Well, Whitewash My Fence and Call It the Superbowl: It's.... DEAR APRON!

Sometimes… there’s just so much idiocy in the world… I feel like I can’t take it… like my heart’s going to cave in.

So let’s cover our mouths and noses with a plastic fucking bag and enjoy another rollicking edition of…

DEAR APRON:

Recently I was at a club with friends and ran into a co-worker. He was dressed in drag and introduced himself as "Glenda." At work, he dresses like a male and goes by "Glen."

Since that night he has been avoiding me and cutting conversations short, if not ignoring me altogether. Should I let him know I'm OK with his alternate persona, or let it be? I don't want to risk awkward situations. -- SYMPATHETIC IN NORTHERN VIRGINIA

DEAR SYMPATHETIC:

Dude! This is just like that episode of “30 Rock” where Lemon and Pete go to the bar to follow Jenna’s new boyfriend and it turns out that he’s a Jenna impersonator! God, I love it when life imitates art. And vice-versa is okay, too.

My question is: were you dressed like a dude? If so, “Glen(da)” probably can reasonably presume that you’re “OK with his alternate persona.” I’ll bet you looked nasty, though.

P.S. I didn’t know they had tranny bars in Northern Virginia. Now that's progress. Thank you, First Black President!

DEAR APRON:

My sister, "Gina," recently became engaged to her longtime boyfriend. A few days after hearing about the engagement, I sent her an e-mail telling her my husband and I were free every weekend except Oct. 8, 9 and 10 because a dear friend had asked me months ago to be a bridesmaid in her wedding that weekend. I have already bought the dress and had it altered. I called Gina to explain the situation after sending the e-mail.

Yesterday, I spoke with my father and found out that Gina has chosen Oct. 9 for her wedding day, even though I told her I couldn't make it then. Gina wants me to be her matron of honor because she was my maid of honor.

Clearly, I cannot participate in two weddings on the same day at the same time in different locations. Who do I say no to? -- DREADING WEDDINGS IN WASHINGTON, D.C.

DEAR DREADING:

Dude! This is just like that episode of “30 Rock” where Lemon gets invited to three weddings (Saree, Floyd and Dot Com’s) on the same day! And she ends up finding sexually inappropriate things to read from Corinthians and plays the guitar while Jack and Nancy Donovan--

Wait a minute—what the fuck is going on here? Is this some kind of “30 Rock” tribute thing going on here? Well, if it is—I like it, but I’d at least like to be told, for Christ’s sake. This is MY blog after all, and if there’s going to be any shameless cross-promotion going on here, I’d at least like to be in on it/receiving checks from NBC/Universal.

Now, about this stupid letter, you say that “Gina wants me to be her matron of honor.” Well, since you already told her that you won’t be available on the day of her wedding, it’s pretty obvious to me that she doesn’t really want you to be anything. She doesn’t want you there—do you understand? She hates you. Do you remember when you decapitated her favorite Care Bear—the one with the shamrock Tummy-Symbol, poured ketchup all over it and left that Arabic note written in crayon by the corpse? Yeah, payback’s a bitch, honey.

DEAR APRON:

I work in a small office, and every day a co-worker's adult child who works nearby comes here to have lunch with her mother. She knows everyone's business as if she worked here, and we're forced to order her something when we get takeout. Frankly, we're tired of it. How can we put a stop to this without hurting anyone's feelings?
-- ONE MORE FOR LUNCH

DEAR ONE MORE:

Finally—a letter that doesn’t have anything to do with “30 Rock.” I mean, enough already—you know?

So, here’s what I think about this: I think you’re a petty, jealous, overweight cow who is jealous of your co-worker’s hot daughter. The very presence at your lunch table of some flaxen-haired, freckle-shouldered beauty with sensitive eyes, chestnut-eyelashes and breasts that resemble two slightly engorged soft-balls just kills you, doesn’t it, you sallow-skinned Hagitha? Sweets, it’s okay to be jealous. But do you have to be so, I don’t know, petty about it?

And, don’t worry—ordering that hot piece of ass a meal just means that yours is safe.

DEAR APRON:

When I married the first time, I wore my mother's wedding gown. She and Dad had a happy marriage. They were married 47 years when Dad died.

My first husband and I divorced. We had two boys. I don't think either of my children would want the dress. In fact, I don't think ANYone would want it because the last time it was worn led to divorce.

What should I do with the dress? I only have two nephews and a step-granddaughter who is 5. I could save it for future grandchildren, but I think the divorce issue is a spoiler. -- JINXED IN KENTUCKY

DEAR JINXED:

Well, as you well know from the signature of your letter, that dress is jinxed. Not only jinxed, but poisoned and potentially lethal. It is about as hazardous to you and those around you as an electric cattle-prod or a non-registered sex-offender, or a 1957 Plymouth Fury named “Christine.” This dress must be dealt with, swiftly, surely, and with crushing severity.

Here’s what you do:

You’re going to need lots, and lots, and lots of battery acid.

I suggest visiting one of your junkie nephews who lives underneath a rusted-out Winnebago 20 miles west of Paducah—he’ll have what you’re looking for. Now, pour the battery acid all over your face. This will burn both your eyes out—Slumdog Mill style—but that’s intentional. Believe me, you won’t want to see what we’re going to do to this dress.

Take the dress to the local petting zoo and dress one of the donkeys in it. Then, have someone escort you to Taco Bell. Order seventeen of everything. Go back to the petting zoo and feed everything to the donkey, except for one Chimmichanga—you can rub that all over the acid burns on your face, preferably whilst yelling “CHIMMICHANGA!” over and over again, because that’s funny.

With any luck, approximately fifteen minutes later, the donkey will have released a monstrously foul excretory shitgasm all over your dress. Now, kill the donkey with your bare hands. This will be an awesome spectacle that all native Kentuckians will want to witness—so advertise early. The sight of a blind, crazed divorcee doing Dodge City with a feces-covered donkey in a wedding dress is something that would definitely run in the local papers, if people in Kentucky could read.

After you have split the donkey’s head open, be sure to rub his brain and viscera matter all over the dress—be sure it’s well mixed in with the shit. Then, pull out the donkey’s eyeballs and shove them inside your recently-bereft eye-sockets.

You will look FUCKING MONEY.

Now, get behind the wheel of a pick-up truck. Have a friend strap the dress to the truck’s grill. Floor it. You will go out in a blaze of glory (especially if the truck is a Ford) but, trust me: no more jinx.