After Church, Why Not Get Your DEAR APRON Dirty?

I wasn't going to do another Dear Apron column so soon after the last one... you know, I don't want you guys getting burned out on this shit, but today's was just too good to pass up. Apparently, on Dear Abby, today was Husband Bashing Day-- and how can I, as a husband, let this event go unanswered?

Got a question that can only be answered by me? Write it down on

my masonic apron

and eagerly await a reply!

DEAR APRON: "Ralph" and I have been married a little over a year. It's the second marriage for both of us. We were both single for six years after our divorces, so we had time to become independent.

Ralph still spends his evenings and weekends the way he did when he was a bachelor. He stays in the garage and watches TV alone. We have talked about it, set up family time, and even bought the large-screen TV he wanted for the living room, but still he hides out in the garage. He comes in only to eat and use the bathroom.

I know Ralph loves me and our new family, but this is causing strain. I have two children from my last marriage, and the younger one feels deeply hurt because my husband spends no time with him. What can I do? I feel alone in this marriage.

ALONE AND LONELY IN INDIANA

DEAR GARAGE WIDOW:

Here's a thought: instead of writing whining, pathetic letters about your husband's tendency to conceal himself from you and your family in the garage (which I hope is at least partially finished), maybe you should take a good, hard look at yourself. Ask yourself: what is it about me that makes my husband run and hide from me? Do I bathe enough and, when I do, do I scrub vigorously? Is there a yellowy film beneath my breasts? Do I have a visible mustache? Are my teeth crooked? Is my breath bangin'? My ass pimply?

See? There's a myriad of reasons your husband would choose TV in the garage over you, and I haven't even gotten to your attitude or your personality yet.

Seriously, though, Ethel-- I doubt your husband is "watching TV" in the garage. Does he have a computer with DSL or Fios in there? If so, he's definitely chokin' some serious chicken in there. He may have "Hill Street Blues" on the tube to conceal the sounds of underage Korean girls squealing in agony, but that's what he's really doing in there.

Or he's drinking. Have you ever gone in there while he's at work? (This is assuming, of course, that he works.) If he works, go in there and take a look under the couch or something. Chances are you'll find a couple bottles of Captain Morgan or Jack Daniels. Maybe you'll even stumble upon a small mirror with a powdery residue.

Uh-oh! Ralph's a cokehead!

You say you know Ralph loves you, but, really, he doesn't. Ralph loves coke, porn, and alcohol, in that order. You come in maybe 8th or 9th, somewhere in between navel-exploration and defecation.

Speaking of which, you may think you've got it rough, but at least be thankful that Ralph emerges from the garage to go to the bathroom. I'm glad you mentioned that, by the way. Otherwise, I'd really be worried.

DEAR APRON:

I have an issue with my husband and can't seem to get my point across. He refuses to wear a seat belt. He says it's uncomfortable, and he hates when he pulls it too quickly and it gets caught. I have asked him repeatedly to wear it, not only because he could get a ticket, but also for his own safety.

My car has an alarm on it, so if you don't buckle up, it beeps. He goes as far as buckling the belt behind him so it will stop. I have tried everything from explaining the safety hazards to telling him he can no longer drive my car if he can't drive safely. What can I do to make him buckle up?

-- FRUSTRATED IN ALABAMA

DEAR FUTURE WIDOW:

Your husband is an asshole and deserves to die of massive head trauma. I suggest that you take him on the ride of his life. Out on one of the neighborhood roads. Do any of your kids live nearby? If so, drive to one of their houses, preferably the daughter that he loves better than all the rest of your kids.

About 500 feet before arriving at her house, stomp on the accelerator. Hopefully you have at least a 6 cylinder car-- get that bitch up to speed. Then, slam into your daughter's house, right at the stone underneath the living room picture window, so your husband crashes through the car's windshield, through the window of his daughter's house and so that his corpse lands in her fucking living room. His daughter, her husband, and little kids will then be standing around his dead body, and will have to forever endure the memory of seeing dear ol' Dad, his head now resembling a ketchup-covered, partially-deflated volley-ball.

Sure, you might die in the collision, too, but it'll be worth it to teach this particular lesson.

Nobody said marriage was easy.

DEAR APRON:

My fiance insists upon asking our server's name if it is not offered when she approaches our table. I am insulted that he even cares. Personally, I do not want him asking for another woman's name in my presence. I find it rude.

He, on the other hand, thinks it's rude if the server does not introduce herself. Who is right?

-- NAMELESS IN GRAND PRAIRIE, TEXAS

DEAR NAMELESS:

"Who is right?" I love these questions. What you're really asking is, "I'm right, right?" Well, biatch: neither of you is "right." You're both assholes and idiots: him for flirting with whorey waitresses with you at the table, you for writing to me about it.

I'm curious about something. I've never been to Grand Prairie, Texas, and I hope to never be, so I'll have to just ask you: are there any male waiters in Grand Prairie, Texas? Because, from your letter, it seems like only women fill that particular position. Do you ever get waited on by a man and, if you do, does your husband ask for the feller's name? If he does, then it's just a personality quirk that you can just get over and be thankful that your fiance doesn't do coke and jerk off to underage porn in the garage with his thumb up his ass. If he only asks for waitresses names then, yeah, he's a d-bag and he's hitting on them in front of your dumpass.

Which is sad and all but, what can you do? I can't imagine that any waitress in Grand Prairie, Texas is hot enough to hit on, but what do I know? When I picture a waitress in Grand Prairie, Texas, I picture a droopy-assed, saggy-faced grammaw with purple hair, plastic pineapple earrings and lipstick on her teeth. If I was this guy's fiance and realized that he wanted to hit that instead of me, I'd just go ahead and kill myself.

This isn't a question about etiquitte, it's a question about taste, and you and your fiance obviously have neither. Even for Texans.

An Oldie But A Goodie Returns

I've never had a request before, but one of my readers, Cecily, emailed me yesterday and asked me to re-run my Open Letter to Warren Buffett, that originally appeared on Pudd'nhead Nathan, my old and now thoroughly deceased blog.

See? Good things happen when you email me!

Dear Mr. Buffett,

Would you please shut the fuck up?

Seriously-- you're beginning to get on everybody's wick already.

You said some very annoying things about the economy on Monday, and everybody had a hissy. The funny thing is, you didn't make any startling reveals-- you didn't uncover any kind of hidden truths, you didn't say anything we didn't already know. It's just that, when you say something that everybody else has been saying for months and months, suddenly everybody runs around like a chicken on crystal meth, and the Dow tanks.

"The economy has fallen off a cliff," I think was your winning soundbite.

Well, no shit, saggy-cheeks. Thank you very much for waking up in the morning. Maybe you should fall off a cliff.

Here's the thing: you totally suck. You suck big donkeydonk. Shut the fuck up. You make everyone cry.

I don't even know who the hell you are, and even I'm scared about the next time you're going to open your mouth on MSNBC. Everytime I hear your name, I always get you confused with Jimmy Buffett, whom I also confuse with James Taylor. As far as I know, all three of you suck, but I think that you're probably the richest of the triumverate. Are you guys at all related? I get annoyed when any one of you opens his mouth.

Fucking parrothead.

I have an idea for you, Warren-- why don't you go take a vacation somewhere? You look tired. After all, you're probably one of the only Americans besides Oprah and maybe John McCain's wife who can still afford to take vacations these days-- so why don't you go have your boy schedule you for a few months in the Bahamas or St. Croix or wherever people like you go to get their rocks off. Somewhere where they don't broadcast everything you say on American television. How about somewhere where they don't even have television? Do such places still exist? If they do, I think you should go there, and have yourself a nice, relaxing shut the fuck up.

Warrbucks, (may I call you "Warrbucks?"), you have the rare distinction of being someone to whom people listen when they speak. Most of us spend lots of time yammering and yapping on and on about Christ-knows-what, but nobody listens to us, because we're banal and mundane and not billionaires mega investors. Your distinction as someone who people listen to is even more rare because you're in your late seventies. When was the last time someone actually listened to someone who was in their late seventies? Most people, Warrbucks, in their late seventies are shuttered away in a dusty, brown wingback chair in some corner and are covered in forgotten memories and old laundry piles. We ignore the aged, even though we profess to believe that they are wise and have sagely advice. So, really, just be thankful people are actually listening to you at all and that you're not some stroked-out, dithering, liver-spotted old crow making moist flatulence in a pair of Depends, having dribble wiped off your chin by some Jamaican certified nursing assistant named Quarta.

You're old, pal. You're fucking really old. Why don't you just go play golf and canasta like other fucking really old people? So you have billions of dollars. Great. Swollen-bellied children in Africa with flies in their eyes are waiting for you to shut the fuck up and start writing them checks.

That would be super-helpful, Daddy Warrbucks. People want to help in this world, right? Even old, annoying people like you who look like my grandfather, plus about twenty pounds (I guess that's the good life for ya, huh?) You should look for more ways to be helpful, Warren. You gave $30.7 billion dollars to the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation. That's a good start. Keep on it, pal. The amount of time you spend writing out checks should far exceed the amount of time you spend giving interviews.

I know you only want to be helpful, Warren and I'm sure, somewhere in that nettled, nested head of yours you thought that giving that interview would be helpful in some way. Well, I'm sure you see now that it wasn't. You didn't say anything on Tuesday, and look how the market up-ticked yesterday.

That, Warren, is a sign.

The Very Model of a Modern Major-General

As many of you know, I am an actor.

Well, I'm lots of things, but an actor, is, I suppose, one of them.

I even got paid to be an actor. Once. $20.00 an hour. I was hired by the University of Pennsylvania Medical School's Cultural Sensitivity Department to portray a mega-prick doctor treating (and mistreating) a patient with AIDS in a training web video for med students and physicians. You can watch me critically raise one eyebrow as I spout off insensitive gems like,"You're not gay, are you?" And, if you're a doc, you can get one whole CME credit, just for watching that shit!

All the other times I've appeared on stage and on film it's been for free, and, usually, it's been degrading. In 8th grade, I appeared in my middle school's production of The Pajama Game in a pair of boxer-shorts in front of hundreds and hundreds of amused (or were they bemused?) parents of my peers. And that was just the beginning.

Recently, I've run into a bit of a streak of portraying men from the armed forces. Sort of. In 2006, I appeared as Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B. in a production of H.M.S. Pinafore, and it was easily one of the gayest, twittiest roles I've ever done. And, as they say, I've been doin' this for a minute. Next Friday, I will inhabit the body and yellow shoes of the slightly psychotic General Genghis Khan Schmitz in a production of Seussical. In November, it's back to the merry and silly world of G&S where I will once again don a uniform to play Major-General Stanley.

I'm currently growing out my beard so that I can sport ridiculous facial hair for General Schmitz. For dress rehearsal, I'll shave off most of it, probably leaving a silly moustache and perhaps a pair of mutton chop sideburns to complete the effect. I've gone back and forth about what to do with the facial hair. Not that it's especially important, but I'm a fan of concerning myself with the irrelevant.

Keeps me off drugs.

All of these recent affiliations with militaria have gotten me thinking about the image of the military man over the centuries and how it's changed. Of course, the ideal of manhood has changed significantly over time, but I don't know how often it's been seriously considered. We give a lot of thought in this society about the image of the ideal woman, because women are hot. There's always talk about the ideal shape of a woman. Perfection of the female form in the 1860s was quite different from that of the 1950s, which was, of course, very, very different from the feminine ideal of, say, the 1990s.

But nobody looks much at the change in men, much less military men. Today, we don't even think twice about our image of the perfect military man. He's butch. He's tough. He could kill you with his pinkie finger. Fuck, he's so tough, he doesn't even have pinkie fingers. He's too fucking tough for pinkie fingers. He's got 10 fucking middle fingers-- to flip off OSAMA!

FUCKIN' AYE FUCK YEAH! HERE HE IS, YOU LITTLE FUCKPUSSIES!

This is what we expect our military men to look like nowadays. This is the modern ideal of a soldier. Macho. Threatening. Butch. Crewcut. Armed to the teeth. A negative grimace. Piercing eyes. Of course, it also doesn't hurt if his little dogtags rest in between two killer pecs, too.

Isn't that right, Major Hottie?

Though it might be hard to believe, this isn't always how it was. Bullet-chomping bunk-hunks weren't always the way military men rolled. Macho wasn't always the preferred aesthetic for the men of the armed forces. I mean, take a ride in the old DeLorean with me back just a couple centuries and get a load of old Lieutenant General Cornwallis.

Macho? Hardly. Fit-and-finish? Lacking. His dog-tag must have resided quite comfortably between his boobies. Look at the walking stick. Look at the effete positioning of the left arm and hand, as if to say, "A battle? Now? Oh, no, luv-- I just had these nails done!"

Now, I know what you're going to say: He's British-- of course he's gay. They're practically synonyms. Well, that may be true, but let's look at someone from the other side of the pond, from that same time period.

Look at this string-beany little wank. Just look at him. The father of our country. He's trying to be macho, but look at how he's forcing his arms to rest straight at his sides. You know he's doing everything in his power to restrain himself from resting one hand daintily on his hip. Come on, look at how he's straining. He's dying to do it. It's okay, George. Do it. Do what feels natural. It'll feel good.

Ahhhhhhhh...... See? Doesn't that feel better? Good. Now get away from that horse, you fucking pervyderv.

Moving up a century or so, we see that much as changed in the realm of the military ideal. As in the civilian world, powdered wigs are out, and facial hair is in. The advent of the photograph and the daguerreotype have brought us copious images of the military ideal during the Civil War. There's my personal favorite, Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, Brevet Major-General:

Now that is a 'stache that says "knock off that slave and secession bullshit already," am I right? See-- we're getting butch-er, but we're not quite there yet. Can't you just picture the photographer giving out his instructions for this photograph?

"Okay, Lawrence. I see you've blown-dry your moustache. That's okay, I guess. No harm done. Just... listen-- just put your hands in your lap. Stare off vacantly into space and, please, for the love of God, try not to look gay. Just, you know-- don't do anything gay. I mean, this is 1865 already, you know? Just, remember: D.B.G. Don't be gay."

And I think, for the time, he's doing a pretty good job of keepin' it D.B.G. It's not easy. It's just hard for modern Americans to believe that people who looked like this seriously picked up guns and swords and bayonets and fucking killed other people who looked like this. We could maybe picture Joshua Chamberlain inviting a regiment from the 15th Alabama over to his house and poisoning their tea, but shoving his sword through one of their heads? I don't think so.

And then there's this guy-- he just screws up all valiant attempts at butchness.

You just had to put your hand on your hip, didn't you?

World War I was, I feel, the turning point. It was the transitional, liminal period between the genteel warrior/gentleman and the fightin' bastard that we have come to expect. I mean, I wouldn't want to fuck with these guys:

Then again, I'm pretty sure that this gentleman would rather join me for cocktails than shoot me in the face.

So three cheers for our military men, whether they fit into our stereotypical bullshit ideals of manhood or not. You're all patriots, valorous, dutiful and brave viscous killers in my book. And God Bless you for it. Better you than me.

Hello, (Again), Treo

We all have watershed moments in our lives.

You know what I'm talking about-- those moments where time just stops, and we have a great epiphany, a realization about the world or, if we're 20somethings, about ourselves. 20somethings don't have realizations about the world, generally speaking, unless they're significantly enlightened or seriously cracked out.

Last year, probably at around this time, I had a watershed moment about myself. I came to the difficult and painful conclusion that the way I operated was no longer working for me. The way I "functioned" from day to day, well, it just wasn't cutting it anymore. See-- when the old Mr. Apron needed to remember to do something, he wrote himself a note on a tiny scrap of paper, and he put it in his right hip pocket. This scrap of paper, (it might have been a reminder to get the oil changed in the PT Cruiser, or that an allergist appointment was coming up, or there was a 9:10pm G&S audition tomorrow night) would join several other scraps of paper in the old Mr. Apron's right hip pocket. At night, while the old Mr. Apron snored the night away, the scraps of paper would all have a party in his trouser pocket-- they'd invite their friends Overdue Library Notice, Inhaler Prescription, Vacation Request Note and Random Scribbled Thing over to join in the nocturnal pocket merriment.

And, oh what fun they had.

The trouble was, the old Mr. Apron changed his trousers maybe twice a week, although he was admonished for this habit by his father ("Mummy, you have to stagger! If you're going to wear the same pants all the time, okay, but, Jesus-- stagger it! Wear the navy pants for a day, then the brown pants, then back to the navy, maybe for two days in a row, then back to the brown. I mean, if you don't stagger, people are going to notice.") and, although twice a week isn't much in terms of changing pants, the old Mr. Apron had to make sure that all of his little notes and scraps of paper made it from one pair of pants to the other, or else he'd never remember all the things he had to do.

Of course, he also had to remember to put his hand in his pocket every now and then, so he'd feel all the scraps of paper, which would then send a message to his brain that these scraps of paper were worth looking at, and then, hopefully, he'd look at them, and go get the fucking Cruiser's oil changed.

"Renew CPR certification." "Get Finley's ear medication." "Pay the PECO bill." "Haircut at 4:30 - Thursday." "Pick up supplies for work." "Email.... somebody."

Even unimportant losers have lots to remember-- it doesn't seem fair. I really used to be able to keep it all together. Really, I could. But, last year, I hit that watershed moment. I was flaking out on obligations, and with student loan payments and health insurance and other expenses, the bills I had to pay became too numerous to keep all in my head and in my pocket. So I panicked and I bought a Treo.

Now, because I'm an idiot, I didn't just walk into an AT&T store and buy one. I bought one on e-bay. It wasn't the newest of the new, either. (Apparently, brand-new, this thing cost $379.00-- which is a sum I won't pay for anything that isn't a home improvement.) It was a gently used Treo 650 and, while it has the proportions of a brick, it's by far the most technologically sophisticated piece of equipment I've had at my disposal since the Commodore 64.

I used this device from June of last year through November, when it started shutting off mysteriously, frustratingly, and constantly. I was very upset, not because I had spent a shitload of money on it (I got it for around $80.00) but because it was actually working for me. I was putting in appointments and events in the calendar, and I was actually looking at it! I was remembering to go to rehearsals and appointments and things were getting accomplished and I was feeling less harried and incompetent. But, as someone who did not have a landline, I needed a phone that would turn a cold shoulder to me whenever it felt tired or had a headache.

"That's it," I said to Mrs. Apron. "I've learned my lesson. No more cellphones from e-bay (I'd purchased three that way already). From now on, I'll just suck it up and get raped at the AT&T store and at least get a brand new phone." The only problem was, I wasn't eligible for a new phone. But my wife, who's had the same phone since 2003, was.

No problem, I'll just use her upgrade. Thanks, honey!

Turns out, something good actually came from entering the AT&T store. "Ask about employee discounts" a small sign implored.

"You don't give discounts to emergency medical technicians, do you?"

"Oh, yes," the woman with the unpronouncable name tag said, "15% a month off."

ZING!

Of course, I haven't worked on an ambulance since February of 2007, but I'm still certified as an EMT until October of 2011. I figure, I worked for a year-and-a-half for $11.00-an-hour, I got psychologically abused by a psychotic partner who threatened to kill me, I had to wake up every day at 4:30am for three months doing the 6-2 shift, I got pissed on, puked on, bled on, cursed at, Heiled Hitler'd at (by a 92-year-old nun, no less), so, you know, why not milk that shit?

Shit = Milked.

Yes, the phone I got had a calendar, but it wasn't the same. With a numeric keyboard, it took forever to insert dates and appointments in there, and I never looked at it. It wasn't helpful, and I started slipping again. A few days ago, I confessed to my wife, "I'm slipping again. I can't fucking remember anything. I'm totally useless."

"Well," she said, "why don't you try the Treo again. Maybe it just needed a rest."

So I slipped the SIM card in that bad boy and, cross your fingers, we seem to be back in business. I spent a good part of Sunday night putting all my important events and reminders in the calendar, and it's a wonderful thing to have a QWERTY keyboard, I must say.

I hope it helps. I hope it doesn't start turning itself off again. I hope I don't get addicted and then forever need a converged device like this just to keep myself afloat and operating like someone without early-onset Alzheimers.

Of course, I have to confess something to you. The greatest thing about having my Treo back isn't the keyboard, or the calendar, or the internet capabilities, or even the plethora of games (yeah, Coconut Fern!). It's the pictures that were saved on its memory, that I haven't seen since November.

I'm specifically referring to one picture in particular. It's a picture I took at great pains and great risk, at my barbershop. Of two ladies. Look closely at the woman on the right. Look at her left ear. Look closely.

Yes. Those are rolled-up dollar bills. The shampoo girl's tip.

Welcome back, Treo. I've missed you.

Guest Blog

By the way: I'm guest-blogging today at

MY BLOG DOESN'T SUCK

Enjoy the Herpes-like viral spreading of my twisted mind, today in two locations!

Thanks, Liz!

For That Smooth, Mellow Flavor: Try Dear Apron

Hey, Chicklettes!

You know what time it is... it's time to take a Dear Abby Column and turn it on its ass.

It's time to explore some letters that idiots write.

It's... Dear Apron Time!

DEAR APRON:

I am 45 and currently going through a divorce. My soon-to-be ex-wife and I have a 14-year-old daughter, "Gina," and I have custody.

Fourteen years ago, when my wife became pregnant with Gina, we had talked about abortion. We even had an appointment scheduled, but on the day of the appointment we decided not to go through with it. I thank God that we did have our child.

Gina knows nothing about any of this, but my future ex has threatened to tell her. My daughter is mature for her age and intelligent, but I feel the time is not right for her to know. Given the situation, I feel she should hear it from me because of the close relationship we have.

Do you agree that the news should wait until the divorce is final and the dust settles, or should I tell her now? -- DADDY WHO CARES

DEAR DADDY:

First of all: Why do I need to know that you're 45?

Second of all: Ew!

I can't tell you how tacky and weird it feels to be addressing a letter to "Dear Daddy." I don't want to call you "Daddy," it's kind of fucked up. I feel like a child-bride writing to you for some spending money-- and like I'm writing the letter in blue crayon. Couldn't you make up some loser pseudo for yourself for the purposes of writing this letter? Like how about "Tad?" The name "Tad" strikes me as the name of someone who'd be in a situation where his soon-to-be-ex-wife is blackmailing him by threatening to tell his daughter that she is an unwanted, unloved dingleberry.

Anyway, Daddy, if I must call you that, I'm glad at least that you're a daddy "who cares." Of course, you're kind of caring fourteen years too late. I mean, let's face it, fourteen years ago, when your soon-to-be-ex-wife was 110 pounds with a tight little body, 34-B titties and a sloopity, pulsating vag, you didn't care enough to make sure she was on the pill, and you didn't care enough to slap a Trojan on your horse. I'm guessing that you were doing the old rhythm thing, because you're the kind of person dumb enough to write into one of these columns for advice. Well, that's dumb, too. Now that your wife is 240 with tots that resemble two bean bag chairs and you don't want her anymore, and she's gone all meno-psycho on your ass and is threatening to tell Gina all the dirt-- all of a sudden, you care.

Well, Taddy the Daddy Who Cares, here's my advice: your psycho hoebag skeezapleeza wife is going to tell Gina that the two of you contemplated killing her in utero: that's a fact. If you don't want Gina to find out, you've got to finish the job you started 14 years ago. Yes, Tad: you've got to kill her. Or you've got to kill your ex. Seriously, you're just going to have to shoot her in the face or hold her head down in the toilet bowl or something. Or you could run her over with a lawn mower-- you know, a reader last week reminded me how dangerous those things are. And they are. Have you had your blades sharpened recently, Tad?

Maybe you should just ice both of those bitches and then do yourself in. Murder-suicides have become very fashionable these days-- you could easily start a trend in your neighborhood, and it's cheaper than buying a Maserati.

DEAR APRON:

I am in a bit of a muddle. I have had a platonic friendship with "Greg" for four years. He is married, and I have a longtime boyfriend, "Randall."

About a year ago, Greg and I crossed the line into a romantic relationship. I guess you could call it an affair. Greg was unhappy with his marriage, and I was unsettled in my relationship. The affair ended six months ago, along with Greg and my friendship.

I felt so bad about the whole thing that I confessed and apologized to Randall, who (surprisingly) is still with me. He says he loves me. I realized that Randall is very dear to me, and I have no intention of ever repeating this kind of episode again.

As for Greg, I accept that our romantic relationship is over. But I feel sad that our friendship is over, too. He never told me I can't approach him or speak to him again. I don't know how to get our friendship back, if I even can. Can you provide any suggestions? -- MUDDLED IN VIRGINIA

DEAR HOMEWRECKING BITCH:

Excuse me, I'm sorry. "I'm in a bit of a muddle?" "Muddled in Virginia?" What are you-- 97 years old? Who talks like that? Why do I get the feeling that the vast majority of you fuckers are writing these letters on Shady Pines Continuing Care Facility stationery? Even the letters from fifteen-year-olds sound like they were at least heavily edited by someone wearing bifocals and a diaper.

Muddled.

Jesus Christ.

Anyway, you expect me to believe that a person who uses the word "muddle" is attractive enough not only to have a "longtime boyfriend," but to score some deep dickin' from a formerly platonic male friend?

Well, I'm in a bit of a pickle over that, but, for your sake, we'll assume for the moment that it's true, because I'm a saint like that.

You say you have "no intention of ever repeating this kind of episode again" but I don't believe that either. See, you had "no intention" of ever doing in the first place, but you did, because there are some women who are just hardwired to be fucktoys and homewreckers. Face it, darlin': you're totally moist over Greg. You get a crotchnami just thinking about him. Meanwhile, poor Randall is there dutifully putting on his short sleeve dress shirt and clip on tie, slugging it out with the abusive public and the mentally challenged colleagues at the DMV, just so he can afford to buy you a bouquet of flowers from Shop Rite every couple of weeks. And what are you doing? Putting your cellphone on vibe, sitting on it and then calling yourself all day from the house line pretending it's Greg.

God, you make me sick. I'd like to run you over with a fucking lawnmower. Fuckin' muddle your head off, bitch.

DEAR APRON:

Some people find "pennies from heaven" -- I find dimes. My late husband once asked me whose image is on the dime, not remembering he had told me it was Franklin Delano Roosevelt (FDR). My husband's initials were also FDR. Knowing my darling watches over us always, I have saved every one I see and now have a box full of them. -- ELAINE IN MARYLAND

DEAR ELAINE:

Your husband didn't know whose face was on the fucking dime?

Jesus-- you people kill me.

When They're Gone

Well, they're all dead now.

Millvina Dean is dead.

You might not know her name, and I didn't either until three minutes ago, but now, because you read this blog, you know it. And now you can mention it to coworkers and acquaintances, and they will think you are so worldly, and they will instantly want to sleep with you. Don't forget to thank me while you're sticking it in, cowboy.

Millvina Dean was the last survivor of the Titanic. She was 97, and she died the way most 97-year-olds die: in her sleep, in a nursing home-- which is sad, but probably more comfortable than drowning in the frigid Atlantic.

Dean was 2 months old when the great ship went down. Her father wrapped her in a sack to protect her from the chill of the Atlantic Ocean and rushed Dean, her brother, sister, and mother to a lifeboat, saying he would be along soon. He didn't make it, but his quick actions saved his family. Dean never had a family of her own, working as a secretary until 1972. Three years ago, like lots of 95-year-old women, she broke her hip and was forced to move into a nursing home. In order to pay the bills, she sold several Titanic mementoes, which sucks. Her friends set up a fund to help her pay her nursing home bills, and Kate Winslet and that gay blonde kid-- what's his name? Hanson? Well, they pledged their support last month. A little late there, guys.

Millvina Dean's passing got me thinking. It got me thinking about what happens when significant chapters in history come to an end. I wonder if her passing marks the end of the international obsession with the downing of the Titanic. I wonder about that. Will there ever be another Titanic movie or musical now that they've all gone? Or will the mythology only increase now that there are no actual survivors present to infuse retellings with stolid realism and, God forbid, accuracy?

Will people now start denying that the Titanic ever happend?

Don't laugh-- maybe there will be a new wave of Titanic Deniers. I realize that there is ample evidence that the Titanic existed-- I mean, there are actual ruins-- but, you know-- those could have been planted. By the government. It barely looks like a ship anymore anyway, you know. It could be anything. It could be an old CSX train with little circle windows cut out in the sides. Who knows, right?

I know there are lots of famous pictures and etchings and all of those survivor stories-- but those could easily be fabricated. I mean, I tell stories all the time. Don't you?

And I know lots of "newspapers" reported the sinking, but I mean-- how do we really KNOW that it happend? There's no YouTube videos of it. So, I mean, I'm skeptical.

And I also know that there's a huge wikipedia entry for the disaster, with lots of footnotes-- but, I mean, wikipedia is just user-generated content. So, you can't really trust that.

We have a right to be skeptical of such a fantastic event. I mean, we're the generation that has to see to believe. We're the wise-asses and the disbelievers and the evidence seekers. We need proof. We need streaming content on our iPhones to ameliorate our doubts.

I mean, you practically have to have a tattoo on your arm to get us to believe just about anything these days.

And, even then......