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Friday, February 19, 2010

Well, Light My Torch & Give Me the Gold, It's the Moron Olympics With... DEAR APRON!

Here at Dear Apron, an advice column that's low on advice and high on paint fumes, we think that every person who writes an obnoxious, cloying, insipid letter to Dear Abby belongs on that Olympic podium.

So, let's shove a figure-skate up their asses with a snow-covered salute to all the helpless fingerbangs of the world. Yes, it's DEAR APRON time, bitches.


I am a 29-year-old registered nurse who has never been married. Recently I bought a home, and soon after, an old boyfriend, "Gary," started coming around. I was happy about it at first, but he's been staying here at my place for two months now and hasn't paid any rent.

Gary buys his own beer and has brought home a few grocery items from time to time, but nothing to speak of. He had the electricity turned off at his place so his expenses are minimal. He also brought along his cat, but never cleans out her litter box.

He does no housework and comes and goes as he pleases. I do not want him sharing my home without contributing anything. Is there a way to tell him without wrecking our relationship? -- CANADIAN JOAN


You know, Joan, as I was reading your letter, I was very confused. I mean, I know that most letters written into Dear Abby basically answer themselves and the people who write them already know what the answer is and are just waiting for some perceived authority figure to weigh in, stroke their ego, and tell them to do what they already know they have to do-- but your letter was so patently obvious that I couldn't fathom why you were even bothering to write.

And then I saw it.


Joan, take the maple leaf off of your big, sweet pussy and attack Gary. I mean physically. Hit him in the face with a frying pan while he's sleeping in a pathetic drunken stupor on the couch. Excuse me, YOUR couch. Stick your goddamn fingernail straight through his Adam's Apple. You're a Registered Nurse, right? You know all about veins and arteries and potentially toxic narcotic combinations. Experiment on this charming ex-boyfriend of yours.

Be MEAN for once.

I've been watching the Vancouver Olympics, Joan-- religiously. You Canadians need to get a little rougher around the edges. People in America think you're all gay. Now, tell me: do you think you're improving Canada's image by representing Canada, and all the other "Canadian Joan's" out there as impotent losers whose obese, foul-smelling, unemployed, unshaven, Dorito-consuming ex-boyfriends continually sponge off of them, masturbating in the kitchen while you cook whatever it is Canadians eat for him. What do Canadians eat, Joan?

Let me ask you another question, Joan-- do you think Dear Apron would be much fun to read if it were polite and nice? Do you think folks would get pleasure out of watching me getting used like a doormat or toilet paper in a public city library? Do you have any idea what goes on in the bathrooms in those places, Joan? Think: homeless people + copious amounts of liquid soap and water + newspaper made of underwear = something we don't even want to think about.

Do you have homeless people in Canada? Michael Moore doesn't think so.


I'm a freshman in high school who has trouble making friends. My grades are good. I'm learning how to play a musical instrument, and I think I'm a nice guy.

My problem is so many of my schoolmates judge others by their possessions -- cell phones, iPod, laptop, etc. It matters what brand of clothing you wear and how much money you have. If you don't have those things or your parents aren't rich, you're treated as an outcast. Character or talent doesn't matter, apparently -- only money. This has started affecting my self-esteem. What do you advise? -- JUST A NICE GUY IN ARIZONA


Being gay in high school is never easy. Back when I was in high school, I knew a kid who was so obviously gay flowers would wilt when he walked past them. And he was so ashamed of it that he pretended to like girls, he would make vaguely sexual comments about girls that would pass in this reedy little gay voice, with lisp complete, and that made the Irish Catholic kids with the lacrosse sticks just want to beat him up even more. To make it worse, even the gay kids at school didn't like him-- he frosted his hair which looked ridiculous and he had these little bologna tits that you could see under his shirt. He had the build of a slightly overweight seventh grade girl, but he was a tenth grade boy.

Jesus, it was awful.

So, I feel for you. But you just keep at that French Horn and I'm sure good things will come your way. Maybe a $1,000-a-year scholarship to Indiana University of Pennsylvania or something cool like that. And, when you get there-- your troubles will be over. Because even the most fucking pathetically awkward of God's creatures usually wind up having sex in college. I did.


My wife has been criticizing my table manners ever since our wedding. When we're having dinner, if we're having meatloaf, broccoli and mashed potatoes, I eat all of my meatloaf and then all of my broccoli before starting on the mashed potatoes.

My wife claims it is proper etiquette to rotate one bite of each different food rather than consume all of any one of them before moving on to the next. I have never heard of this rule and neither has anyone else I have asked.

Am I violating a rule of etiquette, or is this something else my wife has "cooked up"? -- RUMINATING IN RIO RANCHO, N.M.


Not only are you violating a rule of etiquette, you are violating one of God's basic covenants: Thou Shalt Not Question Thy Wife.

I don't know if you've watched a lick of television over the last ten years but, if you have, you will have undoubtedly learned that American men possess an I.Q. equivalent to that of a retarded caterpillar. This fact was on prominent display, I heard, during many of the ads aired during the last Super Bowl.

The fact that American men's brains have been shrinking is an indisputable scientifict fact and can be read in some journal somewhere.

Now, fact: men are drooling hooligans. Fact: men need careful and diligent instruction on how to comport themselves on a daily basis. Fact: men get married so that they may receive constant instructions/life-coaching.

Fact: your wife knows how to eat meatloaf, broccoli and mashed potatoes. Question her again, and you will be brought before the Oprahatic Council for Estrogenenics, who will most likely recommend ritual sterilization.


I walked into my dorm room and heard my roommate having sex in the bathroom. I promptly called my girlfriend to ask if she wanted to meet me. No sooner had I entered her number than I heard my girlfriend's ring tone coming from our bathroom.

It was her.

I clicked off, left the room and stayed at a friend's for the night. Please tell me, did I do the right thing and what do I do now? -- BETRAYED IN TORONTO


Oh my God, another preciously polite Canadian. NO, YOU DIDN'T DO THE RIGHT THING! You should have either, a.) gone in there with a baseball bat and killed the both of them (people on college campuses are killing each other a lot nowadays, so it's not like you'd be the first or anything) or b.) taken your pants off and joined in!

I'm sure they would have welcomed your presence-- I mean, fine, maybe it would have been a little awkward at first, but college is the place to try new things-- especially in the dorm bathroom! It's not everyone who can say that they graduated with honors from college AND had a threesome on a filthy toilet with their girlfriend and roommate.

See, gay French Horn loser-- what did I tell you? Everybody has sex in college!


I am shocked at what my young children tell me they have overheard while other "carpool moms" chat on their cell phones as they ferry children back and forth to school. Cell phones have opened up a whole new adult world to children.

My children have heard mothers bad-mouth teachers, other parents and even their classmates. They have also had to listen to adult arguments that were none of their business. In one extreme case, my son had to endure hearing the carpool mom relay the circumstances of his own father's sudden death! Can you imagine how painful that was?

Parents, please remember that little children have big ears and listen to everything you say! -- HANG IT UP IN COLUMBIA, S.C.


Classic. These bitches are doing your sorry ass a favor by schlepping your booger-eating kids to school so you can hang out at home and fuck the Maytag repairman, and now you want to complain about what they talk about on their cell-phones? What exactly are these women supposed to talk about? Raggedy Andy and candy corn?


Why don't you drive your own fucking kids to school? Or, better yet, why doesn't the Maytag repairman drive them-- they're his kids anyway.

1 comment:

  1. Love the meatloaf and potatoes response because it's absolutely true.


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