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4:32 a.m. - 2002-09-18

WELCOME HOME!

Hi, I'm Uncle Bob!

You might remember me from such entries as "A Very Special McDonald's Story" and "Why I Hate Blow Jobs", both written in 2000, when I was inherently funnier and didn't have such a sour outlook on life.

Well, I'm back!!

Now granted ... being gone from Diaryland for four days for most people is no big deal. Hell...updating every four days is par for the course for your average Diaryland nitwit.

But me? Well hell ... I'm an "every dayer", which means you get a diary entry from me whether I had an exciting, captivating day or sat around all day, juggling my balls.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the Internet ... I BOUGHT A FREAKIN' HOUSE!

We're now in the house and I'm writing this from my spacious new office which smells of new paint and new carpeting. My wife is sound asleep behind me in my recliner because (apparently) she had one of her nightly coughing fits around 1 a.m. and I must have lovingly told her "If you don't stop coughing right now, I'm yanking both your lungs out of your ass."

But just because you're firmly entrenched in your dream home doesn't exactly mean that the dreams are alive and kicking. Oh no! Why, we may have just invested unwisely in the 2002 remake of "The Money Pit"!!

Here's a list off the top of my head of the things that have gone wrong in the last 12 hours or so.

A) We didn't take our dog to the pound a few months ago like I threatened we would because I'm a damned softie.

Susie brings the dog to the house last night about 7 p.m.

By 9 p.m. ... and I swear to you, this is NO exaggeration...the dog had peed FIVE FUCKING TIMES on the carpet.

Read that again...FIVE FUCKING TIMES in TWO FUCKING HOURS.

On our BRAND NEW carpet.

The first time, I explained to the wife in a tone that could no way be misconstrued as "inviting" that the dog was going to the pound today.

The fifth time I stepped in a small puddle of dog urine in the dining room and calmly told the wife "Found another one".

Apparently, the dog is "marking her territory".

Apparently, the dog has "no fucking concept of how lucky she is to still be breathing this morning."

I was understandably livid when I watched her squat in the den and squirt some urine out. This is the dog that I have been trying to get rid of since March, but have waged a battle with the Mrs. whose battle cry has remained "But how can you get rid of her? Don't you love her?"

It's kinda like a sixth grade relationship with your first girlfriend. At first you think that you love this person with all of your heart and that you will never ever leave them.

Eventually, that love goes away with time.

That's what I'm going through right now. The dog loves me unconditionally. And I want her to die a slow and painful death while being strapped to a blazing furnace.

To her benefit, each urine sample left on the floor was the size of a half dollar and everything came up. We just don't have any cleaners in the house yet and have been dabbing at everything with wet rags.

I have no idea where she's at this morning. She's somewhere in this house, but she normally sleeps on my side of the bed. She wasn't there this morning.

Maybe she crawled off to the dining room and committed doggie suicide. Licked her ass to death or something.


The water pressure in my fabulous $2,000 marble shower??

WHAT water pressure?!?

Now granted...we're used to these vibrating massage heads on our shower that make me feel like a natural woman when I cram them up my ass ... not these regular old shower heads.

I took a shower last night, but didn't really feel clean afterwards. Then again, I was hurrying because the kid was screaming, the dog was howling and shooting hot sprays of piss everywhere and Susie was at her wit's end.

Maybe this morning it will be better.

Or maybe I just blew $2,000 like a whore blows a businessman from out of town. Quickly, efficiently and with as little semen dripping from my chin as possible.


We had the world's slowest cable guy come to the house to hook us up yesterday.

First, he was supposed to be here between 2 and 4 yesterday.

He comes rolling up at 4:40.

He leaves at 8:45 last night. Only because he was "in a hurry".

I asked him to set my wife up with a separate email account before he left because ... as simple as that may be for some of you...it's difficult as hell for me.

He sat down at the computer and tried. He really tried.

But the computer kept crashing on him. He explained to me that it would be like that for a few days until they sent someone out to our neighborhood to fix something on the box outside because this is a new house and a new neighborhood and something on the box outside needs to be fixed because all new houses in all new neighborhoods need their boxes fixed because it has something to do with everything being new.

And nothing to do with his incompetence.

He then had me sign some form that said I was happy with his service.

Oh yeah, bud. Color me tickled shitless with your level of service. You're right up there with the pleasant smiling fucks that cover my McDonald's hamburgers with globs of saliva because I ask for them without pickles.

I was so damned tired and ready for him to leave that I signed the thing.

He leaves, we check our cable to see if we got the same "Free Movie Channels" stuff that Mattie Gee got when he moved in behind us two weeks prior.

Sure enough...we have every single movie channel available.

I cackle with glee while stepping in pee and clap my hands frantically like your average winner at the Special Olympics.

Fifteen minutes later, the movie channels disappear.

As does the cable. The screen goes blank.

Cable's out on the box in the den. The cable in my office works fine. I'd check the bedrooms, but the Cable Guy didn't "have time" to hook up the other TVs. He told me...he literally told me...to "hook them up yourself".

I asked if there was a charge for having extra TVs hooked up in my house and he said there was but "everyone does it".

Naturally, I think the dog has urinated on some wires and short-circuited the cable in my den. I go on a rampage, trying to find the dog so I can kick her ribcage in when I find her asleep on the kitchen floor.

I stand there silently with my fists on my hips and debate on kicking her in the ribcage anyway, but my Christian morals win the battle of whether to beat my dog senseless or not for something she didn't do and I walk away.

Plus...hell...she's SLEEPING. If I wake her up, she's bound to piss on something.


Anyway...the house is full of boxes. The garage is full of boxes.

It's 5 a.m. and I have to get outside and water all the shrubs so they don't die and then start the sprinklers.

Since I opted not to spend an extra couple of grand for an underground sprinkler system, I have to move the sprinklers every 30 minutes.

Because if you don't and let the sprinklers sit there and water the same area for ... ohhh....two hours and 17 minutes like I did yesterday....the grass dies.

Another helpful gardening tip from your old Uncle Bob.

You know...the new dumbass in the neighborhood with patches of brown, soggy grass everywhere in his yard.


All in all...I think we're glad to be here.

Oh...after closing, we found out the payments on this house, and they're only $50 a month more than what we were paying to live in the ghetto.

For $50 a month more, there's no drive-by shootings, no nosy assed neighbors, plenty of room, a deluxe home theater, two extra bedrooms, a marble shower, a jacuzzi tub, a two-car garage, a spacious personal office, and a half-acre lot.

I should have done this years ago.


That's it. Seriously...I've got to get outside and water shrubs.

Oh...I've got tonsillitis. I caught it from Susie. I'm averaging about three hours of sleep a night now because it feels like I'm swallowing rusty razor blades every time I swallow in my sleep and it keeps waking me up.

I've got to make a doctor's appointment today.

GOT TO.


And finally...no....Weetabix did NOT write this entry.

An astute eye could have detected that because there's not one single reference to breasts or ovaries in the entire entry.

Duh.

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