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5:05 a.m. - 2003-12-23

WHY DO THESE BROWNIES TASTE SO WEIRD AND WHAT IS ANDY WARHOL DOING HERE?

Regarding yesterday's entry and Stanley Steamer ... they're booked through December.

I had Susie check Lowe's for a carpet cleaner. They're also all out.

Apparently people clean the shit out of their carpets around Christmas time.

No pun intended.


So my Mom, Dad and youngest sister come to town tomorrow.

And the house is a wreck.

Susie and I made a schedule that gave us assignments for each of the last few days that told us what needed cleaned when.

I finished my side of the schedule.

Susie cleaned her closet.

Which wasn't even on the schedule.

So today I need to start working on her side of the schedule.

I've got a dining room, kitchen, work station, den and bedroom to clean up.

The den can wait until tomorrow.

Wait.

Why the hell am I telling you all this?

How many of you are sitting there, wanting to know my cleaning schedule?

My God.

Have I gone mad?

And if so ... can I get a Xanax?


Speaking of getting royally fucked up, I went to my boy Mattie Gee's house Sunday night for a quiet little get-together Christmas party.

A dear friend of mine by the name of Amy brought some brownies to the party.

They tasted a bit funny.

Thirty minutes later, I was having an in-depth conversation with Mattie Gee's fireplace mantle asking it why it hated me so much.

"What was in those brownies?" I asked Amy.

"Hmmmm..." she said. "Eggs, sugar, pot, flour, and chocolate chips."

"Ahhh," I said. "That would explain my insatiable urge to strip naked and sing the Gettysburg Address opera-style."

I'm not sure if any of you have ever ingested a pan full of pot brownies unwillingly.

But the result can be a wee bit on the terrifying side.

Soon, everyone was watching a James Bond movie on the TV and zoning out.

Naturally, I was sure that James Bond was after me. I apparently had some sort of secret that Bond wanted badly.

While I'm sitting there quietly, trying to come up with a foolproof plan to foil James Bond which keeps revolving around the words "Go hide in a closet", there's a loud knock at the door.

Naturally, this makes me jump up and immediately start searching frantically for the nearest closet.

Because the last thing I want is to be arrested for eating a brownie which I had no idea contained marijuana. I take that back. The last thing I want is to become a prison-yard bitch for eating a brownie which I had no idea contained marijuana.

Now that I no longer flirt with Mary Jane on a regular basis, the one or two times a year that I do, I usually end up extremely paranoid.

The statuesque female at the front door is named Erin. And luckily for me, she's a friend of Mattie Gee's. I will refrain from being too crass ... but if he ain't hittin' that thang...by God, he oughtta be.

Oops. I don't think I've mentioned, but Mattie Gee is divorced now. For those of you who were ready to send me an email saying "But isn't Mattie Gee married?" Not anymore. He's a free man in a hip swinging pad with access to pot brownies that once ingested make you want to hump a coffee table.

I am apparently the only one who hasn't officially met Erin at the party, so I introduce myself.

"Hello," I said, extending my hand. "I'm Harrison Ford. Not that Harrison Ford ... the guy from your third grade. I'm the movie star Harrison Ford."

She giggled. The kind of giggle that tells a guy who's just ingested 11 pot brownies, "If you weren't married, I'd make your toes curl until they snapped off the ends of your feet."

"I'm Erin," she said, lightly shaking my hand and gazing as deep as possible into my barely open eyes. "I loved you in 'Star Wars'."

"Please," I said. "Let's not talk about my storied film career. Let's talk about that bootylicious thang you got following behind you in your rump section."

Matt quickly escorted Erin away from my sexy grip. I think he could sense that I could charm the pants off the girl and she was there to be his woman, not mine. Mine was home scrubbing yet another enzyme into the carpet to remove shit stains. I couldn't charm her with a fur coat and diamond earrings at that moment.

As the night progressed, and I found myself wading through a sea of Captain Morgan's and Diet Cherry Coke, I ended up making sweet, sweet love to Mattie Gee's shitfree carpet while onlookers looked on. Eventually, everyone grew tired of my shenanigans and people began leaving couple by couple. It wasn't until yesterday that I realized they weren't really leaving, but rather going back to Matt's bedroom, pretending to leave so that I would finally leave.

I gave Matt several hugs, told him what a great guy he was, gave him the manicure set that I won in Dirty Santa last week and stumbled home.

Susie was laying in bed when I crashed into the bedroom door and fell on the floor.

"How was the party?" she asked.

"It was mmmfuhrribbletum," I vouched. "Do we have scrumbbah roomahtooze?"

"In the drawer by the sink," she said.

"Ruh ruh," I thanked her.

That night I had a really strange dream that consisted of Phyllis Diller jabbing at her tonsils with a rusted fork.

I woke up to Andrew standing at the foot of the bed, coughing like he had swallowed Donald Duck.

The kid's cough is now officially a death rattle. The grim reaper is pacing back and forth on my front porch, checking his watch every 30 seconds and mentally juggling his appointment book.

Merry Christmas!

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