If you can't stomach reading through another Cary Tennis Salon advice column—and who can, they're ridiculous—we'll summarize today's. A gay writes a long-ass letter (all of Cary's correspondents write long-ass letters; the dude's audience appears to be comprised entirely of damaged hypergraphics) about a male co-worker who registers high on the gaydar but claims to be straight. BUT. He has told the gay that the gay has pretty eyes. What does it all mean? Should the gay see if the "straight" is actually bendy? Cary answers with some bizarre rambling advice that includes an imagined dialogue between "Gaydar Tower" and "tall dark handsome object," which makes us want to kill ourselves and doesn't really answer the question. So we checked in with our own (unsuspecting!) resident agony aunt.

Dear Cary Tennis, Salon Advice columnist,

Dear Cary Tennis, Salon Advice Columnist,

Last time we checked in with Salon sage Cary Tennis, he was telling a writer who found her own writing crappy to keep on plugging at her MFA. Now he has some similarly astute advice for "Getting Nowhere," a woman who worries that she won't find a man "witty" enough to deserve to fertilize her eggs before they all dry up. Unfortunately, Getting Nowhere's last viable ovum probably withered before she finished reading Cary's long-winded response. "Keep in mind that basically you want a kid and you want some wit. You want some wit and you want a kid. Wit. Kid. Wit. Kid. That's gotta be doable somehow," says Tennis, eight paragraphs into his answer. And then, later: "I'm working fast today. I, too, am on deadline. Sometimes we cannot wait around for the perfect phrase—or the perfect man." Well, clearly!

Creative Writing MFA programs have always struck us as a bit of a scam. We mean, we respect that they provide workshop-leading jobs for writers who are qualified for little else, and we admire the work they do in the 'keeping entitled assholes who consider themselves artistes far away in Iowa where they can't annoy us' department. But seriously, we don't think that having a bunch of jealous, bitter, insecure writerly types sitting in a room sniping at each other shapes anyone into a better novelist (except maybe Curtis Sittenfeld. Uh, and George Saunders. Well, so there are some exceptions, but it makes us feel better to think that MFAs are pointless so just let us, okay?). Anyway, it was with relief and a bit of awe that we read this letter to Salon's 'Since You Asked' column, from an MFA student who seems to have seen the light: