Zach Hively

Not to toot my own horn, but I’m pretty much a math genius. Like, I scored more points on the SAT than the Seahawks and Patriots scored in the Super Bowl COMBINED, which means I’m worthy of a halftime show with performers way more famous than Katy Perry, whoever he is.

Other greats, like Stephen Hawking and Benjamin Franklin, must prove themselves. But I never needed to publish a groundbreaking book or invent kites, let alone take a college math class. My intellect was free to study the humanities, which is where all the chicks are, anyway…

I’ve traced my ancestry as far back as Paleolithic cavemen and rural West Virginians. Yet I never understood their rough subsistence—not fully—until my power went out.

So I didn’t have electricity. Big deal, right? We humans shape the world with the mere strength of our minds. Borders, governments, religions, and the continued success of ABBA could not endure without our constant and combined mental fortitude. Climate change does not exist, so long as we refuse to acknowledge it. A little loss of electricity should hardly matter to such a superior being as I.

And it didn’t, for a half hour or so…

Welcome to the Fool’s Gold Advice Column for Smarties. It’s just like “Dear Abby,” only with deeper expletives.

This week, our topic is: TIPPING.

Tipping is the act of giving money to the waitstaff at a restaurant so that their hornswaggling bosses don’t have to. Tipping perplexes many otherwise intelligent diners, possibly because it involves calculating percentages on a full stomach. So how can you know, quickly and reliably, how much to tip your server?

Answer: Generously, unless you’re a complete chumbucket.

Well… that’s that. It turns out that tipping is not as difficult as scurvy bilge rats make it out to be. So let’s go on to talk about something else that annoys me….

I recently treated The Darling Fiancée to a staging of Chicago, the classic and ever-popular musical. The evening’s performance had everything a girl wants: friendship, love, danger, well-coordinated outfits, a rousing finale.

Oh, and Chicago was pretty good, too.

A gentleman never discloses the details. But mere gentlemen don’t pull off date nights like I do—so I am spilling. Hear ye, all people (gentle or otherwise) interested in wooing a woman, this is my recipe for how to roll…

Until you REALLY master social media, #KeepingTabsOnYourFavoriteCelebrityIsTough. #IGetIt. That’s why you, my dedicated readers, deserve to hear it straight from me, with normal punctuation and spaces: I am a rock star.

You have likely not heard my greatest hits yet. That’s only because I’m not a MODERN rock star, selling out to any worthy cause with a benefit show. But I have all three primary qualifications for being a GREAT rock star…

I never should have presumed I was friendless. It turns out that I DO have friends. And they both decided to spend a night at my house.

It’s a miracle these two people— I’ll call them “Andy” and “Kristen,” because those are their names—even know where I live. I generally don’t share more than the two-letter state code of my address, lest the federal student loan thugs find me and repo my formal education. But I seem to have acquired too many manners while on my parents’ generous 18-year full-ride scholarship. Over the holidays, I suggested that Andy and Kristen were always welcome to stay with me, should they ever pass through the municipality of [REDACTED]…

I guarantee that I am WAY ahead of everyone else’s New Year’s resolutions. Check that box, notch that belt, color me successful—we’re just skidding into January, and I have already outgrown my naïve resolution to exercise at the gym.

I should mention that I already owned the killerest biceps of the entire English Department Class of 2007 at the University of New Mexico, so far as I could tell through the graduation gowns. And unlike my peers who went on to earn doctorates and professorships, I let neither my body nor my mind slip…

So I hear that adult-aged people have a ton of trouble finding other adult-aged people for romantic and/or sexy times. While I sympathize with the plight of the lovelorn, I think the whole can’t-find-a-date-for-Friday-night problem is overblown. Unlikely people fall in love in movies all the time. But I never see movies where people fall in friendship…

Last year, I journalismed an exposé on the Krampus. He’s this man-goat-demon who accompanies ol’ St. Nick and whips the naughty children. No one had ever heard of him, because mothers generally don’t approve of an eel-tongued creature scaring you so severely that you don’t sleep for a month. But once I unveiled him for the world, Krampus lost his chompers. Now, even everyday people like you can make Krampus cards for Christmas.

You’ll never hear me say this again, so take note: I was wrong. I should not have limelighted the Krampus. He is just a front to cover up an even nastier demon running among us…

The final Hobbit installment is the most anticipated film to come out this particular Wednesday. Literally no one, not even director Peter Jackson, knows how it will end. Yet we here at Fool’s Gold have obtained the ultimate in sneak-peeking exclusives that no one in Hollywood wants you to know!

SPOILER ALERT: Reading the rest of this column will make your scalped movie tickets worthless. All the hours you spent crafting a costume? Toss ’em down the Cracks of Doom. You won’t be able to attend the midnight showing, because possessing these secrets will make everyone avoid you even more than your authentic hobbit foot odor. So proceed with caution, dearest readers. Caution!…