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4:06 a.m. - 2005-10-31

HOW DO YOU TURN YOUR INTERNAL ALARM CLOCK BACK AN HOUR?


"Don't forget to turn your clocks back an hour tonight!" the chirpy goddamned weatherman said. "Everyone gets an extra hour of sleep!!"

Fuck you, Weatherman.

I have an internal alarm clock that doesn't have a reset button.

So while the rest of you skankbaits get that extra hour of sleep, my grumpy ass is waking up at 3:30 in the morning wondering how the hell I'm supposed to fall back asleep.

Oh! I know how!!

I'll just fall asleep at an inappropriate time ... like 6 p.m. tonight during dinner!

Oh! Wait!

I've got a frat party to DJ tonight, 100 miles from home!

I'll be getting home roughly 22 hours from now!!

Wheeeeee!!!!

Thank you Central Standard Time for kicking me in the nuts until I bleed profusely!!

Thanks a heap!!



We went to our church's Fall Festival last night because heaven forbid we teach children to go trick-or-treating because trick-or-treating is for kids who believe in DA DEBBIL!!!

You'se goin' to HAIL if you go trick-or-treatin' 'cos Halloween is THE DEVIL'S HOLIDAY!!!

...Welcome to the new South. Where ignorance is not only bliss, it's mandatory.

Anyway ... we get there and there's roughly 16 billion people there playing 25 different games.

See ... kids play games like "Ring Toss On The Cross", "Pin the Beard On Jesus" and "Tom Cruise Is Going To Burn In Hell" at the Fall Festival each year in order to win candy.

I guess this teaches kids that you have to actually work for your candy rather than just walk door-to-door and say "Load 'er up" while holding out a plastic Walmart bag.

The only problem is ... there's about eleventy billion people in every line.

So we find the shortest line with ten billion people in it and begin our wait for Andrew to earn his candy.

By the way, Andrew is a pirate this year.

This has no bearing on the story whatsoever ... I just wanted the opportunity to post a picture of him and give everyone the opportunity to see that my son has no idea how to pose for a photo.

So while we're waiting for him to get a plastic pumpkin full of goodies, we manage to see every single person I've been dreading seeing for years.

There was the ex-boyfriend of my sister who, during one of their many frequent breakup periods, I managed to label a "Loser Dick" to my sister for his reluctance to marry her.

Which, a week later when they got back together, she told him I had called him a loser dick and he was pretty offended by it.

"Oh! Hey Loser Dick! Just standing here, waiting in line for my son to get some candy! How are you?"

(Uncomfortable glaring followed by gritting of the teeth and smoke coming out his nostrils, ears and eyes)

After about a 20 minute wait in the first line we got to the front of the line.

This was a putting contest. Putt the ball in the cup and you get a prize.

Don't putt it in the cup and you still get a prize. This is God's house. Everyone's a winner. You know ... except for the fat kid in the wheelchair with the broken leg dressed as Luke Skywalker. Way to save the universe, Crip!

Andrew, whose golf skills are about as polished as his dating skills, proceeds to "sweep" the ball into the hole with the club.

After about 11 tries, he swept it into the hole.

He's then told to "get a prize" out of the nearby box.

He goes to the box.

Guess what, people that weren't there last night??

NO CANDY.

Instead, there's a box full of keychains with plastic crosses attached to them.

Christian Key Chains.

Thanks for waiting 20 minutes to sweep a ball in a cup! Here's some CRAP for your efforts!!

This kind of sucked because I had promised Andrew he would get some candy.

But game after game after game ... no candy.

Oh sure.

We got about 20 "W.W.J.D." bracelets, a Lilo and Stitch Happy Meal Piece Of Crap and a mini-Slinky ripoff with an image of Heaven painted on it.

But no candy.

Andrew was as frustrated as I was because there's only so much room on a preschooler's arm for Jesus bracelets.

So after 90 minutes of these charades, we ducked out before the pastor could start hitting everyone up for money to pay for the W.W.J.D. bracelets.

We came home.

And we opened up that big Tootsie Roll Assortment Bag Of Sugar so Andrew could have the candy I had promised him.

The one we were saving for the trick-or-treaters.

But since I've got a gig tonight and Susie's going to be taking Andrew door-to-door like the little Pagan that he is, that candy's not going into any grubby little paws tonight anyway.

Fuck you, trick-or-treaters!!!

Egg my house and you're DEAD MEAT!!!



I did a party Saturday morning.

It was a company picnic held outside because if it had been held inside it wouldn't have been a picnic. It would have been what they call "lunch".

Anyway, last week I called the woman in charge and made sure that I'd be in a covered area (in case of rain) and I'd have a table set up for me.

"No problem," said the lady.

I get there, find the lady and ask where I'm going to be setting up.

Here's the skinny, shorty ... no covered area and no table. Sorry.

"No problem," I said, repeating what she had told me a few days earlier. "Just pay me my money and I'll leave since you breached our verbal contract."

Actually ... I just said no problem and set up my own table that I always bring in case somebody breaches our verbal contract.

Since it was a beautiful day with not a cloud in the sky, I knew I wouldn't need a covered area anyway.

Yeah.

About an hour into the gig, my face started getting warm from the exposure to the sun.

At FOUR HOURS into the gig, pus was oozing from every orifice in my head as my face had been burnt to a crisp.

This morning, my face is scaly and wet from whatever fluids are seeping out of it.

It hurts to think ... THAT'S how bad I'm sunburned.

I'm thinking about showing up for the Halloween gig tonight in just my street clothes and telling everyone I'm dressed as a fat Satan.

Yeah.

That's what college kids want today ... a fat, middle-aged guy whose face is beet red, crusty and oozing, throwing down the jamz at their Halloween party.

No wonder I'm in such high demand.


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