It's Not Nice, It's Not Clean, It's Just... Dear Apron

You know the drill by now. I get writer's block and turn to the societal dregs who write to Abigail Van Buren with their petty, ridiculous problems, and I put my own snarky little spin on the reply. I apologize to Ms. Van Buren for stepping on her toes but, honey, you suck.

DEAR APRON:

I'm a 21-year-old woman who just moved back home after two years of living and learning on my own. My family has been wonderful to accept me back into their home until I finish my studies in a few months, after which I assume I'll be getting a job and my own place.

I have an amazing boyfriend, "Jordan," with whom I would love to spend some nights. I'm afraid if I do I would be disrespecting my parents' wishes -- my father is a preacher -- but at the same time I feel restricted because I got used to being on my own and doing what I wanted.

I know a few months doesn't sound like a long time, but what if I can't get a job right away and have to stay here longer? Jordan and I aren't ready to move in together, but we'd like some overnight visits. What do you think? -- GROWN-UP GIRL IN KENTUCKY

DEAR WHOREBAG:

I didn't realize that "grown-up girls" still needed to ask their Daddys' permission before fucking their trashy boyfriends, even in Kentucky. I realize that playing bedtime bonkos in your cramped little family trailer could get kind of awkward for everyone, particularly if you're a screamer and/or a quieffer, but I would think that most Kentucky families wouldn't mind so much, some might even jump right in and join you!

Furthermore, I have no doubt that your father, "the preacher" has seen and done far more scintillating things in the confessional or the robing room than you and Jordan could ever dream up, even if you had the latest edition of "The Joy of Sex" and the Kama Sutra at your fingertippies-- so I wouldn't sweat old Daddykins too much. Unless... oh.

Now I get it.

Jordan is black-- as in Air Jordan.

Uh-oh.

Well, now I see where the problem lies. You see, Whorebag, in Kentucky, things work a little differently than they do in the rest of the civilized world. If Jordan looked more like Larry Byrd, I have no doubt that Reverend Dadd-o would have no problem with you shimmy-shaking the night away together. But, you know what they say: Jim Crow just says "no!"

Sweetheart, I know you want fuckie, that's natural for a twenty-one-year-old slut like yourself, but I think, while you're still living under Father's septic tank, you're going to have to intimately acquaint yourself with a hand-held shower head. A white one.

DEAR APRON:

I am a man who, for 46 years, has been celebrating my birthday on Aug. 31. I recently took a trip to Northern California to visit my older sister. While we were talking about our birthdays and our late parents, my sister dropped a bombshell. She informed me that my birthday was NOT Aug. 31, but actually Sept. 1 -- like hers.

As you can imagine, I was shocked. Why would my own mother lie to me about something as important as my own date of birth? Mom even went so far as to have the doctor change the date on my birth certificate! My two older brothers confirmed it.
I am devastated at the dishonesty. Why would a mother do such a thing? Celebrating my birthday will never be the same again. -- SEARCHING FOR ANSWERS IN SYRACUSE

DEAR LOSER:

Are you serious? You're seriously wasting my time with this horseshit? August 31st, September 1st-- what's the fucking difference? I mean, fine, you now know that you were not actually born on the date when, in 1976, George Harrison was found guilty of plagiarizing "My Sweet Lord." Now you know you were born on the date when, in 1865, Joseph Lister performed the first antiseptic surgery.

Do you see what I mean? It doesn't fucking matter. Stop being such a baby. Do you realize that there is genocide in Darfur, that this country is in the midst of two wars? That there is a goddamn recession with historic job loss? That Chrysler is dead? Come back to me when you have a real problem. Until then, go lick your own asshole. Oh, and happy birthday, schmucko.

DEAR APRON:

I am being married in October and asked my matron of honor's daughter "Crystal" to sing at my wedding. However, she has not yet bothered to learn the song we requested.

Another young woman at our church has a much better voice, already knows the words and has offered to sing for us. I want to tell my friend that Crystal isn't taking this seriously and I would like to hire the other singer, but I'm afraid she will be offended. How do I approach this subject? -- NERVOUS BRIDE IN SOUTH CAROLINA

DEAR NERVOUS:

Correction, you're not a "nervous bride," you're, at the very least, a "nervous bride-to-be." Actually, you're more a "pain-in-the-fucking-ass bride-to-be," but I guess that just doesn't read as well, does it? It must be really taxing for all you mental midgets out there to come up with succinct pseudonymns that accurately sum up who you are and where you're from-- especially those of you who try to be all clever and alliterative. You lot probably spend hours coming up with this crap. It must be nice to be unemployed.

What were we talking about? Oh, right-- your silly little wedding.

Pain-in-the-ass, listen carefully: if I'm as good a judge of character as I think I am, you're probably having Crystal sing one of three songs: "The Wind Beneath My Wings," "Everything I Do, I Do It For You," or "Total Eclipse of the Heart." If this is the plan, please stop and think about what you are doing to your guests.

By the way, I'm pretty sure Crystal is pregnant with your fiance's baby. I think she wrote to me last week.