An Award-Winning Disclaimer

A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"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."

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Well, Pull Out the Couch and Let Me Grouch; It's... DEAR APRON!

To be honest with you, I'm really not in the mood to write a Dear Apron column today. It's rainy out-- I'm in a dark, brooding, pensive mood, and I was just informed that the repairs to my smashed-into car are going to cost $1,782.90, and I have a $1,000 deductible. I'd much rather sit here and write a venting, smokestack of a post where I pop my top and then descend into some self-indulgent mastur-piece where I lick my own wounds and you playing the part of the befuddled disaffected voyeur.

But, since my therapist helped me realize this morning that I don't blog for my own pleasure anyway, I thought-- well, fuck, why not just keep 'em smiling with another titty-twisting edition of...


My elderly father has been a widower for many years. His neighbor, also his age, recently lost her husband, and they have been spending a lot of time together. He takes her shopping, she cooks for him, etc. My concern is twofold: One, this woman is not in good health, and I can't bear to see Dad heartbroken again when she dies. My second concern is the woman and her husband never even invited Dad over for a cup of coffee after Mom died, but now that she's a widow, she all of a sudden wants to be "neighborly." I'd like to ask her why. Would I be out of line? -- LOOKING OUT FOR MY DAD


No, you're not out-of-line. Dredging up old pain and hurt for no reason other than to stick an intrusive finger inside a rotten, stinking, putrid wound that has just begun to heal is, and always has been, the cornerstone of appropriate, adult behavior.

I find it humorous that you automatically assume that this crinkly old biddie is going to die before your father is. "I can't bear to see Dad heartbroken again when she dies."

When? What have you got up your sleeve there, Nurse Ratched? A nice, tidy, chemically-undetectable present for your leathery little Oedipal challenger? A little potassium chloride mayhaps?


Fess up: you're totally going to ice this moth-ball bitch, aren't you? You're a terrible person-- though I would have had appreciably more respect for you had you just admitted it in your letter, rather than have me exhaust my energy exposing you as the thoroughly jealous and twisted psychotic that you clearly are.

Let that be a lesson to the rest of you fuckers: out with it. I only have very limited emotional resources for dealing with you Tootsie Rolls.


A member of my gym brings her newborn in with her every morning. She sets the carrier down next to her treadmill, puts in her earplugs and runs. The baby usually cries on and off, but today he cried nonstop during my entire 20-minute workout. It drove me crazy.

I'm a mom, too. A crying baby, especially a newborn, is heartbreaking. This woman never stops to see why her little one is crying or to console him. This situation doesn't seem to bother the other gym members. Should I talk to her and risk a hostile response, or speak to the gym manager? -- HEAVY-HEARTED GYM BUNNY IN RIVERVIEW, FLA.


I'm sorry-- what the fuck is a "gym bunny"?

I've heard of a "gym buddy" (i.e., someone with whom you go to the gym with frequently, and sporadically have sex with in the bathroom afterwards) but I have yet to hear of a "gym bunny."

Allow me, please, a moment to consult the Googs.

Hmm. Interesting. Thank you, Urban Dictionary.


1.) A gay man who spends an obsessive amount of time in the gym working on sculpting his body -- not for health reasons -- only to show it off in a club or on the beach.

Now, you say that you're "a mom, too" so that one probably doesn't apply to you. Let's see... how about this one:

2.) A female with more tits than knowledge about exercise, who wears the most expensive gear out there, and only goes to the gym to "do abs" and cardio.

Is that you, G.B.? Do you have "more tits than knowledge about exercise"? If so, then what's your problem? You're only at the gym to show off your $48.00 "I LOVE PINK" ass-pants anyway. If the goddamn noise of some other teat-suckler crying bothers you so much, tell your cheating husband to buy you a goddamn treadmill and stay the hell home with your own whiny baby.


My husband and I were taught differently regarding how to serve ourselves a meal. Typically, we each "plate up" a desired amount of food in the kitchen, where it is prepared, rather than bring serving dishes to the table. Then we carry our plates to the table to eat.

Should my husband serve himself first (as I was taught the cook/hostess is served last), or should I go first (as he was taught women precede men)? -- DINERS' DILEMMA


Frankly, I'm thinking murder-suicide here. But who will shoot whom first? Maybe you should let him kill you, as your husband was taught that women precede men.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Got something to say? Rock on with your badass apron!