Ask Claxro!

Hey man,

I don't wanna get into details here, but I'm pretty sure I'm mustard. I'm not usually mustard, just for the record. That's not my style. I just...oh God. Oh God, man. Please. Just...just tell me I'm not mustard, man.

Tangily,
kthxbye

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Dear kthxbye,

You're not mustard. You know how I know? No mustard on the letter you sent me! Mustard would never have been tidy enough to not get mustard everywhere.

Dodged a bullet this time, didn't you, buddy? If there's a "next time," try looking in the mirror. Are you yellow and runny? If not, you're safe. If so, don't panic yet; you may just be yolk.

If it does turn out that you are in fact mustard, it's not the end of the world! You can have hours of fun by bullying ketchup (who I hear is very sensitive about his dad's overbite!), and you know that one kid down at the junior high who hates mustard? Hide in his burger. His hormones are going crazy right now, so who knows, you may even make him cry! I know I do.

In conclusion, trip fewer balls.

Preening gradually,
Claxro

Ask Claxro!

Dear Claxro,

Last Thursday I lost consciousness for a while, and when I came to, I couldn't move my body. Even more concerning is the fact that I seemed to be floating above it.  None of my attempts to force myself back in have proven successful, even after I lubed up the nostrils. And I can't be sure, but it looks like I'm starting to smell bad. There may as well be stink lines.

As if things weren't bad enough, these devil-looking things keep trying to drag me off in the middle of the night, screaming something about atonement for my shins.  I'm thinking, "What did my shins ever do wrong?" but I don't want to make them any angrier than they already are, so I just ask them nicely to come back when I'm a little less busy; they're usually pretty understanding about it, but still.  I don't need this.  

Please help!

Weightlessly,

Out of body ex-spearmint

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Dear Spearmint,

There should be a guy whose job it is to tell people that Santa Clause is just their Dad covered in lots of fleshtone Silly Putty and a red suit. That same guy should be the one who stops by and says "I hate to be the one, lady, but, uh, you're dead."  In the absense of such a man (get on this, God), I will step up to the plate.

You are dead.

While you may have believed the smell (or smelly appearance, which, by the way, what the hell?) stemmed from the fact that you had gone too long without bathing, it has a lot more to do with the fact that your bloodstream has gone too long without bathing in oxygen.  You are floating above your body because you are a ghost (congratulations!  There's an afterlife).  Your attempts to return to your body are failing because your organs are now functionless blobs of corpse.  The devil-looking things are devils; you are going to Hell.

Santa's fake, too.

Here's what you're gonna wanna do.  First, find another body; try to bag you a rich one.  Then offer her soul to the demons in exchange for your freedom.  I know it sounds terrible, but trust me, this sort of thing happens all the time and God really just looks the other way on it; it's like drag racing.  Satan's minions will probably let you keep the lady's body, and, since it's been a long time since you've been flesh, you probably won't be able to help but blow half her fortune on gigolos and massage chairs within the hour.  I know I would.  Heheh; wood. Blah blah blah, deathbed conversion.

Who else do you know that can bring you back to life and save your soul from endless Hellfire?  

No one but Claxro.  Keep the letters comin'.

Chafing purply,

Claxro