Dear Dumb Guy: I’m a database analyst for a large insurance company. I’ve worked the graveyard shift for almost ten years and the most exciting thing that ever happened was when there was a blackout one night, me and Tom, my co-worker, pushed our cubicle walls together and pretended like we were in the trash compactor in Star Wars for the entire shift.

Anyway, Tom quit and was replaced, last month, by a girl! I think she’s like cute and all and I think she totally has the hots for me because I showed her a cool workaround for a bugfix she was dealing with. Here’s my question – I’m thinking of asking her out, and when she says yes, I’m wondering how long I should wait until I try for first base? – Clueless in Cubicleland

Dear Cubicleland: Dude, first of all, that Star Wars thing is TOTALLY BADASS. Next week, when my furlough is up and I’m back at the newspaper, we are totally gonna do that one day!

Anyways, to your point about how quick to move with the girl of your nerdcore dreams. Most of the women that I’ve encountered in, shall we say, “social situations,” were fast movers. That is to say, the distance between home plate and first base was about one full stride, and second and third bases were actually stacked on top of one another. And they were out in the grass, off to the right, over there by the foul line. Trust me, as a metaphor it makes perfect sense, and that’s what a meta is phor.

GAAAAAHAHAHAHA! I am so damn funny sometimes.

So, anyway, here’s all I’m saying: Go in with confidence, with swagger, with the attitude and determination that comes from taking a good solid shower and tucking your shirt in. Take her to dinner. Then it’s all about timing. I find that women are most susceptible to romantic wooing right after the potato skins are down the hatch. Look her in the eyes, crack just the tiniest bit of a winsome and rakish smile, and say something really really romantic and erotic, like “Hey, what do you say we go do some non-Facebook poking?”

There isn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t turn to jelly at such a moment.

Dear Dumb Guy: What’s the origin of the word “tantrum”? – Beleaguered Parent in Pensacola

Dear Pensacola: Somebody having a little trouble with the kiddos, are they? Sorry to hear about it. Rest assured, the tantrum your little one is throwing has a long historical precedent, and perhaps hearing about it will make you feel a little bit better.

Tantrus Magnificus was the 15th emperor of Rome. He was a short dude – just under five feet tall – and had major self-image issues as a result. Even before he got elected emperor, he was always acting out in really annoying ways – fishing for compliments from the Senate, putting himself down just loud enough for the Spartan girls to hear him. You know, stuff guys still do today when they’re insecure jerks.

And then it got really bad once he got the big job. Suddenly, nobody approved of the job he was doing. His economic stimulus plans involved too many bestial orgies and not enough financial impact. Rumors circulated that he was a woman. (The fact that people could believe that last one really hurt him, especially given the orgies.)

He had a famous meltdown on a Tuesday in 1752 – a date that Roman history scholars refer to as “The Tuesday Meltdown of 1752” – wherein he took off all his clothes and ran around his own enormous party, screaming and yelling and grabbing plates of food from people and throwing the food in the swimming pool. Just being a general horse’s ass.

In a stunning coincidence, the root words tan and trum translate, almost literally, to “that asshole over there.”

Dear Dumb Guy: I’ve done it – I’ve waited until Christmas Eve to buy something for my wife. She’s in her late 30’s, we have no children, she loves music … but I don’t want to do anything lame like an iTunes card or a gift certificate to a music store. What should I do? – Procrastinator in Piedmont

Dear Piedmont: I feel your pain, brother. Mrs. Dumb Guy doesn’t know it yet, but she’s getting a year’s worth of Omaha Steaks, and that’s just because they’ll let me do the gift card online and make it look like I ordered it two weeks ago.

Now, I don’t know your wife – at least I think I don’t, but it’s hard to say, kinda lost count if you know what I’m saying! and I totally think you do – but I’ve yet to meet a lady that doesn’t enjoy pornography. I’m not talking about the tame stuff they show on Cinemax at night. I’m talking about the freaky stuff, the kind that would make a Japanese guy say “Um, that’s a bit much, thanks anyway.”

So there you go. Google yourself some crazy-ass porn, pop some popcorn, and get ready for the warm glow that comes from a wife who knows she is appreciated for who she is and what she means to you.

Dear dumb guy: What’s the origin of the phrase “swizzle stick”? - Imbibing in Ithaca

Dear Ithaca: Sounds like somebody’s getting their dranky drank on! Pour me one, would you?

The Swizzle Stick was invented in 1880 by Dr. Hereford Schtupp-Oxcart von Swizzle, a Dutch botanist who studied the growth of mold on oranges and fruit flies. Not only was he a fine scientist, he was a fine mixologist, credited with inventing (among other things) the Uneven Bars, a drink made largely from leftover mixers that nobody wanted, and the Helga-Put-The-Hurt, a monstrosity built upon vodka, gin and prune juice that will make you hate your own life.

Anyway, the story goes that he made a pitcher of Helga-Put-The-Hurts (or would that be Helgas-Put-The-Hurt? I dunno) for some friends one night, a batch that was so bad it ate through the wooden spoon he used to stir it. He quickly fashioned a longish piece of metal from his lab and used it to stir the thick, gloppy stuff, and the swizzle stick was born. Along with countless upset stomachs.

Dear Dumb Guy: Do you think that “Crush Velvet” is a good name for a metal/rock band? - Logan in Laramie

Dear Laramie: Well, it would be – if it wasn’t already taken! Crush Velvet was a pivotal band on the 1970’s Milwaukee punk scene. They had two successful U.S. tours with labelmates Agnostic Front and The Dypshytz, a period that is still considered the high-watermark of midwestern white-boy angst.

After that they “sold out” and switched their sound to down-tempo, then drum-and-bass, then grindcore, back to punk, back to down-tempo, then into a brief flirtation with reggae and dancehall, all before ending up in their current incarnation: a lounge band called The Shypdytz (featuring the lone surviving member of The Dypshytz).

Now, I’ll tell you what name isn’t taken – Crushed Velveeta! That’s a sweet-ass rock band name if ever I heard one!