaz Hall told me that Nell was actually a 35-year-old Native-American man named Terrence. The elevator attendant in Dedman mentioned that Nell served three years at Chino Prison for “extreme bawdiness with a touch of sass.” The bathroom attendant in Dallas Hall said he knows Nell. They’re married and live together in Crockett, he said. When Russian President Putin visited the Dub there, the two world leaders came for “cold beer and bocci ball.” Nell gave him some superb advice about “nooners.” The valet in front of Hyer declared that Nell was her love-child from a sweat-filled affair with Walter Mondale when he campaigned here in late 1979. The cigarette vendor said that Nell actually works for the Moral Majority, and that they plan to reshape the way youth look at sex advice.

Enough of this creative sludge. Let’s get to the criticism.

Abraham Lincoln once wrote, “If I’d had more time, I would have written you a shorter letter.” This makes sense, trust me. Short, concise compositions convey a message best.

One person, who curiously called himself “Torn,” asked Nell about his girlfriend who disliked his friends. Nell gave a very warm-hearted, 200 word answer in which she includes “Hanson, Tom Green and a yapping poodle.” If it was “Ask Chris,” I’d simply say, “Bros before …” well it doesn’t matter what I’d say.

The next question, from “The Questionmaster” (I don’t remember the election for this title, but I’ll let it slide), was about girls asking if they look fat, and what to say to them. Again, Nell gave a good answer, advising “The Questionmaster” to “go to a bar in Oak Lawn and call any woman there a ‘2-ton Duallie.'” I don’t know what a Duallie is, so maybe that’s good advice. To the master of questions, I’d just like to say that if a female ever asks you that question, you must remember that no girl in history, anywhere, has ever been fat. Or has ever done that Oak Lawn bar thing.

The third question, from “Old-fashioned good guy,” was about a guy that failed with some chick. The good guy asked “Since when did being a gentleman go out of style?” Nell, if you would, allow me. Good guy: Being a gentleman will never go out of style. Every woman loves a gentleman; every mother and father want their daughter to marry a gentleman and their son to be one. However, being a gentleman will rarely get you what you want when you’re at a bar and drinking. Sorry. Maybe I’m wrong, but when you’re singing “Sweet Caroline” after shots of Tuaca, whether or not her chair was pulled out is irrelevant. This doesn’t mean don’t act gentlemanly, but remember that your manners alone won’t work. I’m talking, of course, about a little thing called “game.” And, obviously, if you need to write into a college newspaper to beg advice, you clearly have none.

In her response, Nell wrote (my first two misquotes were easy, but this took a little work), “guys … pick a girl … pop … out of a corner … behind … and … fight for something you want.” I, personally, was shocked to read this advice.

Nell: We go a ways back, so I’m sure you know this is all fun and games. Remember the saying: Mockery is the purest form of flattery? I’m jealous you make money answering letters from our friends “Torn,” “The Questionmaster” and “Old-fashioned good guy.” Keep doing what you’re doing, its one of the few parts of the paper that I read. (Police reports and commentaries are always a hoot.)