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Friday, March 26, 2010

Well, Chew My Cud & Pull My Pud: It's.... DEAR APRON!

Ah, the people who write to Dear Abby to solve their problems. They're lazy, insipid, socially retarded, and pining for the answers to life's mundane and salacious problems.

And they're such easy targets.

Welcome, bitches, to DEAR APRON!


I have a horrible secret. I have cheated on my husband with multiple strangers. I have tried to tell him I have an addiction, but he blows me off. When I first met him, I had been with two people. Since our wedding, I have lost count.

I think about sex constantly and often arrange to meet men anonymously many times during the week. I have tried to stop, but I just can't seem to. Believe me, I have tried.

I have attempted to talk to my husband about this so he will listen -- but I'm afraid to estimate how many times I have cheated because I fear he will leave me. Please help me. -- CAN'T STOP DOWN SOUTH


Well, honey, your horrible secret's safe with me.

The real problem here, hon-bun, isn't your monumental infidelities, seemingly carried out in every motel room, back alley, Chevy Citation, garbage dump, and Dunkin' Donuts restroom in western Alabama. The real problem here is the breakdown in communication with your husband.

I mean, clearly, you've tried to confess, and he just won't listen to you. Girlfriend, you are a woman and you deserve to be heard. I mean, you go, girl. If this man won't even condescend to take five minutes out of his busy schedule of college basketball brackets, drinking watery coffee and picking at his toenails to give you the time of day so that you can tell him how many dirty, pimply cocks you've wrapped your pussylips around, well, then maybe you need to find yourself a new husband to habitually cheat on. I mean, no wonder you have affairs: the man just doesn't listen to you. Clearly, it's all his fault.

Now, about all these affairs: do you have, like, a webcam or something?


I'm a 27-year-old woman who is a "klutz," which explains why I often have bruises on my legs and elbows. The other day, while lunching with friends I hadn't seen in a while, one of them brought up the subject of my bruises. (I had rolled up the sleeves of my blouse and was wearing a skirt.)

I laughed and explained how I got them -- running off an elevator before the door had opened all the way, tripping while climbing some stairs, and crashing into the coffee table and nearly breaking my leg. My friends exchanged knowing looks and told me if I ever needed anything -- ANYthing at all -- they were there for me and offered protection!

It became obvious that they think my fiance caused the bruises. I explained that I am often in a hurry and accident-prone. They didn't believe me. They just nodded and said, "Uh-huh ..."

I feel so humiliated. My fiance has never laid a finger on me. I have never had a healthier, more loving relationship, and it hurt that my friends think I'm a victim of domestic abuse.

A birthday get-together is coming soon and I don't feel comfortable going now. I'm worried they may tell others what they "think" may be going on behind closed doors. How do I set the record straight? -- JUST CLUMSY IN AMARILLO




I've been dating "Amanda" for eight months and everything is going great. I've met her parents, and she has met mine.

Two days ago, I mentioned that we should plan a dinner with both sets of parents since they have not met yet. Amanda told me that our parents shouldn't meet until we move in together or are engaged. I felt offended. When do you think is the right time for our parents to meet? -- IT'S ONLY DINNER


Whenever Red Lobster is having a surf n' turf special for only $19.95 is the right time for both sets of parents to meet, of course. Nothing creates pre-connubial harmony like the smokey tenderness of a moist, medium-well steak combined with the luscious, buttery goodness of a soft, delicate lobster tail.

So, come on down to Red Lobster-- sure, everything's frozen and imported weekly from the South China Sea-- but we take great care in ensuring that every syringe and piece of chemical waste is thoroughly removed from our scallops, shrimp and crab before it is brought out to your table by some incompetent, goateed college drop-out whose face looks like the surface of the moon.

What better place could there be for soon-to-be in-laws to get to know each other than in one of our uncomfortable vinyl booths that resemble the backseat of a 30-year-old NYC Checker Marathon taxi? Nevermind that obese biker/Klansman breaking a King Crab leg over his son's head for waving to the underweight black bus-boy-- we'll do everything we can to make sure that the atmosphere is just right for you and Amanda as you bravely soldier your way through the ancient right-of-passage: the meeting of the parents.

Can Rick get you some more stuffed tilapia or cheesy bread?


I am a freelance writer who works from home. I have flexibility when it comes to my work hours, but I decide that on my own terms. I have lost count of the number of times friends and family have asked me to baby-sit, have lunch or go out shopping with them because, according to them, writing isn't "real work" and working from home means having no fixed hours.

Last week my husband called me from his office and asked me to bring him some documents he had forgotten at home. When I realized it wasn't urgent, I told him no and that he had interrupted my train of thought. He has been sulking for days. Was I wrong?

In this digital age, with more people working from home, it still means adhering to a schedule. Oh, and one more thing -- please remind your readers that writing is very much a REAL job. -- FREELANCE WRITER IN TENNESSEE


Oh, you're a "freelance writer" are you? Funny-- I looked for you in "The New Yorker" last month and didn't see your column. Wait-- was that your turkey meatloaf recipie in February 12th's edition of "The Weekly Tenneseeian"?

Listen, missy-- the next time your husband calls you from work to bring him papers, you better look sharp and hop to it, or, before you know it, he's going to be sleeping his way through Alabama or taking some cute young chippy out for some surf n' turf action.

Oh, and I guess writing is very much a REAL job. If you get paid for it. Thanks for rubbing it in, dear.


  1. *ties on her apron*

    Just Clumsy's letter was the best by far.

    Especially since I can totally see myself in the same situation!

  2. Dear Freelance in Tennessee,

    Take those documents to your husband or he won't be supporting your bogus career for much longer.

    Someone who knows


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