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American lives *do* have a second act, and if Paris Hilton is any example, no matter how much someone debases themselves, it's always possible to get greenlit for another season.

There may be hope for Jayson Blair. But judging from the reviews of


Burning Down My Master's House, Blair's second act might not include writing books. But as a man who has lived and lied, and lied, and lied, and presumably learned something from the experience, perhaps Blair should take a run at being an advice columnist. We borrowed some Imagineers from Disney, cranked up the Dream Machine and sought an answer to the question:

What Would Jason Blair Do?



Q: Dude, I have been invited to like, six social events this week, and I have to write all these legal briefs and file all these motions and return all these phone calls and then make sure I pad my hours so the client thinks I'm working around the clock. Work is such a hassle when one wants to be doing other things. What the fuck?!

A: Well, when the Times sent me to Texas to talk to the family of that Jennifer Lunch soldier from Afghanistan, there were so many great shows and things going on in New York. The Smiths were playing an acoustic reunion gig at my apartment, for one, and then I had a hot date with Julia Roberts immediately after. It's tough to pass up shit like that for a gig reporting a national story for the nation's greatest newspaper, so I basically Googled together a story and filled in the blanks using a Oujia board. Texas is warm, so that's all you need to know. Her parents were probably sweaty and sad. I think I put that in the lede. I don't know I was drinking Hennessey and eating whipped cream off myself at the time. Scatter papers around and make sure you change your voice mail message every day and you'll be fine -- everyone knows justice takes time.

Q: I'm four feet tall and kinda horny. Plus, I really like crack cocaine. A lot. Where does one find a crack-dealer with a sexual affinity for hobbit-looking fellows with a row of sweet corn filling in for his teeth?

A: The amazing thing about cocaine is that it's the great equalizer. When you feel that good about things, you're not really concerned with the fact it looks like you ate a highlighter. Besides, drug dealers aren't the most reputable folks on Earth, I mean, they're the ones who employ crack whores. And being this short makes it easier to work on the tall guys who run the coke rackets. I was a pretty desireable little fella. I mean, have YOU been sucked off by a Times reporter? For years, the Times has been fucking other people. Let's just say I feel good about giving something back to the little guy.

Q: This isn't an advice question, more a query about your tactics. When you wrote about that Texas funeral, you said the house was atop a hill surrounded by plains, when really it was in a wooded valley. How did you explain *that* one to your editor?

A: See the funny thing about my editor was that he wasn't in Texas either. So when I said it was a house on the hill and it wasn't, no one knew. After I was caught, I tried to tell them that I took "artistic liberties" with the story to help readers connect better and when that failed, I told my editor that it was his fault, since he knew that I was kind of immature. The Times should have allowed me to have Mr. Belvedere as my personal manservant, as I requested earlier in the year. But they wouldn't even spring for Alex Karras, Webster's dad, which would have been great. Not even Conrad Bain, may he rest in peace. Look, I was a smelly, unlikeable person who made mistakes. You can't blame me for that, since I just admitted it was my fault without saying sorry. No one dislikes being me more than me, so good luck telling me something that's gonna hurt my feelings.

Q: My girlfriend gets pissed off when I go out and have one too many drinks with the boys, but you managed to go out, get your dick sucked for crack and keep up a relationship with your Polish girlfriend. How do I get in on that racket?

A: To tell you the truth, which is a hard thing for me, I wasn't even aware that I *had* a Polish girlfriend until after the scandal broke. Man, I was really fucked up. I thought she was trapped inside the TV, sent here to give me scoops and pipe my quotes when I got stuck. Whoa. She was real? How'd I keep a girlfriend in between all that partying, drinking and lying. You have to admit. I'm impressive. And now I have a book and you don't. How you like THEM apples?

Q: I'm in college and my blood alcohol level is higher than my GPA. Since I have huge ambitions and no ethical compass, what kind of education does one need to become a reporter at the most venerated newspaper in the country?

A: Education isn't important, well, not as important as the appearance of education. The best thing you can do is find out who works at the Times, buy all the books they've written and read them very closely so when you comment on their books, you'll impress them with how smart you are on the things the smartest people alive are thinking and saying. But to avoid wasting money on those pesky degrees, learn how to type fast and learn how to use Lexis-Nexis so you can steal stories from smaller papers your editors don't know about. Ultimately, it's such a pain in the ass to deal with a college transcript department that even if you aren't a graduate, they'll believe you over the part-time frat kids they got running they show out there.

Q: I just got busted at work for skimming $20s from the register and I asked myself: WWJBD? So I told my boss that my brother is dying from terminal eye cancer and needed a new eye or else he'd die. My asshole manager must have something against cancer patients, because it didn't work and I was fired. Where did I go wrong?

A: Young grasshopper, your lie was too jarring, too blatant. That's why they call a big shitpile of lies a "web": they're delicate and intricate. You have to build them slowly over time and scatter them around like fairy dust. Don't hammer your audience over the head like so many Whack-A-Moles; you have to seduce them with tapestry of fabrication that will lull them with beauty. Next time, be more subtle. Try a rare blood disease or perhaps hammer toes. Also, try working somewhere that's run by a bunch of bleeding-heart liberals who are desperately trying to make up for generations of oppression: they'd feel too guilty to even suggest you'd been skimming the till.

Q: I live in a Mormon family. And, well, my sister has these pretty pearls and I know that you're not supposed to covet things -- it's in the Free Bibles my dad gives out -- welp, I stole them and then I lied to my sister about it. Now I feel guilt *and* shame. How do I come clean to my sister?

A: Come clean? Guilt and shame? I know not of these things of which you speak. I'll give you the straight poop, honey: the only way to get past the guilt and shame is with booze, fast women, and drug-dealer dick. Put those pearls in your training bra and make haste to your local fence. Trade them in for as much blow as you can get and let the sharp spiral begin. Soon, you'll be too busy sniffing for leftover crystals in the floorboards to think about those stupid old pearls, anyway.