IT’S GUEST BLOGGER FRIDAY! TODAY’S QUESTION WILL BE ANSWERED BY SWINGIN’ BACHLORETTE LEAH FRIEDMAN, A PART-TIME SHUT-IN/PART-TIME HAND MODEL (JUST KIDDING. ABOUT THE PART-TIME SHUT-IN THING.) WHO RESIDES IN CENTER CITY, PHILADELPHIA. AFTER GIVING UP ON WRITING RECAPS OF FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS AND THE TUDORS FOR TVGUIDE.COM, SHE BEGAN HER PERSONAL BLOG, VIN. POÉSIE. VERTU., WHICH IS NOTABLE FOR ITS ONGOING DEMONIZATION OF HIPSTERS. (THOUGH, IF PRESSED, SHE CAN’T ACTUALLY TELL YOU WHAT THEY ARE. IT’S LIKE PORN: YOU KNOW IT WHEN YOU SEE IT.)

I have a terrible sense of fashion. I’m not great at brushing my hair on a regular basis. I routinely wake up with liner from two nights prior caked under my eyes, giving me the ultra-sexy raccoon/meth-head look. Luckily, these are all things one can get away with when one lives in Philadelphia. However, I am 98 percent sure that if I had a 24-carat gold smile, no one would pay any attention to the rest of that. Plus, not to get all, you know, un-PC or anything, but I’m a Jew. If you offered me a million dollars and then told me the only drawback would be that I would have to chomp on gold, I’d probably tear my own teeth out with rusty pliers.

Sure, a permanent gold grill could impede my ability to meet someone. It probably isn’t the great conversation starter I’m envisioning. I suppose I couldn’t just go up to a nice guy in my Pilates class and say, “I couldn’t help but notice you were staring at my teeth. Are you free for dinner? You can watch me use them for an hour. WINK, WINK.” And if somehow that scenario did work, would it mean that I was dating some kind of gold-teeth fetishist? And how would I feel about that when we got down to the lights-out part? Maybe, though, the power light from some hidden camera would glint off of my teeth and there’d be a huge scene, but at least I’d be spared some embarrassing mention on Gawker (which would invariably make some pun out of it, like, “That millionairess showed us the gold standard when it came to blow jobs”). Yes, my reputation would invariably be saved by my shiny, metal smile.

And even if that horrible situation did come to pass, I’d still have a million dollars. I’m sure that goes pretty far in Romania, where I’d invariably have to move. (The above picture seems to indicate that they’re light years ahead of us in mainstreaming the mouth-full-of-gold look.)

Also: not having to worry about visible poppy seeds after bagel day? Instant justification.

- Leah F.

Yeeeaaaaah…I don’t think a million is enough of a payoff for me to do this one. I mean, to all the up-with-gold-teeth people out there, if that’s your thing, take that shit and run with it, dude. Not that you’re listening to my advice on the grill/no-grill question, anyway. I’m gonna go out on a limb and state that — since he’s made like, a billionty googol dollars — T-Pain really does not give a fuck about the ways I think he should change his look. (“Sooooo…now that we’ve talked about “the teeth,” let’s discuss losing the top hats. Just putting them all in a box and tossing them into the river. Am I right?”) So, I’m giving this a no. It would take a lot — many, many millions more — to get me on board. Sorry, Charlie.

- Kali