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8:25 a.m. - 2004-05-19

ANGRY AND ELDERLY ... THAT'S ME

I'm getting old.

I mean ... I'm already old technically. But now I'm starting to do old things.

Here's the skinny, chubby ... I love doing yard work now.

I have always hate, hate hated yard work.

Despised the shit.

But I bought a new spreader a few weeks ago that spreads shit. Like Turf Builder and that kinda stuff.

So I spread out some weed and feed first.

Then some turf builder (with iron because my yard has earned it).

And now I'm getting this lush green yard in the middle of one of the worst droughts ever.

All the neighbors are starting to compliment the yard. The other night, a neighbor said "Gosh, you have the best looking yard on the block!"

I tried my damndest to blush and go "Awwwww ... no I don't!"

...But secretly ... I do have the best looking yard on the block.

My neighbor Troy had the best looking yard last summer.

But this summer he hasn't put as much into his yard work because they have a new baby and the baby is sucking up his allotted yard work time.

I knew this would happen.

Which is why I came in the back door and made my yard the best looking yard.

Don't believe me?

Well then ... just see for yourself, Mister!!

Hey!!

What the .... ?!?!

SONOFABITCH!!

Okay, when I started typing this entry, I had no idea what the hell was going on next door.

I swear to GOD, this wasn't planned.

But here's the photo:

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sonofabitch...

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As you can see ... SOMEBODY (i.e. my neighbor) couldn't STAND the fact that my yard was lush and green so he had to go and call the motherfucking Lawn Doctor to come out and fix his shit up.

Grrrrrr...

This will NOT go without incident!

I'm going to put some chemicals down in his yard in the dead of night that will kill his yard.

NO ONE SHALL HAVE GRASS AS GREEN AS MINE!!!

Goddamned neighbors.

Yeah.

So anyway, the grass in the foreground ... that's mine. The green stuff.

You look down the street and everyone else has brownish grass.

...Even the cock knocker next door who is now CHEATING to get grass as green as mine.

Dammit.

I need to go pork his old lady or something to get back at him.

HOW DARE HE!?!?!


Welllll ... I had a feeling it might happen.

The company that I was telemarketing for ... the one that raises money for Gerri's Kids ... they called wanting me to come back to work for them.

As a telemarketer.

I politely said that I could do it maybe two days a week, but not full time.

Knowing they wouldn't go for that. It's either full time or no time when you're dealing with Da Kids.

The girl said "Oh! Well we may be able to do that! Let me talk to some people and get back to you!"

Twenty four hours later, nobody's gotten back with me.

Good.

I HATE telemarketing.


I had a miserable fucking night last night at the club.

I've really gotten to the point where I hate the club that I first started working at because I've realized what a shit hole it is after working in the other club which is nice, clean and smoke-free.

The original club is full of miserable old alcoholic fuckers who just want to come in and stare at their drinks while they mumble to themselves, wondering at what exact point did their lives hit this downward spiral of misery that they are currently riding.

So anyway, I get there last night and we actually had a decent crowd for a Tuesday night.

I go to the DJ booth and there's no karaoke stuff in there.

Which pisses me off even though it shouldn't because there's NEVER any Karaoke stuff in there. We share the karaoke stuff with another nightclub in town and it's always over there because the fucking manager doesn't have the foresight to bring the stuff BACK over to our club for Tuesday night karaoke.

So I walk over to the manager who's behind the bar, sigh really loudly and say "I'm going to the other bar to get the karaoke stuff which isn't here even though it SHOULD be."

She just grins that ugly assed grin of hers and said "Okay baybeee".

(She calls everyone "baybeee" because its her way of flirting and getting tips since she bartends too. Plus, you don't have to commit people's names to memory when you call everyone baybeee.)_

So I go over to the other club, see the box with the karaoke discs and books in it, grab it and go back to my club.

I get back there and while I was gone, somebody had put about $81 in the jukebox.

I learned the hard way that I do NOT play music while the jukebox is playing. People get PISSED when you do that.

So I wait.

And wait.

And then ... just for kicks ... I wait some more.

Finally ... at 9:10 p.m. ... one hour and 10 minutes after I was supposed to start playing, the jukebox went silent and I started playing.

I got on the mic and told everyone that I had the karaoke books and discs and if anyone wanted to sing karaoke, they could come up and pick a song.

Naturally, the only person who wanted to sing was Strokey ... the recent stroke victim who considers this his therapy.

Yep. Singing karaoke while guzzling beer is his way of getting his body and speech patterns back in shape.

So Strokey picks out his favorite: "He Stopped Loving Her Today" by George Jones.

I go to fish the Karaoke disc out of the case.

Whoops.

The box is full of Karaoke books.

But no discs.

Somebody was fucking with me over at the other club.

I grumble and go back to the manager and explain to her that the discs weren't in the box like normal so I had to go BACK to the other club to get the discs.

"Okay baybeeee".

I go back to the other club in the pouring rain and finally find the discs and then drive back to my club.

It's now 9:35.

I walk in and lo and behold ... somebody's playing the jukebox again.

Sonofabitch.

I wait 15 minutes for that shit to finally stop (Apparently somebody hadn't heard "My Girl" enough times in their life so they played it twice on the jukebox) and then cue up Strokey's tune.

Strokey hits the mic.

And he does George Jones in a grating monotone usually reserved for eulogies.

He stops and I get on the mic and encourage the crowd on hand to give it up for Strokey.

Nobody claps.

Miserable drunk motherfuckers.

I ask if anyone has any requests and it's deadly silent in the room.

Fine.

So I put on Eminem's "Without Me", follow it up with Nelly's "Hot In Herre" and then segue into Coolio's "1,2,3,4".

Everything's going smooth. Nobody's dancing but I wasn't expecting these lame ass fuckwits to venture too far from their alcohol to come and dance anyway.

Then a woman nearing 60 walks up.

"Everyone in the building wants to know why you're playing this shit?" she asked.

"Wow. Did you take a poll of everyone in the building?" I countered.

"Well ... everyone at my table," she said, gesturing to two rednecks and a drunken barfly at her table.

"Do you have anything in particular you would like to hear?" I asked nicely.

"Just ... country music. And maybe some rock you can dance to," she offered.

"I have you covered on country music," I said. "But could you be more specific about what rock you'd like to hear?"

"I don't know," she said. "Something we can dance to."

"Are you planning on dancing?" I asked.

"No," she said. "My friends don't like to dance."

Soooo ... I'm supposed to play some music ... I don't know WHICH music ... to play for a bunch of people that aren't going to dance to dance to.

Simple enough.

I played Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock and Roll".

This INFURIATED one of the truck stop cap wearing rednecks at her table who decided to show off for the trailer trash princess by giving the DJ a piece of his mind.

"What in the fuck is this shit?" he asked loudly.

"Your friend wanted to hear some rock and roll that she could dance to even though she's not going to dance," I said. "This seemed to fit the bill."

"Play some goddamned country music," he snarled. "Nobody wants to hear this shit."

(Somewhere in Michigan, Bob Seger is sobbing quietly)

I then played enough country music to make even the staunchest country music fan puke.

And while the white trash didn't dance or even acknowledge the songs I was playing, they did manage to stay far away from me the rest of the night.

Which was only an hour more as the manager wanted to shut the place down early so she could go get her drink on elsewhere.

Whatever.

I still got paid for four hours work even though I only technically worked for a little over an hour.

Which isn't bad.

Until you realize that hour was spent listening to stroke victims mangle classic country songs and dealing with violent rednecks trying to impress the roadside prostitutes they've managed to smooth talk.

I need to rewrite Toby Keith's song "I Love This Bar".

And call it "I Hate This Fucking Shithole".

I bet it'd sell a million copies.

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