Dear Sir Rake

Relationship Advice From Sir Rutherford Rake

“My wife and I have radically different post-apocalypse plans.”

Dear Sir Rake, my wife of three years, “Opal,” won’t stop talking about her plans after the apocalypse. She wants to join one of the bands of survivors that battle the zombies and engage in low-scale wars against other humans for scarce resources. That all sounds like a load of shit to me. I just want to throw a fucking rager of a party with tons of sex and drugs and booze. And if all that doesn’t kill us, I’ll find some heroin and shoot it until I stop breathing. I’m not going to be out there just barely clinging to life like some miserable fuck. What kind of way is that to live? Anyway, Opal and I can’t stop arguing about it. What should I do?
—I Shan’t Hang Out For Any Post-apocalypse

ISHOFAP, as a couple, you’re assuming that you will both survive the nuclear war, asteroid, ecological collapse, super volcano, or other malady that will cause the apocalypse in the first place. You probably won’t. But for the sake of argument, let’s say that you somehow find yourselves living on an earth that’s scarcely suitable for human existence. I’m sure that whatever judicial system survives the disaster will still recognize divorce on the grounds of irreconcilable differences, and after signing some papers, you can both follow your dreams on your own. Until then, you might want to start stockpiling drugs and Opal might want to start learning how to blast the heads off of zombies. Then when the shit goes down and you’ve said your tearful goodbyes, you’ll both be ready to face your respective fates. 

“I have a crush on the man my wife is cheating on me with.”
Dear Sir Rake, last week I checked an email account that I share with my wife. It had been months since I logged on to that specific account, since no one ever really contacts me there. But I was bored and so I looked up the login information and signed in. Well, I was soon reading a thread of emails that described in detail a lurid affair that my wife appears to be having with another man, who we’ll call “Edmund.” I googled this Edmund and I can totally see why my wife is banging him. He’s super attractive, plays guitar in a post-punk band, and he owns three successful pot shops here in town. And of course, he’s pretty damn easy on the eyes, if you know what I mean! (He’s extremely fuckable, in case you don’t know what I mean.) Anyway, I would totally like to meet this Edmund, get a drink, and see where the evening takes us. But I was wondering how I’m supposed to tell my wife that I totally want to get into the pants of the man she’s cheating on me with. Do I invite myself on one of their dates? Do I send him an email? A dick pic? I’m at a loss here. 
—Wife’s Inamorato is Lusty and Delightful

WILD, the way I see it, there are two courses of action you can take: (1) The next time your wife gives you an obviously transparent excuse to be away from the house for as long as it takes to engage in sexual intercourse (e.g. “bowling with the gals,” “crocheting with the gals,” or “going down to F-town with the gals”), make it known that you would like to go as well. Tell her how much you enjoy bowling, crocheting, and F-town and see how she responds. If she says, “Well, I’m not really going [bowling, crocheting, to F-town]. I’m actually going to get it on with this guy ‘Edmund.’” Then you can say, “I think I’d like to tag along, if you don’t mind.” And then you’re pretty much in. Or, (2) You can be a bit more proactive and do that thing where you send your wife a dic pic and “accidentally” copy Edmund (now that you have his email address). Then when you quickly send a follow-up email apologizing for such careless dissemination of explicit photographs, you can include this postscript: “That aside, what do you all think?” If they both respond positively, then WILD, you have your opening, so to speak. Good luck!

“My friend who’s terrible at trivia won’t take the hint that we want him off the team”
Dear Sir Rake, I have this friend who we’ll refer to as “Huey” that I’ve known for over a decade. About six months ago, Huey had the bright idea to start a trivia team with me and two of our other friends. And with one exception, our team kicks some ass. That one exception of course is Huey. The man has not had a single correct answer in all the months that we’ve been attending trivia, and we go every Wednesday night. We’ve finished second place a handful of times and I know we could be in first if we get someone that knows more about history (the one subject we all struggle with). Huey doesn’t know shit about anything. How do I tell him that he’s the weakest link without hurting his feelings? Or should we just hurt his feelings? 
—Trivia Under Threat

TUT, did you know that I love trivia and play with my own team every Thursday night? Did you know that I have a history degree from the Metropolitan State University Of Denver? And finally, did you know that I am looking for a team to play trivia with on Wednesday nights? Please use the contact information in the front of this zine and get in touch. As for your friend “Huey,” let me make it easy for you. Write his real name in the blank space provided below and have him read this article. That way, he’ll know he’s shit out of luck trivia-wise, and then you can invite me to join the team. Sound good? Here you go:

__________________, thank you for starting our trivia team. Unfortunately, you are really, truly terrible at trivia. As such, we’re kicking you off the team. You have already demonstrated your initiative at putting together trivia teams, so we have no doubt that you will start another one. For that reason, we do not feel bad about this decision. We hope that the team you are about to start doesn’t wise up like we did and subsequently shitcan you in a callous and unceremonious fashion. But we hope you understand that we have no control over your future shitcannings now that we’ve severed our connections with you. And now that you are gone from our lives, we plan on winning big with Sir Rutherford Rake of the wildly successful Dear Sir Rake column that is read and admired by thousands of adoring fans all across the globe. Anyway, hopefully we will meet again under less disquieting circumstances. 

Love always,
Your Former Trivia Team 

General Advice from Sir Rutherford Rake to the Non-letter Writers

  • As a health-conscious boozer, you probably switched from screwdrivers to vodka-spiked Kombucha a long time ago. Well, I’m here to tell you that you need to upgrade once again to vodka and CBD sodas. (You got to stay relevant, you know?)
  • Apparently your younger friends who got into punk by listening to Blink 182 do not want your pity. (Who knew?)
  • If you’ve ever said, “There Aren’t Enough Hours In The Day,” and spend 87% of your free time watching Netflix, then I’m willing to bet that your total lack of awareness affects more than just your sense of irony.
  • When you come across a baby that’s objectively disappointing, do not mention this fact to the parents. (You’ve been warned.)
  • If you can’t figure out if you’re too stoned to drive, then you’re probably too stoned to realize you’re too stoned to drive, which means you’re definitely too stoned to drive. 


  • When you find out that a casual acquaintance on Facebook is conservative, the best thing to do in this situation is to quietly unfriend them — unless you have a lot of time and energy to expend trying to convince them that they’re wrong. If the latter is the case, you’ll end up frustrated, your faith in humanity will suffer, and you’ll unfriend them anyway. So take my advice and just nip this one in the bud.
  • If you fall down in front of a group of people, you should ask yourself if you’d rather be pitied or hated. If it’s the former, just lie there, looking pathetic. If it’s the latter, say, “I’m just trying to get in on the ground floor over here. Ha!” You will be hated shortly thereafter. 
  • A lot of people over the age of 30 just assume that it’s too late to start doing drugs. That’s kind of a shitty attitude. Remember people, always stay positive and remind yourself that it’s never too late to start doing drugs. 


  1. [From Pick Your Own Experience I]

    You really blew it. Due to the toxically fast nature of fast food digestion, you were not able to make it from your last bite of value meal to the restroom in time, and now you’ve made a mess of everything. Not only will you have to miss the meeting and consequently lose your job, but you will also have to make an appointment with your dry cleaners or throw away your favorite business casual ensemble. Honestly, what were you thinking? That you’re a teenager again? That your body hasn’t been on the receiving end of a decade-plus campaign of cheap alcohol and garbage food? That there aren’t consequences of shoveling more harmful substances into a war-torn stomach that wants to keep digesting the crap you feed it, but just can’t? Make yourself comfortable in the bathroom, because the Food Poisoning Monster has you in its clutches and it won’t let go until a whole lot of unpleasantness happens. Also, get your resume in order (and maybe don’t mention how you lost your last job). This is how your story ends, and it’s a real sad ending.


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