Well, Cup My Balls & Call Me Bertha; It's DEAR APRON Time!

Do any of you still think these letters are written to me? Well, they're not. They're Dear Abby letters that I faithfully and diligently rip to shreds on my own dime.

Maybe one day, though, someone will write to me at mymasonicapron {at} g-to-the-mail and ask me for advice on their own accord. Until then, I'm left with this basket of dickheads.

DEAR APRON:

A co-worker, "Marilyn," recently returned from time off with a noticeably different face. She said nothing about it, so we didn't either for a while. Finally, one woman remarked to her that she appeared to have had "some work done." Abby, Marilyn denied it!

What's considered proper here? Should we have said something initially about her radically changed appearance? We were afraid if we ignored it she'd be disappointed. Having spent that much money and gone through that much pain, wouldn't she have been crushed if we hadn't?

-- INQUIRING MINDS IN PASADENA

DEAR NOSY BITCH:

I'm intrigued.

When you say "noticeably different face," are we talkin' about, like, she has wolf's ears now, or they replaced her eyes with Susan B. Anthony dollars? Is her nose now upside-down and situated on her forehead? I wish you had been more specific, because my imagination is certainly getting a work-out here.

Your co-worker had every right to ask Marilyn about her face. People who go to Dr. Nose and pay thousands and thousands of dollars to get excavation work done on their cheek-bones are only doing it for the attention anyway, so you shouldn't feel bad about cornering her at lunch and asking, in a very loud voice, mind you, all sorts of potentially rude and embarrassing questions about her face.

"Whoa-- did they charge you extra to fix your sagging gizzard neck?" for example, is totally appropriate.

You have to understand the mindset of people who get plastic surgery-- they're dying for you to notice. So, standing up on your cubicle desk and screeching, "OH, MY GOD, LOOK AT FUCKING MARILYN'S FUCKING FACE!" is just the clarion call that she's hoping for. Next year, when Marilyn comes to work with a new set of titties, I fully expect you to run up to her and honk those hooters like they're the horn on an antique Ford Model A. You might even want to scream, "Aaaah-OOOOO-GAAAH!" when you squeeze those babies, just for good measure.

Holding a cigarette lighter under Marylin's nose for an extended period of time to see if her new nose melts is also acceptable behavior. So is pushing her face down and rubbing it on the Sunday comics page to see if it shows up on her cheek.

DEAR APRON:

My husband and I have always been active. We're avid campers and certified scuba divers; we water-ski and enjoy taking leisurely rides along country roads on our motorcycle.

I recently had an accident and had to have an X-ray of my spine. Afterward, my doctor informed me that the vertebrae in my neck are positioned in such a way that if I'm ever in another accident, I would probably become a paraplegic.

My husband now wants to sell our motorcycle and do everything possible to "protect" me. How do I tell this wonderful man that I don't want to change our lifestyle? We do not do anything dangerous, but he insists that we now have to watch out for "the fools out there."

-- ADVENTURER IN ALBANY, GA.

DEAR THRILL-SEEKING SUICIDAL ASSHAT:

Aw, look at you. You're such an empowered woman. You don't want to listen to your loving "wonderful" husband or your empathic, logical physician. You just want to go rock-climbing, crotch-rocketing and bear-wrestling, even though it's most likely going to turn you into Chairy McWheelsaround.

Well, I say, "go for it!" Yeah, that's right. I said it. Rock on with your bad self, sister. You go, girl! I don't think it's utterly stupid and selfish of you to want to throw yourself from ravines and race your motorcycle all around the hills and valleys of Albany, Georgia. I mean, hey, what the hell else is there to do there besides drink moonshine, right? In fact, before you saddle up your motorcycle, why not drink a gallon of that there firewater first? Hell, take a bottle to go. That way, you'll end up a paraplegic much faster-- maybe you'll even be a quadraplegic, and really prove that doctor of yours wrong! That way, your "wonderful" husband will be labored for the rest of your life with feeding you, washing you, clothing you, wiping drool from your chin, and changing your fucking diapers like the baby that you are!

Maybe you should just let the man wrap your entire body in bubble-wrap. Hopefully he'll cover your big mouth with it, too.

DEAR APRON:

I live in a small town in Alaska. A relationship with a woman I loved more than I have ever loved anyone has ended. I'm left with only pain, misery and suffering.

I keep trying to move on, but everything I do makes me think of her. I have asked friends for advice; they all tell me to "man up and get over it!"

It's frustrating to be told to "get over her" and accept what is. I know brooding isn't helpful, but it's a natural byproduct of pain. What I need to ask you is this: Is it worth putting your heart and soul on the line with the likely possibility of having them crushed? I hope so, because without hope, then what is there to live for? That thought scares me more than anything I have ever experienced.

-- HEARTBROKEN UP NORTH

DEAR HEARTBROKEN HICK:

Oh my God, is this.... is this...... Mr. Palin?

Holy fucking shit! I can't believe Mr. Fucking Palin is writing to me! I just can't believe......

I can't believe.....

I can't believe she DUMPED you, man!

Dude, you fucked up!

Seriously, Todd, that chick may be fucking crazy, but she is one hot piece of ass! I mean, what is she, like, forty? Damn, yo! I'll bet she's manic in the sack, too. Aw, damn! I feel for you, bro, really, I do.

But, hey, look on the bright side-- um..... you're no longer married to a nutjob who shoots wolves from a fucking helicopter. So, um, you know-- there's that.

Seriously, though, Todd, there's lots of good fish in the ice in Wasilla, you know? I'll bet, down at the biker/moose bar, you could strike up a pleasant conversation with any number of husky leviathans who'd be interested in your stories about meeting Matt Lauer for the first time and all that shit.

I'll bet some of them even believe in birth control.