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Dear Agatha,

I. Am. Mortified. I think it's time to move to a new town. Probably pick a new name, grow a bear, the works. There's no place for me in this town, anymore. Why, you ask? What heinous, unforgivable crime have I committed? Well, this past weekend was Jockstrap Night at my regular club. Everything was going sexy and cool... until the unthinkable happened. I don't know how I let this happen, but as I'm twerking right in the middle of the dance floor... I... I... let out a massive, wet shart. I'm talking projectile launched brown wetness across the room to the cue of a thundering sound so loud that even the thumping sub-woofer couldn't obscure it. I immediately left the club and am currently hyperventilating in my apartment. Why, oh why, would they make underwear with an open ass?? I'm thinking my new name could Tony. I've always wanted to be a Tony.

Please help,

Josh
Tony

Dear Josh,

Leave the nom de plumes to me. This indeed is quite embarrassing. I'm sorry you have to go through, and I hate to even bring this up, but your real concern should be if anyone was filming it. If some sneaky periscope video of you ends up going viral, then it's time to be alarmed. But otherwise, your best bet is to just laugh it off. The number of people who saw it happen and know who you are is probably rather minuscule, no? But besides, shame has no place in the heart of man who would be caught twerking in only a jockstrap anyway. Maybe just don't go back to THAT particular club if you're really concerned. Or if you do return, eat a small salad before your night out! And maybe wear briefs this time!

XOXO,

Agatha Spilltea

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