An Award-Winning Disclaimer

A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Monday, December 28, 2009

A Skiier's Prayer

Editor's Note\Apology:

My wife and I are on a vacation-lite in the Poconos for a few days. For webnotainment and blogging endeavors, I have only my smartphone on which to lean, and type. And the fucking keys are the size of a cricket's nipples. As such, you will observe that My Masonic Apron's blog entries for the next few days, while not as annoyingly brief as tweetledeetdeets, will be regrettably truncated.

I'm going skiing tomorrow.

I know-- you're like, "B.F.D., loser. I pour lighter fluid all over myself, have some neckless guy named Bra shoot me with a Vietnam War surplus flamethrower and then jump out of a helicopter while strapped to nothing but a bag of broken glass and Oral Robert's corpse."

And I hear you. Really. I do.

But my family's idea of excitement was going to the King of Prussia mall or taking the Buick through the car wash. I never went skiing until a few years back when I let Mrs. apron pop my ski bunny cherry.

And I fell down a lot.

I still fall down, but not as much as I used to. I even go on some moderate-level slopes and I don't spontaneously start crying on the way down anymore. Now I sing Gilbert & Sullivan patter songs at the top of my lungs as I somewhat erratically cut through the obstacles in my way-- namely red-faced, drunken assoles in North Face jackets and giggling girls with jangly fleece jester hats.

So, wherever you are today, send up a quick prayer for me. And, if you're taking to the slopes somewhere in the Pennsylvania mountains and you happen to inexplicably hear "I am the Monarch of the Sea" sung out lustily behind you-- get the fuck out of the way.


  1. Bahahaha! Wait. Are you telling me that you ski sober? I'm thinking of hitting up ski roundtop near where I am. I hear they let you ski in jeans there. It's real nice.

  2. Are you staying in one of those awesome Poconos getaways with the 2 story champagne hot tub o' love? I've ALWAYS wanted to do that for the pure kitch factor.

    Good luck - don't Sonny Bono!


Got something to say? Rock on with your badass apron!