Well, Pimp My Ride and Ride my Pimp: It's... DEAR APRON!

Welcome to the least sincere, least effective, least well-intentioned advice column on the planet. The idea, you see, is quite simple: I post letters that were written into Dear Abby, and I reply, lovingly coating my advice with enough acidity and rancor to sour your mommy's Thanksgiving turkey and stuff it with puréed babies.

Off we go!

DEAR APRON:

I think my husband may be a cross-dresser. Last night while "Roland" and I were cuddling in bed, I felt his legs and they were smoother than mine. I asked him why he keeps shaving his legs and stomach, and then it dawned on me. Roland has sent me e-mails hinting about dressing up.

One year, he purchased a pair of high heels, saying he wanted to dress up like a woman. I examined them the other day and there is evidence that they have been worn more than once. My lingerie drawer is sometimes a mess, and sometimes my clothes are a bit out of place. I believe my husband dresses up while I'm out of town on business trips.

I'd kind of like to see him dressed up, but I'm afraid he might look sexier than me. Lately Roland has been asking me if he can join me when I go shopping for clothes. He does chores around the house (vacuuming, ironing, dishes), and if he enjoys cross-dressing, I say he can wear any outfit he wants. How can I tell him I know what he's doing? -- WISE TO HIM IN FORT WORTH

DEAR WISE TO HIM:

This may sound awful, but I'll say it anyway (because, really, why not) but I'm amazed that someone from Fort Worth who is still operating as if this were the dark ages (i.e., writing a letter to Dear Abby-- probably by candle-light with a fountain pen on oilcloth paper) is so open-minded.

Good for you, Sweetums.

What your husband is doing is perfectly normal-- especially the shaving-his-stomach part. Believe me, dearie, if I had the money to spend on a residential-sized wheat-thresher, you can bet I'd be plowing my belly clean, too. And I'll bet Roland's legs are to die for. You should be proud to call this man your husband. Or your sister-- or whatever it is you crazy kids are doing these days.

The way I look at it, as long as he's not joining Oprah's book club or spending hours in the tub, listlessly soaping up his bitch-tits to the tunes of old Boy George cassette tapes, I think this is probably recreational, and ought to be enocouraged. The next step, clearly, would be taking Roland to a lesbian sushi bar.

As for how to tell him that you know what he's doing, I would avoid statements that begin with the words, "Listen, queerbo," as this conversation-starter may be perceived as negative, and may prove to be more of a conversation-killer. If you're too embarrassed to bring up the topic of your husband's cross-dressing, I think you might want to try coming home from work dressed like a character from your favorite Humphrey Bogart movie with a pair of rolled-up socks tucked away in the crotch. That should get the idea across, and may very well lead to a stimulating evening. Hello, YouTube!

DEAR APRON:

My boyfriend will not let go of my past. I didn't level with him about a couple of relationships because I knew he was a racist. He found out, and now all I get is teasing and comments almost every day. If he sees a talk show about a liar, he says, "Oh! There you are!" It's the same if the subject is a whore.

What he's doing is hurting me. Is this normal behavior? Am I supposed to ignore him? I have asked him to stop, but he says he won't until I learn to laugh about it. Any suggestions? -- EMBARRASSED IN ANAHEIM

DEAR WHORE:

Oh-- sorry, I was thinking about something else.

DEAR EMBARRASSED:

Listen, queerbo-- you're not the first kitty-cat who's ever been compared to some toothless yabbo throwing furniture/hairpieces/industrial-strength diapers on the set of the "Jerry Springer Show," so let's stop this look-at-me, I'm-so-special routine.

I mean, come on.

Now, about your boyfriend-- how many teeth does HE have? I'm willing to bet I have more fingers on one finger than he has teeth. Do you know that there is a statistical correlation between the number of teeth you have and the amount of times your first pet marmoset has had scabies?

Yeah, well, now you know. Thanks for writing. By the way, honey, it's one fucking rhetorical non-question per letter, not three. God, I need to start drinking...

DEAR APRON:

How do I tell a friend of many years that the wig she wears is not flattering? We're nearly 80, and the wig is black and falls past her shoulders. Her hair was dark when she was young, but now the color looks harsh.

She started wearing the wig because it was too much trouble to go to the hairdresser every week. Something shorter and lighter in color would look much better.

My friend can be vain about her appearance. How do I enlighten her without hurting her feelings? -- CARING FRIEND IN OHIO

DEAR CARING FRIEND:

Caring friend, huh? Gee, I sure hope I have a caring friend like you when I'm nearly eighty. I'd pull off my harsh black wig and strangle your lizard neck with it.

Try saying, "Ethel, your fucking domepiece looks disgusting. It looks like Cousin Itt is having Mexican diarrhea on your head." Chances are, at nearly eighty, she won't hear you anyway and, if she does, she'll forget you said it two minutes later.

AND NOW, A BONUS "DEAR APRON" FOR THE YOUNG, AND YOUNG-AT-HEART:

DEAR APRON:

I'm 13, and my "first kiss" just broke up with me. My dad says it's just puppy love, which may be true, but I have a feeling that I need to be with him. What hurts even more is he had a new girlfriend the next day.

I have tried moving on, but I don't think I want to. I want to try to get back with him, but I don't know how. Can you help me? -- ACHING HEART IN IOWA

DEAR ACHING:

Listen to what I am about to say very, very carefully.

You're 13 years old.

13, okay?

And you're writing to Dear Abby.

You'd better take a good, hard look in the mirror, kiddo, and reevaluate your perspectives and your priorities or, let me tell you: you're going to be writing lettes to Dear Abby for the rest of your miserable, unfulfilled, soul-sucking life.

I know there can't be that much to do for kids your age in Iowa-- I mean, it's not like you're going to have a Bat Mitzvah or anything-- but find a large animal in a field somewhere and throw a stick at it-- count the divots on your kitchen's drop-ceiling-- buy a pair of overalls and puff-paint them, just do something, anything other than write letters to Dear Abby.

Please. Promise me. Save yourself.