Well, Barney My Fife and Inscribe Me in That Book o' Life, It's.... DEAR APRON!

Oh, I KNOW!

You thought he'd fallen into some obese woman's vag-sack and would never be seen nor heard from ever again, didn't you? Well, don't be such a rape-joy! He's back, he's bad, and he's slightly short-of-breath-- he's your mama's worst nightmare and he's your daddy's half-brother from another marriage-- he's your lover, your mother, your hooker and your Presbyterian viscountess-- (hang on, motherfuckers, I'm getting there)-- 'cause he's locked, loaded, Abe Vigoda'd, and virtually imploded. At six foot tall, he's nothin' short of.....

DEAR APRON:

I have been married to "Emile" for eight years. We have been together for the last fifteen. Emile has always been demeaning and sarcastic to me. When he gets upset about something he blames me.

This has been going on for so long I don't know what to do anymore. I am so depressed and hurt that all I can think of is "going away" permanently. I don't think I'd ever harm myself, but I feel more desperate and hopeless every day. I'm down so low I don't know how to come back up. Please advise. -- NO TEARS LEFT IN LAS VEGAS

DEAR NO TEARS:

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens when manic-depressive women in Las Vegas marry Frenchmen. It is a known, scientifically-proven fact that French men become the devil incarnate when paired in a binding, secular or religious compact with women residing in Las Vegas who have psychosocial issues.

And, balding men in your thirties living in Boise who play piano at a ninth-grade level-- watch out for slightly underweight Indian chicks with webbed nailbeds. You will get whooping cough. You have been warned.

Oh, and No Tears-- I don't know where you're going on this nebulously referred to permanent vacay of yours, but remember: sunscreen, sunscreen, sunscreen. Melanoma's no joke, okay, sista?

DEAR APRON:

I live in a suburban neighborhood where the homes are very close together. My back yard is too small to have a clothesline. Because I love the smell of my bed sheets after they have dried outside, I hang them out to dry by pinning them to the chain link fence that surrounds the perimeter of my back yard.

My girlfriends say they would be offended if they were my neighbors. I say it's environmentally friendly, and because I'm hanging out only linens and not underwear, nobody should be offended. Who is correct? -- IN THE BREEZE IN OTTAWA, ONTARIO, CANADA

DEAR IN THE BREEZE:

I think it's funny when women refer to their female friends as their "girlfriends." Let me ask you something about these "girlfriends" of yours: do they shower together and intrude their various cavities with protrusional vegetables? No? Then don't call them "girlfriends," okay? It's making me horny, and it's Yom Kippur. Jesus.

Oh, and I'm offended by your fucking bedsheets. What you people do in Ontario affects me, too, and don't think that it doesn't.

DEAR APRON:

A few months ago, we got a new neighbor. When I was out walking my dog one day, my neighbor was doing the same. At first I thought this person was female, but as we got to talking I began to doubt myself.

First off, my neighbor is petite, has a boyish haircut, no breasts, dresses like a guy and speaks in a voice that could be male or female. I stood there and decided I'd ask for a name, thinking it would solve my problem. Wrong! The person's name is "Chris."

Apron, I don't know what to do. I feel bad for not knowing this person's gender. Is there any way I can find an answer without Chris knowing? I don't want to refer to this person as a "he" if she's a "she," and vice versa. -- GIRL NEXT DOOR, MISSOULA, MONT.

DEAR GIRL NEXT DOOR:

Instead of obsessing about whether Chris is male or not, try to preoccupy yourself with a more pertinent obsession, like whether Chris is a target-masturbator and/or a serial-rapist. Watch "America's Most Wanted" every Saturday night at 9pm EST and constantly search for his/her picture. Leaf through Chris's mail when s/he is not around. Invest in high-quality, Israeli-made night-vision binoculaurs and set up a perimeter around the neighborhood in case Chris is on the terrorist watch-list or engages in plural marriage with voles.

Keep me posted on this creepy-ass motherfucker, okay?

DEAR APRON:

I am being married soon and my father will be providing the alcohol for our reception. We plan to serve beer, wine and champagne for the toast. Because I will be wearing an ivory gown, I am opting to drink only champagne. I have a favorite brand, but because of our modest budget, Dad cannot provide it for everyone to drink.

I was going to buy a couple of bottles to have at our table for my wedding party, but Dad feels it would be in poor taste and thinks our guests may feel slighted in some way. My feeling is that it's our special day and people will understand. Am I wrong for wanting a nicer champagne than we can provide for our guests? -- BUBBLY BRIDE IN PISMO BEACH, CALIF.

DEAR BUBBLY BRIDE:

You are a fucking alcoholic. It is plainly obvious to anybody who reads this letter that your singular preoccupation surrounding this wedding is alcohol, you boozey hussy. You didn't mention the groom even once-- not ONCE. Have fun stumbling down the aisle while your husband-to-won't is on the phone with the "Intervention" producers. Christall hell-- why don't you just marry a fucking bottle of Chateau de Boursault and be done with it?