An Award-Winning Disclaimer

A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Wednesday, May 27, 2009


Following Mrs. Apron's suggestion, as I am often known to do, I have created an email address specifically for use by you beautiful people who happen to frequent or even just randomly pop by this blog.

She thought it would be nice if people who came by here had some way to communicate with me other than by just leaving comments in the comment section (that's okay, too, by the way, sweetumsdeetums).

Personally, I had no idea that "private" communication with me might be a goal for any of you punkos but, if it is, then here's your opportunity.

Maybe you want to tell me off for my frequent use of obscenities and sporadic unlicensed use of pictures of Andy Rooney. If you do, I doubt you'd want to do it in the form of an email. Wouldn't you want to do it in the comment section so other readers could reply with their own chorus of "Ooooh, DAMNs!" and "No, you di-ints!"

Maybe you want to write in to ask me for advice. If you do want my advice, I'm happy to give it. But, before writing in with some inane personal problem of yours relating to your coworker's b.o. or some tiff you're having with your BFF, I suggest you read one of my prior "Dear Apron" columns, just so you know what you're getting into by coming to me for "help."

Maybe you want to send me a private missive stating your emphatic desire to undulate against my lanky, hairy, boney, Jewish body. Well, that would be very flattering, but I'm totally married, in case you missed that whole Mrs. Apron thing.

Maybe you want to send me some insane, incoherent, rambling diatribe about how the government is plotting to take away our freedoms and how doctors are all conspiring to turn our kids into Aspergian chickenchildren who do nothing but incessantly fwap their arms around and talk about cargo trains in meticulous detail. I mean-- sure. Go ahead. I'd rather read that shit than do work.

Maybe you want to send me your latest manuscript that has been repeatedly turned down by every literary agent, manager, publisher, and editor in New York. That's okay, too. I mean, you show me yours, I'll show you mine.

Maybe you want to write me a poem or something gay like that-- and that's cool.


Maybe you want to send me a compliment, an encouraging pat on the back to let me know that this blog is the only reason you get out of bed in the morning, that it's better than peach cobbler and freshly blown-out birthday cake candles and French amateur porn and Volvo seats, all rolled into one. I wouldn't mind hearing that from you. Every ego needs a kick in the ass, as opposed to a knee in the junk, every now and again.

Maybe you want to offer a suggestion. I'm open to suggestions. I would, however, like to point out that "Why don't you just fuck the fuck off?" isn't really a suggestion, nor is it a question, in spite of the punctuation.

Whatever you want to say, tie up your apron and give it to me at

The email, little poodiedoos, is open for business.


  1. look at you go! you're a real live blogger now!
    i've had people email me interesting stuff.. including erotica. hahaaha!

  2. Trust me. Emails will come... and they will be HILARIOUS. You wouldn't believe some of the shiz I get.

    If you build it...

  3. you know, of course, that you are now obligated to receive the forwards I get from my grandma. That have been forwarded to her, from forwarders.


Got something to say? Rock on with your badass apron!