Well, Grab That Step-Ladder and Mistle My Toe, It's... DEAR APRON!

It's that time of year again, children. When a black child can sit on a fat white man's lap and not start a riot, or at the very least a restraining order and a darn good TASERing. It's that time of year when even rational people expect miracles. Now is the winter of our discontent. And nothing says discontent like getting fruitcake-fucked by your chestnut-roasting, huckleberry friend...

DEAR APRON:

I'm pretty sure my husband is addicted to adult porn movies. We have several pornographic DVDs in the house and I can tell when they have been moved. He denies he's watching them, so confronting him again will only make him more angry and possibly push him "underground."

Our sex life, which used to be grand, has become almost non-existent. Do you have any suggestions? -- SUSPICIOUS IN FLORIDA

DEAR SUSPICIOUS:

This letter really confused the fuck out of me, I've got to tell you. I mean, how old are you and your husband? You say that your sex life used to be, excuse me, "grand", which leads me to believe that you and your husband must be approximately one hundred and sixty-eight years old. If this is the case, then one might expect that your sex life, and anybody else's who has attained your age, might be something less than "grand."

Personally, I don't think that your husband is watching those so-called "pornographic DVDs". I think he's just moving them to fuck with your head. Let's face it-- nobody watches pornographic DVDs anymore. Haven't you heard that the brick-and-mortar XXX video stores are just as pase as Oldsmobile, the rotary phone, and the word "grand"? If your husband's got half a brain in his head, he's watching free, streaming porn online and, like I said, he's moving the DVDs to upset you. Which, let's face it, is pretty funny.

As far as him going "underground," really: this might be the best possible alternative for everybody in this situation, including me. If your husband were to construct for himself some sort of bomb-proof, man-cave, mastur-dorm, let's say three-hundred feet underneath the surface of your backyard, where he could beat off in total isolation, where you'd never have to hear the screams of constantly-penetrated Asian waifs through specially-wired computer speakers, well, it might just be a Merry Christmas in your neck of the woods after all.

DEAR APRON:

I am a woman who is wondering what to say when someone calls me "sir" on the phone. I have heard my voice recorded, and I don't think I sound like a man. Still, it happens. It makes me feel angry and mortified. What do I say? -- "MA'AM" IN CINNAMINSON, N.J.

DEAR SIR:

Next time, before answering the phone, turn your head and cough. That should clear it up.

DEAR APRON:

I have two small grandsons. They asked me why Santa Claus begs for money in front of the shopping mall. I was shocked by the question and didn't know what to tell them. So I said it was to get toys for all the other boys and girls.

My grandsons also asked me if Santa goes to bingo. I gave them the same answer. My daughter (their mom) was also surprised by their questions. I'm a bingo enthusiast, so I guess that's why they asked. Did I answer properly? what would you have said?
-- GRANDMA GLORIA IN OHIO

DEAR GRANDMA:

No.

You did not answer properly. If you had, you would not have written to me asking if you had or not. That lingering doubt that gnaws at the base of your spine, like a virus-ridden rodent, that accursed, venomous fiend called instinct is your friend. Heed it. Stroke it. Allow it to expel its truth inside of you. It will be, in a word: grand.

What you should have told your grandsons is that Santa begs for money in front of the shopping malls for the same reason emaciated sluts with sunken eyes and bulging veins do it: he's a goddamned heroin addict.

And of course Santa plays BINGO. Doesn't every hairy, old, fat fucker?

Merry Christmas, Bitches.