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Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Me Chinee, Me Make Joke, Me Make Pee-Pee on... DEAR APRON!

You remember that scene in "Glenngary Glen Ross" where Jonathan Pryce and Al Pacino are sitting around philosophizing, and Pacino says to Pryce, "All train compartments smell vaguely of shit. It gets so you don't mind it."

Yeah... that's kind of how I feel about the people featured in...


My husband, "Vinny," and I were growing apart after 10 years of marriage. It was both our faults. Vinny reconnected with a woman at his class reunion and started an inappropriate, secret relationship with her.

I discovered some of their emails and saw they had been texting numerous times a day. When I "busted" Vinny, he denied everything until I showed him the proof of what I knew. We have had issues in the past with him not being honest, but this was the straw that broke the camel's back.

We have told our children that we have decided to divorce. It was the most difficult decision I have ever made. We are still living in the same house and haven't told many people what happened.

I don't want anyone thinking I strayed or that I was responsible for this. Would it be inappropriate for me to say why I'm divorcing him? I don't want to take his feelings into consideration after what he did. My neighbors are gossipy -- it's like ... WISTERIA LANE


You have me really cheesed, woman. It isn't often that someone makes a reference that forces my hand to Google. The street where the characters on "Desperate Housewives" live.


Hon-bun, I've never seen that show, but I'm willing to bet that you wish your meaningless cow-flop of a life was anything like the lives of those STD-ridden soccer moms who "live" on "Wisteria Lane". Now don't ever write to me making reference to something I don't know about because I eschew pop culture, or I'll gut you like a motherfucking halibut.

Oh, and if you're looking for a way to let everyone else on "Wisteria Lane" know that you're perfect and that your soon-to-be-ex husband isn't, sew a goddamned red "A" onto all of his shirts and leave me the fuck alone.


My husband and I have dinner with friends a couple of times a month. The wife likes to kiss and hug me. She even patted me on the behind once. This makes me very uncomfortable.

I enjoy being affectionate with my children, grandchildren and my husband, but I do not like being touched by women. What should I do about this? -- HANDS OFF IN HOLLISTER, CALIF.


New experiences can often be uncomfortable and intimidating at first. Many hardcore lovers of the fish taco have said that, the first few times they attempted intimate contact with other women that the situation was awkward and fraught with anxiety and uncertainty.

You say that you and your husband dine with this swingin' pair "a couple of times a month". Obviously, if you're still "very uncomfortable" with the intimate contact with the female in this quartet, you need to start going out more frequently. The more you are exposed to her sexual advances on you, the less uncomfortable you will be with the inevitably escalating contact between you and this woman. Also, I would not limit your engagements to double dates at restaurants. You might want to try going on roller coasters, strolling down open air Italian markets, purchasing Peking duck, and hanging upside-down on ceiling-mounted meat hooks with this woman as well. Trust me, you may be a frigid, antiseptic, thin-lipped prude right now but, if you give it a chance, you'll be happily gumming away on each other's lumpy walrus nipples in no time.


I have found my soul mate. We have a newborn son and are very happy. We plan to be married next year, after we have saved enough for the wedding.

I have been hiding a secret from him. I have had bulimia for 20 years. Should I tell him before we marry? I am terrified it will harm our relationship. How can I tell him without hurting him? I'm afraid he won't understand what it will take for me to heal myself. He will be worried about my health. Please advise, Apron. -- KEEPING IT TO MYSELF


This letter was, regrettably, written in code. Allow me to decipher the letter for you, using my Enigma decoder machine. The translation will be in italics:



I have found my soul mate.

"I have found someone who is oblivious, emotionally fragile, and is the perfect enabler."

We have a newborn son and are very happy.

"I told him I was on the pill so he would unwittingly impregnate me. We have a newborn son and I am very happy."

We plan to be married next year, after we have saved enough for the wedding.

"If I threaten to kill myself every time he decides he wants to leave me, I will eventually be able to trap him into marrying me, assuring him a life of misery, frustration and closeted despair."

I have been hiding a secret from him.

"Everybody knows I'm as bulimic as a member of the Roman senate."

I have had bulimia for 20 years.

"I have had bulimia for 37 years."

Should I tell him before we marry?

"I have a fetish-fueled desire to involve him in my bulimia, and have fantasies about sneaking off to his closet and vomiting into the breast pocket of every one of his shirts."

I am terrified it will harm our relationship.

"I am terrified that he will involuntarily commit me to an eating disorder treatment facility, which I don't want, because I love being bulimic."

How can I tell him without hurting him?

"If he interferes with my bi-hourly vom-party, I will stab him in the back of his neck repeatedly with a pair of scissors."

I'm afraid he won't understand what it will take for me to heal myself.

"If I really wanted to stop, I probably would have done something about this somewhere within those thirty-seven years."

He will be worried about my health.

"He will leave me for someone less fucked up, forcing me to get those scissors."

Please advise, Apron.

"Excuse me, but I have to go eat a half-ton-weight of lasagna, four cartons of Breyer's chocolate ice cream, seven dozen packages of microwavable bacon, fourteen boxes of orange Peeps, a bottle of Maraschino cherries and re-enact the Mr. Creosote scene from "The Meaning of Life".

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