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5:49 a.m. - 2003-03-06

RAINDROPS KEEP FALLING ON MY HEAD

Seeing as how I've basically turned my back on the Catholic Church in the last few years, I literally have nowhere to go but here to confess my sins.

Ready?

I've never been able to successfully masturbate in the shower.

I see it in the movies all the time. "American Beauty" was the first for me that gave it a certain amount of screen time. There's Kevin Spacey, whacking it silly in the shower.

I saw the movie, I went home and tried it.

Nothing.

I received "The Rules of Attraction" from Swappingtons the other day. I was watching the movie and one of the guys is pulling a Spacey in the shower.

Last night, I'm showering and soaping up. Mrs. Bob was on the phone, Andrew was in bed.

I think to myself, "Dammit. You're a grown man. You should be able to masturbate in the shower with fervor! You should be splashing your jizz all over this $2,000 marble shower! Now do it boy! DO IT!!"

Nothing. Not even an erection.

And I figured it out. I figured out why.

My (former) Catholic guilt will not let me waste water and energy from the water heater to self-satisfy myself.

I'm not sure exactly how much a 15 minute hot shower ultimately costs. It might cost 15 cents. It might cost $35. I have no clue as to which.

My mother NEVER let us take long showers growing up. Anybody taking more than five minutes was yelled at to hurry up and shut off the water.

That has to be it. Even today, I get in there, get clean and get out.

Thanks Mom.

You've not only destroyed my psyche but also apparently have deprived me of one of the great pleasures in a male's life if I put any kind of credence into the wonderful world of celluloid.

And keep in mind ... I'm 41 now. I don't masturbate much anymore. My sexual peak was 23 years ago. Whereas the average 18 year-old male thinks about sex every nine seconds, I only think about it when I see "Good Times" star Esther Rolle on an old rerun.

Gimme dat big black bootay, Florida Evans. You KNOW you want to.


I was working on my resume last night because the general opinion floating around the workplace is that we're not going to make payroll today and that the final days of the business are now here.

I've always had Susie's mom do my resume. She used to be a professional resume writer and really does a decent job at it.

But, because I need this resume sometime before 2005, I thought I'd give it a shot myself.

Damn.

I can NOT do this.

I can NOT take what I do and make it sound important enough to the point that it requires a certain amount of skill to be successful at it.

I interview people.

I then write a story about their company based on my notes.

I then interview another person and write another story about another company based on my other notes.

I then interview another person and write another story about another company based on my other notes.

Et cetera.

I've written about eight books with this company. I just want to walk into some office somewhere, hand over one of the books and say "There's my resume, dude. Take it or leave it."

And they say "WE'LL TAKE IT!!!"

And because of my knowledge and experience in the field, I'm able to leap past the other employees and settle in to my brand new cushy position as HEAD fry cook.

I will serve no fries before their time.

That's my new credo for my next job.


So yesterday, I had this patch of tiny whiskers growing along the edge of my lower lip that I forgot to shave.

I'm really squeamish about shaving near my lips. I don't expect you ladies to understand, but when you slice a lip open with a razor, it hurts like hell.

Usually I do it, but I do it very carefully. Short little strokes around my big assed Steven Tyler-sized lips.

But yesterday I was running late and shaved very quickly and as a result…the inch-long patch of whiskers.

It bugged me to death yesterday. I bet I spent 16 out of the 18 hours that I was awake stroking this patch and feeling like a disheveled freak.

It's still there today. And sure enough...I can't quit fingering the thing.

Unless I'm in the shower. And then there's no fingering. It's strictly soap up, rinse off, get out.

Yeah.

That's what this diary has come to. Me talking about patches of beard that I missed while shaving.

Yet…here you are like Pavlov's Dog…salivating your ass off.

What's wrong with this picture?


Have I ever shared with you people the fact that I couldn't grow a beard to save my life?

No?

Well, I can't.

I've still got a freakin' baby face at 41.

I remember as a teenager, I kept thinking "Someday I'll wake up and have hair on my chest and arms and legs and a face full of stubble."

Nope.

Never happened.

My arms and legs are as hairless as a newborn Chihuahua.


My buddy Billy called me yesterday to tell me A) he's lined up a deejay gig for me next weekend (thank God) and B) he's been approached to host a cable access local morning show and he wants me to be his co-host.

Personally, I don't think it will happen. Billy's a great guy, one of the nicest guys I know. But he's not the most reliable guy on the planet. I'm not calling him a liar … he's not a liar. He just tends to misinterpret what people say to him. Like if someone said "Have you seen that new cable access local morning show yet?", he'll think they said "Would you like to host a new cable access local morning show?"

We've discussed doing this before. Years ago when I was co-hosting some local cable access shows, I got in good with the people at the TV studios and some of the hosts of the other shows.

One day, a host couldn't make it to the studio in time to do the live show, so she called me to fill in for her.

I called Billy because he always said he thought we'd be a great team doing it.

It's one of the few times that I was on television and it didn't get taped.

And it happened to be the most fun I ever had on TV.

I remember some concerned mother called in about her son's obsession with Marilyn Manson (it was a call-in show, in case you need to be told every single obvious detail) and we spent a long time talking about kids today and their obsessions with freakish rock stars. And Billy and I "play-argued" throughout the show. And some guys I worked with called and tried to disguise their voices and I hung up on them on the air before they could say anything that would make me look like a bigger dork than I already did.

Anyway…that could happen. Billy says that the show already has a corporate sponsor to pay for the airtime.

But I'm not holding my breath.

Even if it happens and I go back to co-hosting lame cable access shows for a living … I'm still not holding my breath.

Because it's simply not anything worth holding my breath for.


That's it for today.

I've got an episode of "Fraternity Life" to watch and scribble notes on.

Is anybody even watching this crapfest?

Gah.

"Fraternity Life" is proof that not everyone has what it takes to be a reality TV star.

It's probably just a matter of time before one of them gets caught masturbating in the shower.

And at that point...there I'll be... scampering off to the bathroom to give it one more whirl.

Damned reality television.

I curse you with my shaking fist!!!

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