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5:47 a.m. - 2002-03-05

HEY UNCLE BOB, SHOW MY FRIENDS HOW YOU CAN LIGHT A CIGARETTE

Ummmm...okay.

So I go to the doctor yesterday. He's impressed with my weight loss (holding at 21 lbs. lost since September...I expected more and could have lost more if I didn't have the willpower of a chain smoker when it comes to food). He basically checks me out and says I'm doing great.

Wonderful.

So I decide to tell him of my ummmmmm....embarrassing problem.

...You know...the one I didn't really want to go into here yesterday?

"Doc," I said. "It uhhhhhh...it burns when I urinate."

"Bad?" he asked.

"Not bad," I said. "But it makes me want to scream out 'Jesus God, Mama...MAKE IT STOP!!' every time I go to the bathroom."

"How long has this been going on?" he asked.

"Since I was diagnosed," I said.

"Since you started taking the medication?" he asked.

2+2=4.

"Uhhhhhh...yeah," I said, slowly figuring out the problem myself.

"We're going to change your medication," he said. "It's most likely a side effect of the Avandia."

I exhaled sharply.

"You think that's it?" I asked.

"Most likely," he said, scrawling out a prescription in this gawdawful chicken scratch handwriting that all doctors have. "Unless you've been having unprotected sex with someone other than your wife."

"Heh," I laughed nervously. "Me? Never!"

He looked at me.

And I broke down.

I told him about my retarded Mexican prostitute fetish. And how anytime I ran across a heavily made-up drooling whore named Consuela that I had the uncontrollable urge to nail her like an epileptic carpenter.

Okay. Not really.

So my burning pee is a result of the medication.

I was kinda hoping that was it. I was hoping I didn't have to get the greatest penis known to man amputated and put on display in the Smithsonian next to John Dillinger's penis.

The medication.

How foolish of me.

So you guys can make fun of me all you want now. Call me "Ol' Lighter Fluid Dick" I don't care. Or maybe "Chief Fire Prick". It's no skin off my back.

Because in a few days, it will no longer hurt.

And I will have the last laugh.

Oh yes. Yes I will.

...And I won't have to gingerly rub my penis while having that last laugh either.


Sooooo...

You call yourself a writer??

You think...wow...I have what it takes to write something that will charm the socks off of the world. If only I had the means to get it out where a ton of people would actually see it. Yeah. If I could just do that, I'd be bathing in the accolades that noted writers must bathe in 24-7.

Well, have I got the answer for you, Mr. Talk To Yourself A Little Too Much.

There's this website...see? It's called Seasons For Writing. And it's having a contest.

A contest for writers. Writers like you. Or maybe that guy next to you. Possibly your aunt. You know...the crazy aunt with all the cats and the empty milk jugs hanging from the awning on her front door. Yeah. That one.

The contest is a Mother's Day-themed writing contest. They're accepting poetry, short stories and essays with CASH PRIZES, people.

You mean to tell me that somebody is willing to pay cash for the crap you churn out on a daily basis?!?

DAMNED SKIPPY!

The submission deadline is April 7th, so you need to get on the ball and write a loving tribute to your mother. Or, if Mama was a crackhead who left you in a laundromat for retarded Mexican prostitutes to raise...you can write about your bitter hatred for her. It works both ways!

If you're interested in winning cash for something you would have been writing for free, send an E-mailto the editor here.

This has not been a paid announcement.

But man...it shoulda been.


That's about all I have time for this morning.

The boy woke up early and I had to go and watch cartoons with him while we waited for Mama to shower and get ready to take her shift with him while I finished this.

So I need to go be a good daddy and hang with the wife and kid.

I hope you understand.

If not, I don't really care.

Family comes first in this diary.

Sorry that you have to be the one who suffers.

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