Well, Grip my Dick and Make it Thick; It's... DEAR APRON!

My eldest sister pronounces "espresso" "ex-presso," and, while I try not to let things like that bother me too much, I'll admit that it makes me sad. But not half as sad as the sad-sack, pony-asses whose lives are far too meandering and complex to navigate without the sticky, prickly, pot-bellied, obtusely-angled, Jew-infused advice of a hard-lucka mothafucka we've all come to accept and tolerate known as...

DEAR APRON:

My wealthy brother-in-law and his entire family didn't give my daughter a graduation gift. And even though they attended my son's wedding, none of them gave him a wedding gift, either.

We have attended the graduations and weddings of all their children and have been generous. We know the right thing is to say nothing, but it's hard to understand and remain quiet. What do you think? -- GIFTLESS FAMILY IN GRAND RAPIDS

DEAR GIFTLESS FAMILY:

One thing is for certain-- you are absolutely, unquestionably correct that "the right thing is to say nothing." I don't know where you picked up that particular nugget of etiquette, but this prescribed silence will serve you exquisitely well when you mete out your revenge.

Do you lift your eyebrows in surprise? Oh, come now-- don't be coy. We all know that silence is the perfect decoy-- without it, with an audible, vocal complaint or gripe, your smoking jacket-wearing brother-in-law will undoubtedly suspect that something's up and he will be awaiting your counterstrike. But, if you play it cool and just keep on keepin' on, being careful to make no waves, air no grievance, when the time is ripe for your tactical maneuver, he will have no idea what hit him. It is absolutely critical that you remain mum about these continued slights and nurse your wounds quietly, and in the height of privacy.

The poisoning of his terriers (strychnine secreted in their water bowls is one way to go) and the eventual firebombing of his McMansion will never be able to be traced back to you, because you will have left no paper-trail, no complaining voicemail messages, no passive-aggressive Post-It notes complaining about gifts unreceived and financial inequities or petty jealousies inherent in your relationship. The police will suspect some crazy ex-lover of his, or a random act of sociopathic violence.

And that's good. Oh.... it's so good....

So, shhhhh.... Shhh..... There's a good boy. Shh... Stay very... very..... quiet.

DEAR APRON:

My 17-year-old daughter, "Kelly," tried to commit suicide. She was admitted to a hospital and started on an antidepressant. Last night, when I was walking across the parking lot to the ward, I met her psychiatrist. When I asked how Kelly was doing, he said she's agitated, not sleeping and he was starting her on medication that night.

When he mentioned the dose, I told him my daughter had been given half that amount previously and didn't wake up for 24 hours. I said I thought he should give her less or change the medication. He said he'd change it, went back inside and I followed.

I'm glad I ran into him, but now I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't. What are the rules about medication being given to adolescents? Aren't the parents supposed to give consent? What can I do to prevent this from happening again? -- VIGILANT MOM IN COLORADO

DEAR MEDDLESOME MOM:

How dare you?

How DARE you?!

Do you not understand what you have done? You have crossed a medical professional-- someone who has been granted the privilege of walking around wearing a white lab coat. Someone with M.D. after his fucking name. I just... I can't believe you. You have the unmitigated temerity, the gall, really, to tell a doctor what he should be doing with your own daughter?

I. am. outraged.

I'm just out of rage. Actually, not quite. There's still some rage left in there. And I'm glad, because you're going to get the remainder, sista.

Clearly, you were not raised in a Jewish home because, if you were, you would have been taught from a very early, pre-literate age that doctors are essentially the Messiah and are to be treated with respect. They are the supreme authority figure on this earth, and if you're saying to yourself, "Well, wait, what about rabbis?" I'm going to tell you that, compared to doctors, rabbis ain't shit. Okay? Nothing. Oh, look, they can open and close the ark and take the torah out.

Big fucking deal, man. Big fucking deal. A doctor can cut your goddamned head open, dig around in there, and then close it up AND he can open the ark and take the fucking torah out as long as he's had his fucking bar mitzvah.

And here you are, some mom jeans-wearing peroxide case just strolling up to a doctor in a parking lot (where his Mercedes is resting, protected in an invincibility shield manufactured by God himself) and you start mouthing off like you're Andrew Dice Clay?

No wonder your daughter hates her life.

DEAR APRON:

My mother-in-law, "Kay" -- who is in her 50s -- dresses like she's in her teens or 20s. Don't get me wrong, she looks great. She exercises several hours a day to keep in shape and follows a strict diet.

Kay wears spaghetti-strap shirts and short skirts in the summer, and bikinis to sunbathe. I understand that she wants to show off her body, but is there a way to direct her to more age-appropriate clothing? Or am I in the wrong here? -- PRIM AND PROPER IN OKLAHOMA

DEAR PRIM AND PROPER:

First of all-- is Kay a doctor? Because, if she is, she can dress however the fuck she wants, and you'd better not say anything to her about it, especially in a parking lot.

In the case that Kay isn't a doctor, the next time she shows up for an outing with you wearing a tank top and short shorts, just throw up on her dimpled, leathery-assed tits. That should get the message across.

DEAR APRON:

I have several old Bibles that are literally falling apart. What's the proper way of disposing of Bibles? It seems wrong to just throw them in the trash or burn them. -- ROBERT IN COLUMBUS, OHIO

DEAR ROBERT:

Robert, Robert, Robert. Are you new to the game, man? Are you some kind of rookie, is that it? You're supposed to come up with a clever pseudonym when writing lame-ass advice letters-- it's one of the few things most of these readers have to look forward to in their dusty, meaningless lives. Something like "Bible Bound in Columbus, Ohio" or "Good Book Gone in Columbus, Ohio" or something gay like that. But you didn't put any effort into your pen name, or your letter for that matter, at all, did you?

Did you?

Anyway, Robert, I'm sorry to have to inform you that the proper way to respectfully dispose of several old bibles is to eat them. Then, after digestion, which may take a while, you are to excrete the biblical leavings into as many glass bottles as it takes, toss them in the Atlantic Ocean and hope they make it to some far-flung African nation where the religious fecal matter will be examined by Christian missionaries and spread on the faces of sleeping African children while they sleep so that they may be converted more efficiently.

I hope you're glad you asked. I certainly am.