Well Rub Jerome Jackson's Hair on My Couch and Blame the Stain on BP: It's... DEAR APRON!

You know what this is all about. You know why you're here.

Because Dear Abby is hot.

But I'm hotter.

Now let's put on those aprons and split some urethras because it's time for...

DEAR APRON:

My son was married a short time ago. The reception was held at my condo member hall. After the reception, the bride and groom asked me to refrigerate the leftover bottom layer of the wedding cake. They said they'd pick it up the next day.

Six days later, the cake was still in my fridge. They made excuses every day for not picking it up. Finally, I threw it away.

Now I'm the bad guy, and the bride is demanding an apology. Apron, the cake was hard and crusty, and I felt six days was long enough. Was I wrong in dumping the cake? -- FATHER OF THE GROOM IN FORT WORTH

DEAR FATHER OF THE GROOM:

Wait-- I don't believe what I'm hearing. A man doing something inconsiderate, impulsive and thoughtless without considering other people's feelings? Jesus Christ-- this must be a first. Hold on while I bronze the rest of this reply.

Okay, that's better.

You threw out your son and daughter-in-law's wedding cake, you fucking asshole! Do you have any idea how much that thing cost?! And what, pray, do you expect this charming new couple to eat for the first three months of their new marriage? Neither of them are employed-- they're probably both starving, rummaging around the dumpsters and trashcans of their condo neighbors searching for crusts of bread and half-eaten Red Baron pizzas like feral Indonesian dogs. She's a poly-sci major and he's an English major, for God's sake-- where is their food going to come from? Do you think it's just going to fall down on them like rain from the Heavens?

Think again, Dad. Think again.

By the day, Dawg-- if everything in this world that was "hard and crusty" was summarily gotten rid of, well, you and I wouldn't be here today.

DEAR APRON:

I am in my 50s and part of a management team at work. My first name is Mary. Every time the boss sees me he starts reciting that nursery rhyme, "Mary, Mary, quite contrary!" I find it belittling and insulting.

I have expressed my dislike of what he's doing, but he can't seem to stop. Is this a form of workplace harassment? -- "QUITE" ANNOYED IN ALABAMA

DEAR MARY MARY, QUITE CONTRARY:

Well, from the tone of your letter I'd say that this nursery rhyme is right on the money as far as its befitting of your personality. And your name is Mary, so that takes care of that part, too. What should they sing when you come in the room? "Blow, Gabriel, Blow"? That wouldn't make any sense at all. I mean, if your name was Gabriel and you were a raging homosexual with an uncontrollable propensity to suck dick all the time, then I could understand choosing that particular song. Same goes for "Leila (Got Me on My Knees)" if your name were Leila and you had the same aforementioned proclivity.

And, I don't think it qualifies as workplace harrassment unless your boss is singing the nursery rhyme to you whilst honking your breasts with one hand whilst shaving his own asshole with the other.

DEAR APRON:

Now that I have found a job after a few months of unemployment, my boyfriend and I are tying the knot. I work in a very small office and would like to invite everyone to bring a date to the reception. My dilemma? I suspect that two of the men in the office are involved with each other, and I'm not close enough to anyone else to inquire.

I have no problem with their sexual orientation, but I don't want to put my foot in my mouth by inviting them as a couple. What would you think of posting an invitation (postcards and e-vites) to all employees and their dates? I ordinarily wouldn't, but being a little "gauche" seems better than being downright rude. I suspect the men downplay their relationship, and I don't want to invade their privacy. Apron, what would you do? -- BRIDE WITH A DILEMMA

DEAR BRIDE:

OMG-- GAYBOYS?! At your WEDDING?! Whoa. Gross.

Look, if you must have these... people, if one can call them that, at your wedding, here's what you do. Just send out your regular invitations and, right under the part about "Cocktails and hors d'oeuvres at 1:00pm" just write, "Faggots welcomed."

Oh, and remember to keep dad away from that leftover wedding cake. Christ only knows what that asshole will do to it! Come to think of it, keep him away from the cocktails and the hors d'oeuvres, too.

DEAR APRON:

I have been dating "Luke" for about three months. He's a sweet and thoughtful guy who cares about me, and I care for him as well.

My problem is I have never been the kind of person who likes to be touched. It makes me feel tense and uneasy. Luke likes to touch me constantly -- stroking my cheek, rubbing the back of my neck, or kissing my cheeks and forehead.

It isn't that I don't like hugs or kisses, but too much drives me crazy. How do I explain this to Luke without hurting his feelings? -- ENOUGH IN THE SOUTHWEST

DEAR FREAK:

Having always been one to eschew confrontation, uncomfortable situations, and overall verbal human contact myself, I would go with a telegram. They're cheap, short, to-the-point and, let's face it, everybody loves those cute little guys riding around on bicycles with their little messenger bags and their hats and their knee-socks and shit. Here's what it should say:

"LUKE. STOP. TOUCHING ME. STOP."

That should do it.

DEAR APRON:

I have a question that isn't earth-shaking, but concerns a lot of people my age. Each year as I grow older and read my friends' obituaries I think about my own and how I would personally like mine to read. I would like to spare my family the difficulty of trying to sort through the details of my life.

I'm wondering just what is supposed to go into an obituary. As a professional, I have information about that side of my life. It's the personal part I'm wondering about. Are there any rules on this? What is expected or accepted? I'm sure there are others who would also welcome suggestions on this. -- THINKING AHEAD IN EAU CLAIRE, WIS

DEAR THINKING AHEAD:

I think about this a lot. Perhaps more than I should. Perhaps more than a terminally ill person probably even should. In fact, I was thinking about it before I even read your letter. At least now I have a legitimate excuse to be thinking about it.

And, since you asked about one of my favorite subjects, this is my advice:

Lie like hell.

It's your obituary, man, and you're paying for it-- what better time could there possibly be to inflate your petty, inconsequential life's accomplishments? Who's going to call you on it? Who's going to know? And, more to the point: who's going to care?

NO ONE!

So have a fucking blast, man. You live in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Jesus-- have you ever gotten drunk and gotten DP'd by two members of the local amateur football team? No, you haven't. So, now's the time to pretend to live the life you've always wanted to live but were too much of a snap-crotched housfrau to have actually lived.

Here's a sample:

SMITH, Jean - Beloved mother of Bela Lugosi, faithful wife of Carroll O'Connor, coveted mistress of Woody Guthrie passed away quietly suspended from meathooks on her bedroom ceiling of Cervical Overuse Disorder (COD).

Born in Bavaria, Ms. Smith studied karate with some Asian-looking guy who wore a white bathrobe all the time for some reason and she subsisted entirely on coarsely ground lobster penis for the first fourteen years of her life. She made all her own clothes out of grass and painted her toenails with exploded caterpillar innards every day of her life.

She moved to Eau Claire, Wisconsin after she was summarily banished from Bavaria by Harvey Korman after she accidentally hit his Mercedes with a two-by-four.

Ms. Smith began her acting career starring several unreleased "Charmin'" commercials that were banned by overzealous censorship officials in the early 1960s. "I'm convinced that the catchphrase "Don't Assrape the Charmin'" would have been a big hit with families in Eau Claire," said Smith's daughter, Her Royal Majesty Princess Alexandria IV of Prussia.

An avid wrestler of tiny vermin and postal officials, Ms. Smith was frequently observed in various states of undress by neighbors attaching rivets to people's children and house plants. She was a fixture in her neighborhood and was rumored to have a sexual appetite that rivaled that of even the most prodigious local rapists and Sunday School administrators. "She died doing what she loved," reported Ji Adelqvuist, one of her paramours, a blind tobacconist with one leg and seven teeth, "She looked so beautiful suspended from them meathooks," he said, "like a fucking angel."