Honey, Donkey-Punch Me & Call Me a Cab, 'Cuz It's Time for DEAR APRON!

Welcome to Dear Apron-- it's half as fattening as a tub of Philly Cream Cheese, and it's at least one-eighth funnier than Dear Abby.

In short in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral, it is the very model of the advice column you wish had back in the day when the priest was diddling you in the baptismal fount.

DEAR APRON:

I am in my early 40s, and married with two daughters. I have a friend, "Sally," whom I have known since the third grade. We are like sisters. Sally has been profoundly depressed for at least 15 years. She sees a therapist and a psychiatrist on a regular basis and is on medication.

My question, Apron, is what do you say to someone who calls at least once a week, for at least an hour, crying so hard I can barely understand her? She calls to tell me how sad she is and how she doesn't think anything in her life will improve. While I'm concerned for her and care about what happens to her, I don't feel I can give her any advice or guidance that her counselor/psychiatrist isn't able to give.

Short of listening and providing the proverbial shoulder to lean on, what more can I do? I feel I need to be there for her, but I also feel drained dry because this has been going on for several years. Any guidance you might offer would be greatly appreciated. -- CONCERNED FRIEND IN FLORIDA

DEAR CONCERNED FRIEND:

Don't you have Caller I.D.? I mean, Jesus-- this isn't 1973, is it?

Seriously, though-- screen your calls. I mean it.

Otherwise, I don't know what else to tell you. I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, but this doesn't sound like a "How-Do-I-Help-My-Suffering-Friend" letter. To my world-weary and skeptical ears it sounds more like a "How-Do-I-Get-This-Bitch-to-Stop-Calling-Me?" letter. Doesn't it? Because, you and I both know you can't help your friend. And you don't want to either. You just want her to stop calling you. So, here's a couple suggestions.

* Change your phone number. Works like a charm.

* The next time she calls, take the phone into the bathroom and take a tremendous shit-- with straining groans and ploppage complete. If your bowels aren't primed/timed correctly, pretend. Be sure to drop a casaba melon into the toilet bowl at the crescendo of your agonized howls.

* While she's whining and crying about how alone she is on the other end of the line, put the phone down on your bedside table and start fucking your husband. Make sure she can hear those bedsprings and headboard echo the melodious audibles of lovemaking.

* Answer the telephone "Guido's Muffler Repair & Prophylactics" whenever she calls. Try to sell her things, like mufflers and prophylactics.

* In the middle of one of her tear-laden tirades, start laughing hysterically and hang up. Make sure to snort.

* The next time she calls, play dumb and ask, "Who is this?" When she says, "It's me: Sally," act surprised and say, "Oh-- Sally?! You mean you aren't dead yet?"

* When she calls you, immediately put down the receiver and let her go off on one of her fucking depressed-ass tangents. While she's doing that, leave your house, get into your car, drive over to her place and smack the everloving shit out of her.

* Tell her straight out, "Listen, Sally, when you call me, all you do is cry and talk and I can't even understand you-- so please try and enunciate when you bitch and moan about your pathetic, ridiculous, awful, nasty little life, so I can at least understand the boring, repetitive, unproductive bullshit you're slinging. Remember those final consonants, Sally-- those are extremely important when speaking in a crisp, clear manner that is readily understood by a married Florida housemarm in her early 40's with two daughters and one goddamn useless, depressed, suicidal, waste-of-time-and-space friend that I've kept around since 3rd grade to improve my own self-image."

P.S.-- Notice you mentioned everything else about yourself except your husband and your current geographic coordinates. Bitch.

DEAR APRON:

I am a 14-year-old girl in eighth grade. I have plenty of friends, play the clarinet and piano, and am involved in school yearbook and theater, among other things. My problem is, I get sick a lot.

No one can figure out why I can't go two weeks without picking up a virus. Because of this I am gone from school quite often. I can handle the occasional teasing I get from other kids, and my teachers are helpful. It's the two school secretaries I have a problem with.

Once, when I left school during the day because I wasn't feeling well, one of them said to me: "You need to try to be at school more. I know it's hard, but you've got to try." Other things they have said lead me to believe they think I'm faking. Now they want a note from every doctor I see. I was gone a lot last year, but they didn't enforce this.

What is appropriate in responding to their "comments"? I'd like to ask, "Is that your opinion as a secretary?" or say, "I'm doing the best I can with my situation and you're not helping." Or, I could bore them with a detailed description of my medical history, or maybe complain to the principal. What do you suggest? -- SICK OF IT IN IOWA

DEAR SICK OF IT:

Sweetie, I'm very glad you wrote to me about this, and you're very intelligent to ask what the appropriate response to their comments about you would be. Sometimes, it's very difficult to know exactly what the right thing could be to say to people who are simply not content to mind their own business. Your snarky and snide remarks that you say inside your head are natural, knee-jerk responses that might be immensely satisfying to say out loud in the moment, might have negative repercussions in the future. There's no need to resort to sarcasm in the face of nosey, paternalistic adults, and there's also no need to "bore them with a detailed description of [your] medical history." Simply smile like the sweet, beautiful girl I'm sure you are and say, "I have AIDS."


DEAR APRON:

My mother is a spry, 75-year-old woman who has expressed an unusual request. She has told us "kids" that when she is called by the angels, she wants to be dressed in an aqua nightgown or PJs, and to be lying on her side. She says she will be sleeping for a long time, and she wants to make sure she's comfortable. She also says if we don't carry out her wishes, she will come back and haunt us.

I have attended many wakes, but I can honestly say I have never seen anything like this done before. What do you think? -- WANTS TO DO RIGHT BY MAMA IN MASSACHUSETTS

DEAR WANTS TO WHATEVER THE FUCK IN MASSACHUSETTS:

Look at it this way, at least she doesn't want to be dressed up in a Howard Stern wig, a red clown nose and a goddamn diaper, covered by a thousand My Little Pony toys in her coffin. You have no idea how fucking weird people are-- be thankful that your mother is only slightly abnormal. Also-- pajamas are cheap, and chances are she already owns plenty that you could just throw on her lizard corpse. Most people want to be buried in a goddamn expensive suit or dress-- and what a waste of money that is.

Now, about this haunting business. You'd better take that a little more seriously. I've seen "Beetlejuice" and that shit's no joke.

DEAR APRON:

I have purchased season tickets for the local professional hockey team from a former co-worker for the last five years. We worked together for eight years and had a good relationship until this recent issue.

This year, when I called to ask about the tickets, she informed me that she had already sold them on Craigslist. I was upset because she didn't offer them to me first. I would have paid her the asking price without complaint.

I understand that they were her tickets and she could do what she wanted with them, but I feel she was inconsiderate and rude not to at least offer them to me before selling them to a total stranger. We are no longer speaking. Who's in the right?
-- MAD IN MINNESOTA

DEAR MAD:

Who's in the right? Jesus is. Damn, man-- can't you read billboards?

Now, about this nonsense regarding your hockey tickets-- she probably sold them on Craigslist for a lot more than your sorry ass was willing to pay for them. She's just another capitalist, so what's the big deal?

I know, I know. Poor baby's upset because he missed a great opportunity to see people beat the shit out of each other for no reason? Look, I realize that opportunities to witness extreme physical violence and brutality up close are rather limited in Minnesota, but if you've got such a hardon for that kind of action, come on out to Philly or Camden-- you can see that shit on any street corner you want.

DEAR APRON:

I was poking around Dear Abby's Web site recently, and while looking through the archives I read the columns featuring names for people in various professions like the urologist named Dr. Leake and the dentist named Dr. Payne.

I have a suggestion for a fun sequel: How about a list of appropriate car models for different professions -- real or made up? I'll offer a few: The president of American Express driving a Dodge Charger, or an airline pilot driving a Honda Pilot, and -- of course -- the proctologist who travels everywhere in his Ford Probe.

I'll bet your readers can come up with a bunch. -- JAMES H., LAKEWOOD, WASH.

DEAR JAMES:

That's a hilarious idea. However did you find the time to come up with something so clever? You must be one of the 10.2% of Americans who are unemployed.

Here-- let me try:

The astronomer who drives a Ford Galaxie. Oh-- this IS fun! There's the Greek mythology expert who drives a Honda Odyssey.... and... um.... ooh-- how about the symphony conductor who drives the Hyundai Sonata and... sheesh... oh, oh, wait-- I've got one, how about the guy from Lakewood, Washington who drives a Chrysler Shut The Fuck Up, Loser!

Now I'll start writing your obituary while you hurry up and run along and go kill yourself.