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"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."

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Happy Day-After-Memorial-Day. It's Time For Another DEAR APRON...

Well, it's the day after Memorial Day. My brain is positively slushed from the e-colilicious after-effects of eating too many undercooked lamb burgers to create a wholly original post, so here's a DEAR APRON column for you to enjoy.

(By the way, Mrs. Apron and I had a lovely hike yesterday, thanks for asking, and, while we did hear gunfire off in the distance, we returned home un bullet riddled.)


My 16-year-old stepson has problems getting up for school on time. My wife and I are split on what we should do about it.

I maintain that he's old enough to be responsible for getting himself up for school and should suffer the consequences if he's late. She thinks I should get him up. She works the late shift, which means I have to call him several times before he actually gets up. What do you think?



That's your name, isn't it? Thought so.

Here's the thing: sixteen-year-olds nowadays are a lot different from how sixteen-year-olds were when you were a kid, Enos. Used to be, they got in bed after watching "Laugh In," maybe they'd beat off to an image of Goldie Hawn and they'd fall blissfully asleep, waking up with five tissues glued to their right hand.

These days, kids that age are sneaking out of the house to attend raves and cocaine frolicks where they're crushing up their Ritalin and snorting it off unconscious big black girls' asses. They're chock-full of brain-altering substances, hallucinogenic concoctions and they're congafucking each other in a hazy, methanphetamine fog.

Even in West Virginia.

So, my advice to you is: let the kid sleep it off. His shitty school is going to pass his ass anyway so that they can maintain Adequate Yearly Progress for another year-- don't you know anything about No Child Left Behind? God, Enos. Sometimes you can be such a penos.


Last summer, I cringed when I saw a neighbor cutting his lawn with a push mower and allowing his 3-year-old son to walk behind the mower to "help" him push. All the while, the mother stood nearby, smiling at the "father-and-son moment."

A few days later, I saw an 8-year-old boy cutting his lawn with a riding mower, with no adult in sight.

Apron, please remind parents that a lawn mower is a powerful, potentially dangerous machine. According to a study published in a children's medical journal, more than 9,000 children are injured by lawn mowers each year. Not only is there the obvious danger of the mower blades, children can also suffer severe burns from touching hot mower parts. In addition, projectiles can fly backward and cut or blind a child should a mower strike an object.


You Fucking Busybody,

Wow. I've received letters from some pains in the fucking ass, but you take the cake. Actually, you mow the lawn. Now get the fuck out of my way while I Toro you a new asshole.

"Last summer" you "cringed" while you saw some d-bag operating a "push-mower" while his toddler walked behind?

Last summer? Seriously? I can't remember what I did last night, and you're writing in about something you saw last summer? You know, I can picture you. I can see you standing there by your kitchen window, partially obscured by your frilly little fucking window curtain, with your little marble composition book in hand, taking careful notes about the tsk-tsk-worthy activities of not only this neighbor, but others.

What the fuck are you-- Rain Man?

"August 3rd, 1984: Charlie Babbitt called me a 'retard' and he hit me in the back of the head. Then he ran me over with the John Deere and cut my fucking torso in half."

Give me a break. You're killing me here.

I know you think your societal contributions are really valuable, and that's what's so sad. You fancy yourself as the neighborhood watchdog, am I right? Kind of like Martha Stewart meets the local constable or something. There you are, pen and notebook in hand, peering out from your mailslot, identifying all the miscreants on your street, making note of who doesn't pick up their schnauzer's poopie or who's a possible sex offender or who hasn't dusted their armoir in a month.

I don't think I need to waste my time or energy reminding everyone about the statistics of lawnmower deaths and injuries, especially when you've already obsessively addressed that in your own pathetic, narrow-minded letter. I think instead I will remind my readers that there are people like you living in their neighborhoods, and that they'd better keep a sharp lookout for the maniacal, thin-lipped, disapproving, note-taking, ever-watchful busybody twats out there with their fucking pens and marble composition books.

Sweetheart, if you smell the faint odor of gasoline and you hear the increasingly loud, rhythmic purr of a lawnmower's engine behind you one day as you're out gardening, don't say I didn't warn you.


With the passing of our parents, as well as childless aunts and uncles, my husband and I have accumulated many special items such as an old family Bible, military memorabilia, photos of pets, etc.

Our departed dear ones are missed and loved, but we don't know what to do with a lot of these things. It feels disrespectful not to keep them. Have you any suggestions on how we can relieve the clutter as well as the guilt -- and feel OK about it?


Dear Greedy Bastard:

My, you've killed an awful lot of well-off family members recently, haven't you? Gotten a bit more swag than you bargained for? Well, life's tough, isn't it?

I know you weren't really writing for advice, you were writing for a blessing: my blessing to allow you to throw out what's shit and sell what's not. Well, go for it. This is America, after all. Capitalize on the untimely passing of your wealthy mother, father, and childless aunts and uncles (how convenient for you!)

By the way, here's a tip: unless that "old family bible" is signed by Cotton Mather or Roy Orbison or something, it gets tossed in the burn pile.


  1. haha to people really email you?
    my favorite is the first one.

  2. Floreta--

    Ha-- no. I wish they did. These are all actual letters to Dear Abby to which I, um, offer my own "unique perspective."

    Someday, though, people will come to me just to get abused, like people who go on "Howard Stern" and "Oprah, After Dark."


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