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Friday, June 4, 2010

Well, Tase My Tonsils and Talk Some Shit, It's.... DEAR APRON!

Who needs alcohol, that wholly inadequate substitute for substance and courage?

Who needs the beach, lulling you to sleep with the sound of its gentle surf?

Who needs... trousers?

Nobody. Not when you've got.....


My friends and neighbors thought I had the best husband, and our children thought he was the greatest dad. But on the day he died, I found out he had been having sex with another woman.

I went to visit him in the hospital and overheard the whole thing as he was talking to her. Apron, she was a prostitute. I knew money had been disappearing, but I never imagined anything like this.

Should I go on pretending to my adult children, or tell them the truth? They thought he was the best father in the whole world. Even though this happened more than five years ago, I continue to have nightmares over it. -- STILL HURTING IN BOSTON


"Even thought this happened more than five years ago, I continue to have nightmares over it."

Now, about these "nightmares," involving your husband and this prostitute... do you think, maybe, you could, I don't know... email me privately and, like, I don't know... describe them a little bit? I mean, I don't really see what the problem is. When I have nightmares about having sex prostitutes, my covers are all twisted and my hair is fucked up and I wake up feeling like I've just fallen into Lake George.

If I were you, I would definitely tell your children about your dead husband's indescretions. Because that makes sense. Encumbering your children with pointless rage, hostility, and disappointment is never a bad idea. Plus, it will take their mind off of how much they hate and are disappointed in you. Let them hate your husband. He won't mind-- he's dead, and he's probably still got that hooker's saliva on his corpse-cock. I mean, who knows what the two of them were doing in that hospice room before you walked in and overheard them talking? Believe me, he died happy, man.


The company where I work posted an ad online and at our state unemployment job board for a position that needed to be filled. The ad detailed simple but specific instructions that included asking applicants to write a cover letter to address certain questions. It also said -- in large letters: "YOU MUST FOLLOW THESE DIRECTIONS OR YOU WILL NOT BE CONSIDERED FOR EMPLOYMENT."

Of the 133 resumes we received, 76 did not contain the information that was requested. These applications were moved to an "Incomplete" file and not considered for hire. What's sad is that judging by their resumes alone, several of these applicants had the qualifications we were looking for.

With unemployment being what it is, I was surprised that the majority of the applicants did not comply with the simple instructions. Please advise your unemployed readers that a job is out there for them, but they must follow instructions. -- TRYING TO BE HELPFUL, TUMWATER, WASH.


Listen up, you fucking dummies-- NO FOLLOW DIRECTIONS, NO GET JOBBIE IN TUMWATER, WASHINGTON! Do you hear that, you cud-chewing motherfucksticks?

I mean, Mr. Trying to Be Helpful is only trying to be helpful here. He's tired of sifting through endless piles of job applications with answers written in blue crayon, and, for Christ's sake: it's LAST NAME FIRST, you cabbage-dicks! WHAT is so hard to understand about that?


JeSUS, you're killin' me here.


I'm the supervisor of a small office. One of my biggest challenges is scheduling time off for the female employees. In my day, you didn't take a day off unless you were very sick or your child was sick. Now they seem to want time off for everything from school events, sporting events, getting their nails done, their faces waxed or tanning appointments. I am amazed at the decline in work ethic.

As I read about the unemployment in our country, I would think people would be grateful to have a well-paying job with benefits -- but the recession hasn't slowed any of our female employees down one bit. What has happened to the old-fashioned work ethic that founded this country? (Maybe it went south along with the jobs?) And by the way, Apron, I am a female. -- TAKES MY JOB SERIOUSLY


"In my day," huh? So, I'm going to go out on a limb here that you're approaching eighty years old. If you're not, you have no business using the phrase "In my day." If you are, then I completely understand your animosity towards young, attractive, professional women who have Blackberries and nice tits and a sense of entitlement. Becauase you slaved away for thirty-five years as a switchboard operator for Ma Bell and wore your hair in a bun for the first half-century of your life and wore those ridiculous glasses in an unironic way that now only look cool on tight hipster-chicks from the Lower East Side.

Your jealousy is well-warranted, sweet-pea. I mean, just look at them-- with their lattes and their cherry-red nails and their Bluetooth headsets that you think are robot devices and their iPhones and their Skypey conference calls. Of course you're jealous. While you may be their supervisor, they have power, sex appeal, talent, ambition, drive, and the balls to ask for time off to go to the tanning salon. And you give it to them, because you're a goddamn switchboard operator who wears burlap bloomers.


Oh, and by the way, I don't believe that you're female.


  1. I'd like to see my boss say to a day off for bikini waxing. It's an all-day event, people!

  2. "But on the day he died, I found out he had been having sex with another woman.
    I went to visit him in the hospital and overheard the whole thing as he was talking to her."

    Well now, something in the water ain't clean. This is like fucking CLUEDO. I mean, Hubbie was well enough to be chatting to his hooker about sex, but on this same day he upped and DIED? Was this a happy coincidence?

    This bitch had motive. And she was in a hospital, so she probably had means. I'm going to go with... STILL HURTING in the hospital ward with the syringe.

  3. I'm pretty sure I used to work for that bitch who wrote the third letter.


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