All Apron's Bitches

I had this idea for a book.

I say that a lot. It must get annoying for the people to whom I say it. They're probably like, "I have this idea for a friend who isn't you."

But, seriously, I have this idea for a book. I'm going to tell you about it now. Why? Because, you choose to come here, so you kind of deserve whatever you get.

Here's my idea for a book:

It's a biography, of sorts. See, Americans love to eat (so you'd think it'd be a cookbook, but I just told you it's a biography so you know it's not a cookbook) and we love to eat processed shit that comes out of a box or a package, because we're largely (and large) too stupid and lazy to cook and bake things from scratch.

So, we like things that are made for us, because we're largely large Americans. Invariably, these packages and/or pre-packaged meals have pictures on them featuring the kindly faces of females who, the corporations would like to have us think, had some hand in either cooking or baking these tasty treats for us, or that they originated the recipes or that they developed some of this shit in their Hobart ovens in, like, the forties or whatever.

So, I thought it would be a good idea for a book to write a biography of all of the women featured on food. I mean, these ladies all have stories and, for the most part, they are untold-- hidden, concealed, unknown. Well that, I think, is kind of a tragedy or whatever, and I'm determined that, once our twins have graduated from college, I'm going to remedy that by dragging these food femmes out into the spotlight by their hair and exposing them for whatever they are. A lot of careful research has already been done in preparation for this project and I'm happy to share with you the preliminary biographical sketches for some of the subjects for the project I have given the working title of:

"All Apron's Bitches"


You might be tempted to think that Dolly Madison was the wife of U.S. President James Madison, but you'd be wrong and, additionally, a sexual deviant. Dolley Madison was James Madison's wife, and she wasn't much to look at if we're being honest with each other. It was Dolly Madison who brought much edible happiness to American families through snack-cakes and other engorging foods marketed by Hostess Foods.

While Dolly Madison was not, in fact, James Madison's wife, she was, in fact the twin sister of President Madison's wife, Dolley. Dolly and Dolley Madison were born on May 20, 1768 to Fred and Elizabeth Schwartzburg, of New Garden, North Carolina. Fred and Elizabeth, (both amateur comedians and frequently shared the stage, singing lighthearted duets about subjects such as hangings, slavery, and multiple orgasms) shared an uncommon sense of absurd humor and thought it would be a "real gassbag" if they named their twins the same name, but just adding an "e" to the name of the twin who came out second.

The joke never quite took. In primary school, the Schwartzburg girls were ridiculed mercilessly. In high school, they were sexually molested by the members of the school's rugby team, with moderate mercy.

While Dolley Madison flourished in polite society, eventually marrying the man who would become the president, Dolly Madison never quite found her way in the world. "Her misshapen head and rather obscenely-proportioned breasts made her somewhat of an anomaly amongst the streetwalkers and Presbyterians of the day," historian and amateur fencing instructor G. F. Jarlsburg commented in a recent interview. "She was never quite facile at mid-afternoon tea or dinner parties, preferring to spend most of her time inside empty oil barrels impersonating members of the Ottoman Empire and pigeons. She did marvelous impersonations of pigeons."


Mary Frances Catherine and Shira Tziporah Rhavannaptrum were born by J-Section on April 12th, 1961, and then again on April 16th. They lead a relatively happy, carefree life in Camden, New Jersey. "We were just kids havin' a blast. The crackpipes strewn about the ground never bothered us," Shira recounted in an interview for "Time" magazine, "we just used them to smoke crack."

"We had no idea how to ride a bicycle when they shot those commercials," Mary Frances remembered, "so they just paid two homeless, black teenage boys $10.00 each and dressed them up like us. Major credit goes to Hazel Whittfield who did all the make-up for DoubleMint's ads and commercials. I mean, is she amazing or what?"

It is popular legend that Mary Frances and Shira were appearing in a low-budget porno film when they were discovered by DoubleMint casting agent Rick Tickler, "but that's not the case," says Shira, "the budget on 'Zulu Cock Artists' wasn't low at all."

This bitch is a fucking illegal immigrant. She came here from Cuba on a goddamned 1951 Ford truck riveted on top of a motherfucking life-raft. After hocking bananas to the unsuspecting populous in an effort to turn every last one of us into a fucking ape, she was shot by immigration authorities after pointing what was believed to be a handgun at them during a nighttime confrontation outside the Cuba Libre. Turns out, it was a fucking banana.


Regrettably, no photographs of Mrs. Paul exist. The long-time, and long-suffering wife of author J. D. Salinger, Mrs. Paul reveled in her late husband's notorious reclusive nature. It was reported that Mrs. Paul (nobody knows her real name, birthplace, age, or blood-type) fed only fish-sticks to her husband every day of his life, and did so intravenously. She is reported to be a devout vegan and a sporadic Methodist.

According to local legend, Mrs. Paul is still living inside the remote house she once shared with her husband and his collection of unpublished manuscripts and human feces. It is rumored that she carries at least five concealed firearms on her person at all times, and that her left breast is made of copper.


A Nazi sympathizer and war criminal currently being hunted by the Mossad. If you have any information as to her whereabouts and/or are concealing her from the authorities, you are advised to contact the Israeli consulate at once, because, you know when it's real.

"Nice Job, Mom!"

For those of you benevolent, wide-eyed folks out there who think that sexism went out of style with large lapels, microwaved meatloaf, and the Ford Granada, think again. While our great nation is, admittedly, preoccupied with discriminating against homosexuals at the moment, we're still pretty proficient at gender-bias, too.

We still love to hire the girl with the biggest tits, and we also are pretty infatuated with paying her less than we would pay a man with comparably-sized bitchtits to do the same amount of work. We still call women "dear" and "sweetie", we still have women showing us to our tables at Friday's, we still think they're unpredictable and not-to-be-crossed when they're menstruating, and we still aren't wholly convinced that they really need more than 6 weeks to appropriately bond with their infant spawn. And every good ol' boy or schoolteacher or Junior Executive Vice-President worth his salt can come up with a Dumb Blonde joke that'll knock your socks off in a heartbeat.

However, in this society, in this day and age, we're also pretty adept at discriminating against men.

Yeah. That's where this is going. Sorry if you don't like it, you dumb fucking blonde.

I had the good fortune yesterday morning to sit down to breakfast with my wife-- something we really don't get to do very much anymore due to our conflicting work schedules. I glanced over at our soy milk carton and I cocked my head and squinted my eyes. With typically tactful pre-coffee grace and aplomb, I asked,

"What the fuck is this shit?"

Nice job, Mom? You're laying on congratulatory affirmations to the moms of America for shelling out $3.49 on a carton of your fucking soy milk? That's great that you want to blow smoke up people's asses, but why does it have to be not only centered around the asses of women, but women who just happened to have reproduced?

Want to make us feel good? Okay. How about, "Nice job, You"? Or, "Way to Go, Buddy!" I would be fine with that. The mom-centered-ness, though, really bothered me. So did the accompanying paragraph:

Are you fucking kidding me? Who was this written by: Robert S. McNamara? C. Everett Koop? Calvin Coolidge? It smacks of a time when America moved around at a higher rate of speed, and in black-and-white and everybody wore hats. (Except when they were indoors, of course.) I thought we had come so far but, apparently, we're still stuck in the 1950's where dad stays home, sucking on his pipe or the babysitter's clitoris while dutiful little mother scampers off to the supermarket, piloting the Buick's massive, chrome-emblazoned steering wheel with her dainty, white gloved fingers.

The only difference is that now the milk comes from a fucking bean instead of a fucking udder.

I got to thinking about 8th Continent's view of the world, and indeed Jif Peanut Butter's (they're STILL peddling that awful "Choosy Moms Choose Jif!" slogan) and it became patently obvious to me: men should not even be permitted in supermarkets.

Let's face it-- these products are not being marketed to us, so we clearly have no business buying them. Not only that, every sitcom and commercial ever produced on the subject of a man in a supermarket would have you believe that sending a male to a supermarket is just as advisable as sending a semi-retarded panda bear to do your grocery shopping. We're always buying the wrong thing, constantly calling our wives, girlfriends, mothers, tax-law advisors for advice/spiritual guidance from our cellphones in the aisles, we're breaking things or buying things impulsively or not reading or understanding labels and we buy diet soda when we're supposed to be getting caffeine free-- I mean, let's face it: it's a fucking mess and we of the be'penised sort should all just be banned.

EXCEPT, of course, on 4th of July, Memorial Day, Labor Day, Super Bowl Sunday, and World Series time. Then we're allowed in, but only to purchase grill-related items/accoutrements. And nothing else.

For every other day of the year, there ought to be Protection From Abuse orders filed by supermarket chains against men. Supermarkets should have bouncers, clad in the store's color aprons to man all the entrances and exits to prevent men from entering the market. And, in the event that a male is dispatched to the supermarket on direct order from, and as proxy for, an ailing, incapacitated, emotionally unstable and/or otherwise physically unavailable female, the male in question must present a signed note, which must be notarized by an appointed official, stating the precise reason why a female could not be present at the supermarket on this occasion, a list (written in female handwriting) detailing exactly what the man is supposed to be purchasing, as well as an envelope containing any and all coupons the man is to utilize in procurement of these aforementioned comestible items. If said male attempts any unauthorized "male behaviors" such as purchasing a foodstuffs because of the tantalizing nature of the picture on the box or any product bearing the product name "Hungry Man" or "Dinty Moore" or "Bubba Burger", he is to be immediately and forcibly removed from the premises, and his affiliated female will be notified at once.

Nice job, Mom.

Holy Marketing, Batman

I used to market my blog.

(Sort of.)

I was a member of 20 Something Bloggers, back when I somehow found the time and strength to be both a twenty-something and, simultaneously, a blogger. However did I do it all, and still find time to look this awful?

Well, those days are over now-- at least, the twenty-something days are-- and I no longer market my blog. I no longer mingle (and I certainly don't co-mingle) with other bloggers out there in Akron or Auckland and I don't receive any funny little "Blogging Awards" from well-meaning twenty-three-year-olds who are probably too attractive to ever associate with me in person, and I don't get mentioned in other blogs very much anymore, and I don't cross-promote either.

Not that I ever really did that very much to begin with, but I admit, there was a little span of time there where I was convinced that some light-to-moderate cyber-whoring was good for a lad.

My wife sometimes chides me for having almost an antisocial antipathy for any opportunity this blog could possibly have to make me (us) money. And why is that? Am I too good to charge for a peek under the apron? Or do I lack the self-confidence to try to make this any bigger than it is (which isn't very big, yeah, she said that. Hilarious.) because I have basically no spine?

I don't know. Maybe I'll ask my PsyD guy what he thinks. I know it's supposed to be the other way 'round, but a lot of things are supposed to be.

I believe in marketing, of course, I'm just not sure I believe in marketing... me, which is, basically, what this blog is. I mean, it's not really me-- it's pieces of me, just like the film "Pieces of April" wasn't April-- it was pieces of April.

Kaite Holmes was in that. She's hot. Oliver Platt was in that, too. He's funny. He was even funny in "Frost/Nixon." I want to be in movies. And in Katie Holmes. Truthfully, though, were I given the choice to be in either, I'd choose to be in movies.

But... back to marketing.

I would never want to be in marketing. I was in retail for a little while, and that was bad enough, and I was pretty bad at being in retail. Retail involves, I believe, trust on two levels. One, the customer has to implicitly trust you, the retailer. I had no problem with this area, people implicitly trust me all the time. I don't know why-- I think it's the way I furrow my brow and turn the corners of my mouth down. The other piece of the trust-burger is that you have to trust yourself that you can sell shit you don't believe in, and not just sell it, but sell it for an unbelievable mark-up. That was where I often faltered. When I presented a pair of glasses to a customer and told them that their bill was something like a thousand dollars, I would wither and wilt like a month-old tulip.

Pathetic.

I've been thinking a lot about marketing recently. I listen to news on the radio a lot, and it seems like the Catholic Church could use some marketing assistance, from someone a lot more capable than I. Parishes are dwindling and drying up left and right, once-faithful parents all-of-a-sudden don't want priests molesting their male children anymore, and every school year it seems that more and more Catholic schools are closing their doors.

I mean, as far as the schools closing, it's obvious why. Who the fuck gets all excited about enrolling at Pope Octavius Nostradamus Pius XVII? Who wants to tell their normal friends that they attend school at the Holy Blessed Mother of the Virginal Catechism or the Lamb of God's Assumption Narthex Preschool?

I mean-- Jesus. That fucking blows.

I think, if we had some marketing experts with some actual creativity and balls that we'd come up with a plan to save our nation's Catholic schools. I mean, look around you. Look at the success of "Spiderman" on Broadway. Why the hell not capitalize on that? Can you positively imagine what enrollment would be like at "Holy Spiderman School"? You'd have kids thinking that they're going to walk on walls and ceiling and shit. Just drop a nun or a priest from the third floor every couple months, and that'll keep 'em coming back.

How about "Sister Laura Croft Middle School" as a boy's 6-8th grade school? Every class would be 100% filled, every year, without question.

Marketing isn't hard, it just takes people who aren't too lazy and complacent and proud to do it. Come on, Catholic Church. You can do this. Use your Spidey-Sense. Channel the energy in Laura Croft's fantastic tits.

Sell. Sell. Sell.

Jew Fewd

Here's a great opening sentence for a stunning, gotta-read-it blog:

"So, I was standing in my kitchen yesterday morning making a sandwich when I happened to glance at the bag holding the bread."

Whoa, right? My seventh grade English teacher would be so proud. But I think she's a prostitute by now, so her worldview may have shifted since 1993.

Anyway, I was making my sandwich in the kitchen yesterday and I glanced at the plastic bag holding the bread and it said,

"Arnold
REAL JEWISH
RYE
Seedless

Special Bread
for Special Sandwiches"

Apparently, it's also "Melba Thin," whatever the fuck that means. I mean, I know what melba toast is. People in California eat it and pretend they like it. I guess, in this context, "melba" is some kind of superlative adjective, better, of course, than being just plain old thin. I'd like to walk up to some slut on the street (my 7th grade English teacher?) and say, "Wow, honey, you're not just thin-- you're melba thin."

Now, obviously I've known before yesterday morning that there was such a thing as "Jewish" rye bread, but it never really bothered me until yesterday. I must have been on my melba period.

I don't know what exactly it was about the fact that my rye bread is "Jewish" that irritated me so. Personally, I know for a fact that this particular loaf of bread was purchased by my wife. I would never buy a loaf of bread that identified itself not only as "Jewish" but as "REAL JEWISH."

Why?

Oh, I don't know, because maybe, as a slightly stooped-over, rail-thin, bearded man with dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, bushy eyebrows and a nose upon which an overweight parrot could live comfortably alongside a small family of Mexican immigrants, I would feel kind of embarrassed and cliche buying a loaf of bread that is "REAL JEWISH."

I mean-- why do I need to do that to myself?

And so, another question becomes: what is it about this bread that makes it so, well, Jewish? It's certainly not the name of the company: Arnold. One of the teachers at my elementary school (who is most certainly not a prostitute, but is a lesbian) was named Mrs. Arnold, and she certainly wasn't Jewish. Maybe if the bread company's name was "Schmecky's" or "Blatzenblortt's" I could better understand the words "REAL JEWISH Rye" coming after its name. But, "Arnold," well, no. That I don't understand.

Then there's "Jewish Apple Cake." What is it about apples, eggs, flour, and sugar that suddenly makes something Jewish? Can't it just be apple cake? I don't get it. It's not like the apples are circumcized or have little dangly curls hanging down from their sides.

Can't we just buy bread and apple cake without having these religious affiliations? Is that really too much to ask?

I mean, I don't know about you, but I would feel kind of funny walking into a grocery store and seeing "Protestant Turkey Jerky" ("The Hard Work it Takes to Chew 'Em Will Set You Free!") or "Catholic 'Nilla Wafers" ("The Perfect At-Home Eucharist Treat!").

Actually, this is starting to sound like not such a bad idea. Maybe it's possible that I am the greatest marketing genius since Augusten Burroughs ("Refresh... mints" anybody?). Since I've now successfully convinced myself of this previously undiscovered talent, let's roll with it and see if Kraft Foods & Cigarettes, Inc. picks me up as their new talent-miser.

Ready? Let's give this a good shot. This could be the best career move of my brittle little life:

"Muslim Pork Loin -- The Best Edible Incongruity You've Never Tasted"

"Southern Baptist Fried Chicken: It's Not Offensive... It's Delicious!"

"Lutheran White Rice: So Bland it Just HAS to Be Lutheran!"

"7th Day Adventist Red Wine -- Save a Glass for Jesus, He's Comin' & He's Thirsty, Bitches!"

"Jehovah's Witness Carrots: See Jehovah Clearer with these Vision-Enhancing Treats!"

"Buddhist Cookies: Enhance Your Budda Belly with Box After Box!"

Okay, now it's your turn, kids! Create your own religiously-centered food products so we Jews don't feel like we're, um, weirdly singled out. GO!

Men + Care = Stupid

I have a confession to make:

Recently, I've been experimenting with LUNA bars to see if their consumption will result in some sort of body-altering experience. For the time being, I have yet to grow a vagina.

I thought also that utilizing Dove Beauty Body Wash Go Fresh Energize (Grapefruit and Lemongrass), massaging it over my pigeon chest might possibly cause a pair of fresh, hair covered breasts to pop out, in lactalicious glory-- but this hasn't happened yet. Just like eating "Smart Start" breakfast cereal in the morning hasn't turned me into a sixty-one-year-old woman with irritable bowel syndrome, reading glasses, and frosted hair.

I may choose to take this experiment of mine to the next level, and attempt to shave my face with a Schick Quattro for Women Trimstyle Razor for Women. Maybe I'll make it into the Guinness Book of World Records for being the first man to successfully grow a vagina on his face.

I've always thought that marketing products to men or women was kind of silly. I, of course, understand that it makes sense in clothes. I get that women's underwear is supposed to be frilly, stringy, and go straight up your asshole, and that men's underwear is supposed to have depictions of beer cans or Sponge Bob or the Playboy bunny insignia on it. I get that women's shoes are supposed to be torture devices and that men are supposed to wear Rockports. I understand all this. But I don't understand why men have to have their own soap.

Ladies, welcome to the soap you can't have, and gentlemen, your soap has come in:

Dove's "Men + Care"

According to their website, Dove's "Men + Care" delivers "the refreshing, comfortable clean men want."

Is that so? Well, Unilever, Corp., this soap was obviously designed by women because I'll be more than happy to tell you that all men want is to not smell like crotch-rot, and we can pretty much achieve that by rubbing a stalk of celery around on our taints. Why do we need your special man-boy soap? Will it somehow support and affirm our virility? Will it make our dicks longer? Because that's the other thing men want, aside from not smelling like crotch-rot. Can it do that for us, your new extendick soap? If not, then save your marketing bullshit and keep spending money putting only semi-attractive "real" women in your commercials to make yourselves feel better.

You think men are stupid and that we will buy your ridiculous man-soap. You think we're so stupid that, on your man-soap webpage, there's even a "How It Works" tab. You think we don't know how soap works? Listen-- I know how goddamn soap works, and I don't need to read your horsecaca about "micromoisture" to know that you're jacking me off and telling me it's love.

Here's a newsflash for everyone: soap is soap. Cereal is cereal. Granola goddamn bars are granola goddamn bars.

That's right, you heard it here first: on My Masonic Apron, the only blog out there written by a non-breasticated man who eats LUNA bars.

Happy Monday. Make sure you think of me next time you're rubbing some ridiculous, gender-manipulated product all over yourself in the shower.