For That Smooth, Mellow Flavor: Try Dear Apron

Hey, Chicklettes!

You know what time it is... it's time to take a Dear Abby Column and turn it on its ass.

It's time to explore some letters that idiots write.

It's... Dear Apron Time!

DEAR APRON:

I am 45 and currently going through a divorce. My soon-to-be ex-wife and I have a 14-year-old daughter, "Gina," and I have custody.

Fourteen years ago, when my wife became pregnant with Gina, we had talked about abortion. We even had an appointment scheduled, but on the day of the appointment we decided not to go through with it. I thank God that we did have our child.

Gina knows nothing about any of this, but my future ex has threatened to tell her. My daughter is mature for her age and intelligent, but I feel the time is not right for her to know. Given the situation, I feel she should hear it from me because of the close relationship we have.

Do you agree that the news should wait until the divorce is final and the dust settles, or should I tell her now? -- DADDY WHO CARES

DEAR DADDY:

First of all: Why do I need to know that you're 45?

Second of all: Ew!

I can't tell you how tacky and weird it feels to be addressing a letter to "Dear Daddy." I don't want to call you "Daddy," it's kind of fucked up. I feel like a child-bride writing to you for some spending money-- and like I'm writing the letter in blue crayon. Couldn't you make up some loser pseudo for yourself for the purposes of writing this letter? Like how about "Tad?" The name "Tad" strikes me as the name of someone who'd be in a situation where his soon-to-be-ex-wife is blackmailing him by threatening to tell his daughter that she is an unwanted, unloved dingleberry.

Anyway, Daddy, if I must call you that, I'm glad at least that you're a daddy "who cares." Of course, you're kind of caring fourteen years too late. I mean, let's face it, fourteen years ago, when your soon-to-be-ex-wife was 110 pounds with a tight little body, 34-B titties and a sloopity, pulsating vag, you didn't care enough to make sure she was on the pill, and you didn't care enough to slap a Trojan on your horse. I'm guessing that you were doing the old rhythm thing, because you're the kind of person dumb enough to write into one of these columns for advice. Well, that's dumb, too. Now that your wife is 240 with tots that resemble two bean bag chairs and you don't want her anymore, and she's gone all meno-psycho on your ass and is threatening to tell Gina all the dirt-- all of a sudden, you care.

Well, Taddy the Daddy Who Cares, here's my advice: your psycho hoebag skeezapleeza wife is going to tell Gina that the two of you contemplated killing her in utero: that's a fact. If you don't want Gina to find out, you've got to finish the job you started 14 years ago. Yes, Tad: you've got to kill her. Or you've got to kill your ex. Seriously, you're just going to have to shoot her in the face or hold her head down in the toilet bowl or something. Or you could run her over with a lawn mower-- you know, a reader last week reminded me how dangerous those things are. And they are. Have you had your blades sharpened recently, Tad?

Maybe you should just ice both of those bitches and then do yourself in. Murder-suicides have become very fashionable these days-- you could easily start a trend in your neighborhood, and it's cheaper than buying a Maserati.

DEAR APRON:

I am in a bit of a muddle. I have had a platonic friendship with "Greg" for four years. He is married, and I have a longtime boyfriend, "Randall."

About a year ago, Greg and I crossed the line into a romantic relationship. I guess you could call it an affair. Greg was unhappy with his marriage, and I was unsettled in my relationship. The affair ended six months ago, along with Greg and my friendship.

I felt so bad about the whole thing that I confessed and apologized to Randall, who (surprisingly) is still with me. He says he loves me. I realized that Randall is very dear to me, and I have no intention of ever repeating this kind of episode again.

As for Greg, I accept that our romantic relationship is over. But I feel sad that our friendship is over, too. He never told me I can't approach him or speak to him again. I don't know how to get our friendship back, if I even can. Can you provide any suggestions? -- MUDDLED IN VIRGINIA

DEAR HOMEWRECKING BITCH:

Excuse me, I'm sorry. "I'm in a bit of a muddle?" "Muddled in Virginia?" What are you-- 97 years old? Who talks like that? Why do I get the feeling that the vast majority of you fuckers are writing these letters on Shady Pines Continuing Care Facility stationery? Even the letters from fifteen-year-olds sound like they were at least heavily edited by someone wearing bifocals and a diaper.

Muddled.

Jesus Christ.

Anyway, you expect me to believe that a person who uses the word "muddle" is attractive enough not only to have a "longtime boyfriend," but to score some deep dickin' from a formerly platonic male friend?

Well, I'm in a bit of a pickle over that, but, for your sake, we'll assume for the moment that it's true, because I'm a saint like that.

You say you have "no intention of ever repeating this kind of episode again" but I don't believe that either. See, you had "no intention" of ever doing in the first place, but you did, because there are some women who are just hardwired to be fucktoys and homewreckers. Face it, darlin': you're totally moist over Greg. You get a crotchnami just thinking about him. Meanwhile, poor Randall is there dutifully putting on his short sleeve dress shirt and clip on tie, slugging it out with the abusive public and the mentally challenged colleagues at the DMV, just so he can afford to buy you a bouquet of flowers from Shop Rite every couple of weeks. And what are you doing? Putting your cellphone on vibe, sitting on it and then calling yourself all day from the house line pretending it's Greg.

God, you make me sick. I'd like to run you over with a fucking lawnmower. Fuckin' muddle your head off, bitch.

DEAR APRON:

Some people find "pennies from heaven" -- I find dimes. My late husband once asked me whose image is on the dime, not remembering he had told me it was Franklin Delano Roosevelt (FDR). My husband's initials were also FDR. Knowing my darling watches over us always, I have saved every one I see and now have a box full of them. -- ELAINE IN MARYLAND

DEAR ELAINE:

Your husband didn't know whose face was on the fucking dime?

Jesus-- you people kill me.