Well, Shit in a Saucepan & Serve it Up Fried: It's DEAR APRON Time!

As Mrs. Apron & I prepare to head off for our long-awaited, and, may I say deserved vacation, I wish to conclude with a hymn.

But I think a Dear Apron column, pouring salt on the wounds of the oppressed plebians of the world who, rather than solve problems on their own wait for Dear Abby to solve them instead, would be more suitable, and enjoyable than a fucking hymn.

So, suit up and enjoy.

DEAR APRON:

I'm a 16-year-old male high school sophomore in what I think is a pretty common predicament. A lot of my friends have had sex, and some are having it pretty regularly. Apron, I've never even kissed a girl!

How can I deflect attention from myself when my friends ask me how far I've gone? And what can I do to make sure I am not in this spot forever? -- IN THE MINORITY IN PALATINE, ILL.

DEAR MINORITY:

What can you do to make sure you're not in this spot forever?

Fuck a lot of women, kid.

It's obviously the only way to avoid being viewed by your friends as a dickless, puritanical freak. Besides lying, and I would never suggest in my column that people lie, especially about their sexual conquests. Not cool.

Seeing as you're already sixteen and have never kissed anyone in a permissive society like ours where twelve-year olds are regularly popping out babies like PEZ dispensers, I'm willing to bet that you're just to the right of hideous, or some goth slut would have gotten around to fiddling with your whang by now. No doubt you're overweight, with dragon-esque halitosis and a pimple-ridden face that resembles a relief map of Europe. If this is the case, nail a prostitute or two. They're a great, unintimidating way to get initiated into the world of sexual congress. Then, you can tell all your awkward, nasty friends in the AV club that you've known beaver.

Just try to pick one with at least five real teeth. And remember-- real teeth cost real money, but it's worth it.

DEAR APRON:

My former boss, "Ken," is 30 years older than I am. We slept together several months ago while my boyfriend, "Vinny," and I were separated. The affair was short-lived, and Vinny and I reconciled.

When I discovered I was pregnant, Vinny and I eloped. Abby, I'm almost positive this is Vinny's baby, but I'm not 100 percent sure, so I told him everything.

Now Vinny wants me to tell Ken and his wife that I need a paternity test. I agree that Ken's wife needs to know, but I'm afraid that bringing this out will bring some serious repercussions. What should I do? -- NEEDS CLOSURE IN OHIO

DEAR NEEDS CLOSURE:

You definitely do need closure: of your legs. Jesus Fern-Watering Christ! What a fucking disgraceful, contemptible strumpet you are-- parading your firm, young tits around the office like you're Lady Godiva until you seduced that poor, innocent, frail, elderly Ken with your wanton glances and your eminently slappable buttocks!

Shame! Shame! I sentence thee to eight days in the pillory!

Now, Vile Whore, as to what you should do now that you're in the admittedly awkward position of possibly having an elderly man's baby-- here's what you do:

In twenty years, be prepared for the kid to have schizophrenia because, if it's Ken's kid, the product of elderly, infirmed sperm, he's damn likely to have it.

If the baby's Vinny's, be prepared for him to deliver pizza and/or mispronounce the word "youths."

DEAR APRON:

Some friends and I shared a vacation house last month. While I was out hiking, a supposed friend, "Lynette," rummaged through my purse (which had been stashed in a closet) and made a non-emergency phone call on my cell. She didn't tell me about it. I found out on my own.

It's not that I mind her using my phone, but a purse is private, and I felt violated. Let me add that she also knew about an article I had packed in a zipped pouch that I keep in my beach bag. I don't know why she snooped through my stuff.

Am I wrong to be upset? And do you think this "friendship" is worth continuing? -- LIVID IN LEXINGTON, KY.

DEAR LIVID:

Yes, you are wrong to be upset. Jesus, why are all you people so uptight? What's in your purse that you didn't want Lynette to see? Your pills? Your fucking tampons? God, get over yourself. Everybody knows you're on Xanax anyway.

I appreciate that you don't like being violated, but it's not like Lynette shoved her finger in your asshole while you were asleep in the tent, right? So let's try to keep things in perspective here.

(She didn't do that to you, right?)

If you have such a problem with Lynette going through your bag while you're not looking, there are a couple easy solutions, all of which will teach her a valuable lesson about respecting boundaries:

1.) Place a mini bear trap inside your purse. Lynette will be guaranteed to lose at least three fingers, if not her entire hand. This method of crime-and-punishment works well in the Middle East and it's what we educators refer to as "experiential learning."

2.) Before you go out with Lynette again, text all of your friends a message, something to the effect of, "OMG, did u guys know that Lynette has AIDS?" That way, when Lynette goes to use your phone again, she'll see all of the aghast, disgusted texts in reply to yours.

3.) Again, before going out with Lynette, visit a chemotherapy/radiation treatment center and get a bunch of brochures and pamphlets about "Living with Cancer" and "Effects of Chemotherapy." Make sure there are at least two informational packets about hospice care and/or end-of-life decisions. You'll be sure to get a heartfelt apology now!

4.) Next time you're out hiking and sharing a tent, wait till Lynette's asleep and then stick your finger inside her asshole.