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"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Friday, May 14, 2010

Well, Tame My Tiger and Stroke My Wood, It's... DEAR APRON!

Uh, oh-- it's that time of the week again, where I get hungry for the blood of innocents who write to Dear Abby because their panties are in a seemingly irrevocable twist.

I'll fix that, with a dose of...



I have been married 19 years to a beautiful, accomplished woman. We have two wonderful children. I fooled around throughout my marriage because I could. I justified it by telling myself the women knew what they were doing, and I never made any false promises about leaving my wife. She suspected a couple of times, but always gave me the benefit of the doubt.

My last affair ended publicly with every gory detail exposed. My family, work, reputation -- everything that mattered to me -- have been destroyed. I can't talk about any of it to a therapist because I am so ashamed. Friends, family and co-workers now shun me. I have hit rock bottom.

If you have a hopeful solution, please share it. Otherwise, please print this as a warning to other men like me that when they hit bottom -- as will surely happen -- there's nowhere to turn. I want to end my life. -- SHATTERED IN LOUISIANA


So, was one of the chicks Indian? If so, that's pretty hot. Did you ever happen to film yourselves-- you know-- doing it? If so, and the position of choice was reverse cowgirl, well, you know how to get in touch with me. And I suggest you do.

Before you kill yourself, of course.


My mother and I rarely get along -- mainly because she thinks she's fabulous and I don't. I'm in my 30s, married with a child and have a career. I am tired of riding an emotional roller coaster with Mother.

She is planning her next visit and I don't want her to come. Her visits end up lasting a week or more, and her conversation consists of complaining, making snide comments about my house and how I am raising my child (under the guise of being "helpful"), and then whining because I don't have the time or desire to entertain or placate her.

Can you tell me how to tell her that visits to my house are no longer welcomed? -- DONE WITH THE DRAMA


Before I address this terribly boring situation with your mother, I feel compelled to address your regrettable grammar.

"My mother and I rarely get along -- mainly because she thinks she's fabulous and I don't."

"...and I don't" what, dear?

Don't drink-and-drive? Don't support the clubbing of baby lemurs? Don't pay your bills electronically? Don't wear Catholic support hose? Or is that that you don't think someone/something is fabulous?

Whom, might I ask, don't you think is fabulous? Do you not think your mother is fabulous, or do you think that you yourself are not fabulous? This ambiguous sentence structure leaves me wondering... wondering, like, who your sixth grade English teacher was, where she might live, and what color, make and model car she drives to that, the next time I see her tooling around in it I make sure to unleash a torrent of steaming, asparagus-scented pee on it.

Now, regarding your complaints about your mother-- I don't know what to tell you. Making snide comments, telling you how to raise your kids-- this is what mothers do. Some day, you'll do it to your own annoying brat, and the poor, hapless kid will write in to this or some other advice column, no doubt in even more reprehensible grammar, to complain about your sorry, leathery ass.

Don't want your mother hanging around your house? Next time she rings the doorbell, open the door and kick her right in the pussy.


I recently took my daughter to an "open house" at our local college. My daughter refuses to ask questions, so I started asking about credit hours, finances, scholarships, etc.

A few people were not happy that I was there. I was told that I was what they referred to as a "hovering" parent and I needed to let her attend the open house on her own. I told them -- very politely -- that because I was paying for her education, I wanted to know what I was getting for my money. I told them if I was going to buy her a car, I feel I'd have the right to test drive it first to make sure it was worth the money.

Should I have left her there on her own and hoped everything turned out OK? I know kids need to grow up and make their own mistakes, but if they do it with my money, they won't learn because it would cost them nothing. Do you think I was out of line? -- QUESTIONING DAD IN ARIZONA


Wow. From reading this letter, I could have sworn you were some middle-aged woman from Omaha with '80s hair, a paunch, big glasses and mom-jeans. Yeah, I'll bet you're a "questioning dad" alright.

You and your logic pretty much suck. You're paying for college, so you want to know what you're getting? You're getting your daughter a college education, probably at least one STD, and a lot of unused lunches on her mealplan.

And, if you were buying her a car (which you probably didn't, you skinflint) you'd want to test-drive it to make sure it was "worth the money?" Jeez-- I hope you don't take your daughter to Victoria's Secret to buy her underwear, too. From the picture I'm getting of you, though, you probably do.

Gross, dude. Fucking gross.


Here's a new one for you. A group of friends and I are frequent customers on some of the home shopping channels. When we buy jewelry it arrives in a gift case or box. We hate to throw them away. Any ideas on how we can donate or recycle those gift boxes? -- DIANA IN LAKEWOOD, CALIF.


Here's a new one for you: you're wasting your lousy pension buying shit costume jewelry. Why don't you save all of those boxes, glue them together, and then you and your crusty old friends can live in the little box fort when your home is repossessed after you default on your mortgage because you gave all your fucking money to QVC.


  1. Was that first one Tiger Woods? Sorry, sorry, I know. Dead horse.

  2. Um also I just got the title. Please ignore me.

  3. "open the doorbell kick her right in the pussy".

    Yeah, sentences that make no sense are a kicker alright.

  4. Magpie:

    Oooh! Little saucebox! You're lucky you live in Ireland...

    Actually, I really appreciate the correction. My wife must not have read this post yet.

    Doorbell. Pussy. Madness!


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