It's Friday, Fuckers.

People get so excited about the fact that it's Friday. Not just that it's this specific Friday, but Friday in general. They can't wait for the week to be over. The feeling that I think a lot of people get is like they've been holding in their doodie all week long and then, on Friday, they finally get to take this mongantic dump all over the place and they get to walk listlessly with that rapturous, cathartic feeling all day long as they drift effortlessly into the weekend.

I'll bet more people, statistically, shart themselves on Friday than any other day of the week. I have absolutely no research whatsoever to back up that assumption, just my good ol' gut, but if you're wise, sista, you'll put your paycheck on my gut. You know-- like a shot of... um... alcohol, that people put-- you know, they drink it out of peoples' navels. Not when they're standing, obviously-- I mean, if I understand it correctly. It's, like... They-- nevermind.

I don't get particularly sharted up about Fridays anymore, and I suppose part of the reason that's true is the fact that I work every other weekend: Saturday and Sunday, 7a-3p. So, Friday takes on rather a different flavor to it. The nice thing about my work schedule is that my paycheck gets automatically deposited into my checking account each of the Fridays of the weekends that I work, which definitely serves to soften the blow that I'm spending half of my weekends on-duty at a psychiatric hospital.

But only just so much. Because, let's face it: that's a pretty hard blow. And, yeah-- she said that. While wearing knee-pads and a goalie facemask.

While, as I admitted, I don't have any research about Friday shartings, I do have research that backs up a believe that I've long held, and that's that nobody (or hardly anybody) reads my blog on Fridays. I don't know what it is-- at first I thought, Jesus, I must have a lot of Orthodox Jewish readers, but I sort of kind of doubt it-- but the rate at which my weekly readership/click-throughs/hits declines on Fridays is as alarming as it is regular. Each week, it's always the same-- pretty much ever since I started this ridiculum.

So, I was thinking to myself, as I sit here absolutely stewing in hog's anus 102-degree heat, if nobody's reading this on Friday, I can pretty much say whatever I want, and it won't really matter a Goddamn. Now, I know what you're thinking: "Come on, Apron-- don't you pretty much say whatever you want no matter what day of the week it is?"

And the obvious answer is: No.

No, I don't.

Sure, I say a lot of shit, and some of it is what I want to say, and some of it is offensive, to someone, probably (remember when I royally pissed off that chick with diabetes? And what about when I maligned that asshole singer Sean Hoots? That was awesome.) but do I really let myself go, totally unrestrained by the conventions of grammar, style, and, yes, propriety? Of course I don't. Because I have an audience, however small and skintimate it may be, and I have a lot of respect for you. I mean, not for your taste in literature, obviously, but I have a copious cumbucket-loads of respect for the fact that you choose to read this, instead of or amongst tons of other online detritus that you could be using to rot your synapses.

You're choosing to be here. And that's, frankly, unbelievable-- to me, at least.

I love you. I wouldn't love you more if you were covered in bacon and chocolate sitting on top of the hood of a 1963 VW Beetle playing the oboe solo from the overture to the "Yeomen of the Guard".

You're here.

Why are you here?

Have you ever stopped to ask yourself that question?

Meh-- on second thought: don't.

I had this idea that today's post would consist of every offensive, hateful, disgusting, perverse thought I could dream up and put down, because, really, if no one's reading it, what does it matter. Sure, it'll get picked up and read eleven months from now when some racist masturbator types "cum-nig" into Google while, Anchluss, his German Shepherd is licking precisely-placed peanut butter out of his asshole, and I'm okay with that.

Seriously, this post was just going to be a list of terrible, awful, nasty things. But I thought taking a minute to let you know how thankful I am for you would be a better way to spend my time. And yours.

Besides: it's Friday, Fuckers. Let's all shit ourselves or whatever.

Well, Run Over a Horn-Toad and Call Me Tom Joad, It's a SPECIAL EDITION of... DEAR APRON!

Whoa! What's all this hubbubbery? Do you sport with me, John Proctor? A Special Edition of Dear Apron??? Oh, this is gonna be good. Like, shart-your-mom's-Mom-Jeans-good.

Am I right? Tell me I'm right. And I'll tell you my shoe size.

(Wink.)

But seriously, former-First Lady Barbara Bush, I was thinking about doing a right down, re'glar royal Dear Apron column for today, where I bum-pirate letters written to Dear Abby shoot out my own special word-jat of slightly sardonic and scintillatingly saintly advice, but then I thought-- no.

No.

After two years of dispensing often cruel and violent advice to the masses of dunderheaded, wicker-lipped sponge-asses out there, I thought it was time to mix it up a little bit. Just for today.

Just for you.

I was thinking to myself: what is the world missing when it comes to unsolicited, hopelessly-flawed, easy-to-mock, cookie-cutter advice? And then it hit me like a 1990 Olds Cutlass Ciera being piloted by a leathery nun:

Dating advice dispensed by an out-of-touch, suburbanite, surly thirty-year-old man who has been in a committed relationship since February of 2003, and who has been married since October of 2006.

That's right, Cumbums. Hold onto your short-n-curlies, 'cause it's gonna be a wet'n'wild weekend if you follow the glittering, crusty, ne'er-to-be-questioned advice of...

DEAR APRON'S Guide to Ass Getting (a.k.a. "G.A.G.")

(See what I did there? Of course you don't. Troglodyte.)

The main thing you have to remember when dating is that it's a game. I mean, they even called it that on T.V. Remember? The Dating Game? Once, Groucho Marx went on as a bachelor to play a trick on his daughter, who was on the show.

That was FUNNY!

Dating is funny.

When people date, funny things happen. They get drunk and throw up on each others' backs during doggy-style sex. People who date fall down a lot, and they work really hard at making up stuff that they hope will impress the person they're trying to seduce, not realizing that people aren't as difficult to seduce as they used to be.

Seriously, you don't have to pad your resume. As long as you're not 243 pounds and your forehead isn't glistening with perspiration, he'll fuck you, even if you didn't really get an "A+" in that macroeconomics class your junior year at Vassar. I promise.

While seduction admittedly isn't much of an art anymore, there is still an unmitigated need for absurd dating advice, and that is where I come in. Ladies, you're clueless. Men, your brains are swimming in ejaculate. You need my help. I am your love guru. I will teach you things. You will thank me. Oh, yes, whilst in mid-mount, you will thank me.

Here are some quick-n-dirty tips:

For the ladies:

* Undearwear is for losers.

If dating's a game, (and I think we've established that it is) you're playing to win, aren't you? Well, act like it. Wearing underwear to a date, especially a first date, is like jumping out of a plane with a parachute. Well, of course you're going to survive the jump if you're wearing the parachute (and you remember to open it at the correct altitude), but that's just playing it safe. Where's the fun in that? Where's the adventure? Where's that sense of derring-do? Trust me. Commando's the way to go. I would have put this under the Unisex Column, but I'm pretty sure that most guys don't need to be told to lose the underroos when seriously entering the dating game.

* Show a little cheek.

While we're on the subject of underwear, now that you've learned how its only purpose as far as dating goes is to hold you back from going FTW, don't be afraid to let your ass hang out a little bit. Let's face it, girls: conservative clothes are for the office and for nuns tooling around in 1990 Cutlass Cieras. If you're going to date, do it like you mean it. If you're not wearing an outfit that permits your possibilibeau to get a glimpse of dat azz, then you're just handicapping yourself, and there is really very little I, or any Vogue assistant editor, can do for you.

* When in doubt: meat.

No, I'm not talking about s'ing his dee. Come on, I may be crude, but I'm not crass. There is a difference-- principally in spelling. I'm talking about the true, red-blooded, heterosexual male's proclivity for carniverous endeavors. If his attention seems to be lagging during dinner, do NOT be afraid to resort to drastic, nay, meatnormous measures. Order something with bacon IMMEDIATELY, and, if the odors do not perk this sumbitch's interests, delicately slide a slab of that pan-loved pig sliver between your breasts (which I would hope are appropriately displayed in a "Hallo, Bombshell" underwire). Make no mistake, you boney little bitch: meat is the way to a man's heart. Ignore this braised steak-tip at your great peril.

* Speak as little as possible.

It has been clinically proven by 397 out of 400 balding, impotent male scientists at some impressive-sounding researchy place that the tone, pitch, yaw and surface area of a woman's voice is the single greatest detriment to a male's psyche, thoughts of self-efficacy, and romantic harmoniosity. So, if you're ever finding yourself pondering the meaning of an awkward silence during a date-- trust me: it's only awkward for you. Men love silent women. Why do you think we invented sex dolls and "Penthouse," and women invented "The View" and Meredith Vieira?

* Read a lot into everything he does. Or doesn't do.

Women are really good at reading a lot into things that men do, or don't do. So, you all should keep doing that. Because, while you're really good at it, you're not quite perfect at it. And practice makes perfect.

For the mensfolk:

* Keep physical violence to a comfortable minimum.

Women don't understand our primal desire to break things/faces, so, if you're caught up with the desire to do structural damage to some pock-marked waiter's face or take out your testosterone-fueled aggression out on some private property, just remember that this will inevitably lead to what can be mathematically calculated as the "Negative Pussy Effect," or N.P.E. for short. God, I love acronyms. I. L. A.

* Don't go too fast.

Let's face it: the Three Date Minimum may sound like an antiquated rule-of-thumb, but it still holds true today. You've got to know a girl pretty well before you can let your words fly with careless abandon. Think about it this way: words are just like farts-- you wouldn't fart in front of a girl you just met, right? Okay, maybe you would eke out a tight, clenched quiet one, and that's fine, but you know what I mean-- not a real Hindenburg, Oh-the-humanity style one, right? So it's only natural that you have to play what you say carefully, too. For instance, you wouldn't propose uncommon, eyebrow-raising sex acts with a woman with whom you have not enjoyed at least three successful dates, correct? So remember-- give it some time before you propose, "One in the pink, two in the stink," or, you know, whatever your... preference might be.

* Hit the Cheesecake Factory

And hit it hard, brother. You know what I'm talkin' 'bout, n'yah mean?

* Respect The Fact That She's Doing You a Favor

Let's face a painful truth: women are doing men a favor by dating them at all. Surprised to hear me say that? Come on, it's true. If you're a man, look at yourself. You smell like old sneakers, and your old sneakers smell like old sneakers that have been eaten by a dog and then deposited anally on somebody's lawn. You're covered in hair like some woodland creature. Your sex organ is a banana topped with a mushroom, and that's if you're circumsized. If you're not, well, frankly I'm not sure which looks stupider. Many of us have more hair in the crack of our ass than we do on our head, and we're all destined to look like Andy Rooney-- if we're lucky. Emotionally, we're all kinds of stunted and retarded, and, intellectually, none of us are going to give George F. Will a run for his money anytime soon. So, in the end, just be grateful that she's not a lesbian, or forcing herself to be one.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go watch some streaming vids of intensely hot chicks getting paid to pretend they're lesbians.

Look at Me: I'm Thankful (Again)

365 days ago, I let my small corner of the blogging world know that, on Thanksgiving Day, 2009, I was thankful for my undershirts.

Aren't I clever?

This year, I don't know what it is, but I'm not feeling especially clever. Or witty. Or funny. Or subversive. Actually, I don't know exactly how I'm feeling as I start to type this post, which is always a little dangerous, because I have no idea how this post is going to turn out.

And, honestly-- I kind of like that. It's pretty much the only risk I take in life. Besides speeding-- and I speed in a Volvo, so it's almost not even that risky anyway. Speeding in a Volvo is a bit like having bareback sex with a photograph of a prostitute.

Thanksgiving is a tricky time for renowned cynics and muttering bastards the world over, and I struggle with it, too. On the one hand, it's predictable and cloying-- inspiring some of us to pen odes to our undershirts. On the other hand, as a nation that takes everything, from its oxygen to its Blackberries for granted, a little dose of Rockwellism once a year couldn't really damage us too irreparably.

It wouldn't hurt this generation to bow its head and hold hands around that anachronistic thing called a dining room table-- not one little bit.

I've undergone a lot of changes between the Thankgiving of my 29th year, and that of my 30th. The smarmy, winking little brat in me wants to be funny and light this year, to poke holes in and poke fun at tradition and syrupy Little House on the Prairie idealism-- and the burgeoning adult in me wants to cry and hold my family, people who unbelievably seem to grow more distant and unfamiliar every week-- or is it month? I forget.

What I can't forget is that I am both the punk and the idealist, I am the smiling bugger and the thin-lipped grandfather-in-training-- always thinking, obsessing over what is right and what is expedient, and how to tow the line between the two. Or if I should. And what would it matter if I never decide to make the choice at all?

While I was writing this meandering mess, it popped into my head that I ought to be thankful for my sanity, a notion that has crystalized now that I work at a mental hospital. Sorry-- "crisis center," let's be politically correct, if we can stand it. I've now worked there long enough to see patients get discharged and re-admitted multiple times, and, even sadder, I've worked there long enough to see names from my ancient past, and not-so-ancient past, on the admitting sheet, and I have chatted with these gowned ghosts in the halls, and I know that, for one synapse misfiring, or not, it could have been me. Without the I.D. badge, without the keys. And that is enough to make anyone bow his brown-haired head at the dining room table.

Of course, I'm still thankful for my undershirts. Even the ones I've had to force myself to throw out between this year and the last.

Happy Thanksgiving, my dears.