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Sunday, June 7, 2009

After Church, Why Not Get Your DEAR APRON Dirty?

I wasn't going to do another Dear Apron column so soon after the last one... you know, I don't want you guys getting burned out on this shit, but today's was just too good to pass up. Apparently, on Dear Abby, today was Husband Bashing Day-- and how can I, as a husband, let this event go unanswered?

Got a question that can only be answered by me? Write it down on

and eagerly await a reply!

DEAR APRON: "Ralph" and I have been married a little over a year. It's the second marriage for both of us. We were both single for six years after our divorces, so we had time to become independent.

Ralph still spends his evenings and weekends the way he did when he was a bachelor. He stays in the garage and watches TV alone. We have talked about it, set up family time, and even bought the large-screen TV he wanted for the living room, but still he hides out in the garage. He comes in only to eat and use the bathroom.

I know Ralph loves me and our new family, but this is causing strain. I have two children from my last marriage, and the younger one feels deeply hurt because my husband spends no time with him. What can I do? I feel alone in this marriage.



Here's a thought: instead of writing whining, pathetic letters about your husband's tendency to conceal himself from you and your family in the garage (which I hope is at least partially finished), maybe you should take a good, hard look at yourself. Ask yourself: what is it about me that makes my husband run and hide from me? Do I bathe enough and, when I do, do I scrub vigorously? Is there a yellowy film beneath my breasts? Do I have a visible mustache? Are my teeth crooked? Is my breath bangin'? My ass pimply?

See? There's a myriad of reasons your husband would choose TV in the garage over you, and I haven't even gotten to your attitude or your personality yet.

Seriously, though, Ethel-- I doubt your husband is "watching TV" in the garage. Does he have a computer with DSL or Fios in there? If so, he's definitely chokin' some serious chicken in there. He may have "Hill Street Blues" on the tube to conceal the sounds of underage Korean girls squealing in agony, but that's what he's really doing in there.

Or he's drinking. Have you ever gone in there while he's at work? (This is assuming, of course, that he works.) If he works, go in there and take a look under the couch or something. Chances are you'll find a couple bottles of Captain Morgan or Jack Daniels. Maybe you'll even stumble upon a small mirror with a powdery residue.

Uh-oh! Ralph's a cokehead!

You say you know Ralph loves you, but, really, he doesn't. Ralph loves coke, porn, and alcohol, in that order. You come in maybe 8th or 9th, somewhere in between navel-exploration and defecation.

Speaking of which, you may think you've got it rough, but at least be thankful that Ralph emerges from the garage to go to the bathroom. I'm glad you mentioned that, by the way. Otherwise, I'd really be worried.


I have an issue with my husband and can't seem to get my point across. He refuses to wear a seat belt. He says it's uncomfortable, and he hates when he pulls it too quickly and it gets caught. I have asked him repeatedly to wear it, not only because he could get a ticket, but also for his own safety.

My car has an alarm on it, so if you don't buckle up, it beeps. He goes as far as buckling the belt behind him so it will stop. I have tried everything from explaining the safety hazards to telling him he can no longer drive my car if he can't drive safely. What can I do to make him buckle up?



Your husband is an asshole and deserves to die of massive head trauma. I suggest that you take him on the ride of his life. Out on one of the neighborhood roads. Do any of your kids live nearby? If so, drive to one of their houses, preferably the daughter that he loves better than all the rest of your kids.

About 500 feet before arriving at her house, stomp on the accelerator. Hopefully you have at least a 6 cylinder car-- get that bitch up to speed. Then, slam into your daughter's house, right at the stone underneath the living room picture window, so your husband crashes through the car's windshield, through the window of his daughter's house and so that his corpse lands in her fucking living room. His daughter, her husband, and little kids will then be standing around his dead body, and will have to forever endure the memory of seeing dear ol' Dad, his head now resembling a ketchup-covered, partially-deflated volley-ball.

Sure, you might die in the collision, too, but it'll be worth it to teach this particular lesson.

Nobody said marriage was easy.


My fiance insists upon asking our server's name if it is not offered when she approaches our table. I am insulted that he even cares. Personally, I do not want him asking for another woman's name in my presence. I find it rude.

He, on the other hand, thinks it's rude if the server does not introduce herself. Who is right?



"Who is right?" I love these questions. What you're really asking is, "I'm right, right?" Well, biatch: neither of you is "right." You're both assholes and idiots: him for flirting with whorey waitresses with you at the table, you for writing to me about it.

I'm curious about something. I've never been to Grand Prairie, Texas, and I hope to never be, so I'll have to just ask you: are there any male waiters in Grand Prairie, Texas? Because, from your letter, it seems like only women fill that particular position. Do you ever get waited on by a man and, if you do, does your husband ask for the feller's name? If he does, then it's just a personality quirk that you can just get over and be thankful that your fiance doesn't do coke and jerk off to underage porn in the garage with his thumb up his ass. If he only asks for waitresses names then, yeah, he's a d-bag and he's hitting on them in front of your dumpass.

Which is sad and all but, what can you do? I can't imagine that any waitress in Grand Prairie, Texas is hot enough to hit on, but what do I know? When I picture a waitress in Grand Prairie, Texas, I picture a droopy-assed, saggy-faced grammaw with purple hair, plastic pineapple earrings and lipstick on her teeth. If I was this guy's fiance and realized that he wanted to hit that instead of me, I'd just go ahead and kill myself.

This isn't a question about etiquitte, it's a question about taste, and you and your fiance obviously have neither. Even for Texans.


  1. Oh. God. Your response to the seatbelt wench was probably the best thing I've ever read in my entire life. I really think you should get your own column. It's way better than that crazy Abby lady.

    Keep it up Mr. Apron, keep it up.

  2. You really don't want to put your mail in a mailto link. You'll get SO much spam!

  3. Gmail are good at preventing spam, the Apron knows what he's doing!

    You know, when you receive a newspaper clipping in the post (or scanned in) detailing the seatbelt incident actually happening in real life, then you'll know you're the REAL DEAL.


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