Hold Onto Your Netiquette, Friends, It's "Dear Apron" Time!

Every now and then I, like any blogger, get starved for material. Sometimes I just want to sit back, relax and let the blog write its own damnable self. Sometimes, I just want an easy target. So, tonight, in the ceaseless rain and the misery of a sinus infection which is kicking my... well, sinuses, here's a blog entry where we take the Dear Abby letters and enrobe them in a little of the old Masonic Apron.

Girls, put on your spandex tights, your scrunchies and your totally inappropriate American Apparel leotards let's get snarky!

DEAR ABBY: A former longtime friend, "Gladys," and I have been estranged for the past 10 years. It is a complicated situation, but generally it involved her divorce and later involvement with a married man.

While I am not a prude, there were some moral and ethical breaches on her part which made it uncomfortable for me to be in her company. We stopped calling or seeing each other.

Gladys has now become quite ill and may not survive. My dilemma is whether I should pay my respects to her family at the time of her death. I have known them all for many years.

-- REMAINING NAMELESS IN VIRGINIA

DEAR NAMELESS--

That's not a very clever pseudonym, honey. Of course you're fucking "nameless," you dunskiedoodles, you're writing into "Dear Abby." Everybody's "names" are in "quotes" so everybody's "nameless." Why don't we just cut right to the chase and call you what you really are: JUDGMENTAL BITCH IN VIRGINIA.

There. That's a little more creative, and descriptive, don't you think, woogums?

Now, about this whorebag friend of yours with AIDS. It's a tough world, honey, and I know you're jealous that "Gladys" stole your man out from under your piggie little nose 10 years ago-- but that's ancient history, sister-- you need to learn to let go. And look at it this way: this chump gave Gladys the hivvity, so be glad it wasn't you riding his bumpy beefstick.

I know you just want to go to the funeral so you can rub everybody's noses in it with your pious, haughty morals. "See?" you'll say to all the mourners as you point your gnarled, bitter finger at Glady's rubbery death-mask, "this is what happens when you mess around with a married man!"

You know what I say? Go to the funeral. Have a ball. Life is for the living, you know? Go and make your little scene. You'll feel much better and, if Gladys' relatives have any backbone at all, they'll just call the police and have you arrested, which will make a great YouTube video that I can then post on this blog with a two or three sentence caption underneath that and call that a blog entry. Because I suck.

Anyway, sorry-- back to you. Um.... You're a bitch. Go fuck yourself.

DEAR ABBY: I work in the office of an elementary school. There is a lot to do, and I am frequently interrupted. While I enjoy conversations with parents and students, my problem is a few parents who want to engage in lengthy conversations -- usually detailing personal problems.

One parent comes in daily, and I haven't found an effective way to extricate myself from these conversations. Walking out of the office is not an option. A ringing phone is not a deterrent as some parents will just stand there, wait until I finish and continue talking.

Have you any suggestions on how to politely let these parents know I have a job to do? -- JOB INTERRUPTED OUT WEST

DEAR JOB INTERRUPTED:

Do I have any suggestions on "how to politely let these parents know" you have a job to do? Mmmm... politely? No. I have about sixty extremely rude, abusive and potentially terroristically threatening ways you could let them know, but that's not what you came to me for.

Too bad, really. We could have been something.

Seriously, though, you say this parent is interrupting your "work." Sorry, but I don't buy it. What "work" do you do, exactly, as a school secretary? Arrange liasons for the pencil-dicked principal with the buxom, tenure-craving 10th grade math teacher in the faculty lounge? Call little Tommy's mommy when he sets off Vietnam-era grenades that he bought off E-bay in the 3rd floor bathroom? Come on, stretch: if you're under 35, you're diddling around on Facebook or Twitter. If you're over 35, you're trolling Overstock.com for knock-off handbags or diabetic shoes. Nobody, and I mean nobody who sits in front of a computer monitor all day actually "works."

Face it, you're full of shit. This parent who comes in blabbulating about her retarded kid does more work in an hour than you do in a week. At least she's being an advocate. You're just a hippo with a brooch, fat fingers and crumbs on your keyboard. Get a life.

DEAR ABBY: Our 23-year-old daughter, "Andrea," moved out of the house at 17. She has been living with her fiance ever since. They plan to be married this summer, and my question is: Because she left our house of her own free will, is it still my husband's and my responsibility as her parents to pay for their wedding?

She has been living with her boyfriend, already has one child and is now pregnant with twins. We feel their wedding should be their expense to bear. We're willing to pay for the event if it is, in fact, still our responsibility as the bride's parents. Please advise. -- MOTHER OF THE BRIDE, ANDERSON, IND.

DEAR MOTHER OF THE BRIDE:

Whoa.

Con... gratu... lations?

Here's a majorly overdue clue-in for you: no matter who pays for this wedding, your daughter and her rat-tail, grease monkey, perpetually stoned hubby will be a ripped piece of paper in less than eight months, so it really doesn't matter who pays for their wedding. Besides-- they're probably going to have the ceremony at Wal-Mart, so does it really matter who's footing the bill for the toothless guitarist and the Shoprite sheetcake? You're telling me you don't have $37.00 lying around under some cushions or something?

Come on, moms-- cough it up. Do it for your plethora of bastard grandchildren.