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6:47 a.m. - 2007-02-07

DOCTOR KNOWS BEST


Went to the doctor Monday afternoon who told me (and I quote) "This isn't a fucking cold, you moron ... you have bronchitis. Haven't you noticed every time you cough it sounds like you're trying to pass a gallon of potato salad out of your lungs?? Jesus ... a cold is a few sniffles and sneezes ... you're practically vomiting every time you breath ... you have no business leaving the house!"

So I'm staying home today for the second day in a row and having some chemical cocktails which will make me loopier than a fifth-grade girl's handwriting.

I'm taking four pills a day that "may cause drowsiness".

Yeah.

And Hitler "may cause dissent".

I took them Monday night and the next thing I knew I felt like I was trying to talk with a whole meat loaf in my mouth.

Nothing I said was making sense and I couldn't for the life of me understand why the television in the den kept crawling across the room to ask me if I was okay.

"I'm fine, TV," I'd say.

"Okay. Cool. I was just checking," the TV would say and then would slowly reverse back up into the entertainment center for a few minutes until it became concerned again moments later and would start the whole charade over again.

Goddamned TV. I know ... I know ... it means well. But Jesus ... sometimes I wish it could just take "I'm fine" for an answer.


Susie and I did another Bridal Fair this past weekend.

This was a "First Annual" Bridal Fair and I was appointed to play the music throughout the Fair.

This is a nice distinction and allows me the opportunity to show the brides what kind of music I can do for them, thus giving me a good advantage over my competitors.

Well.

Apparently the guy who put the Bridal Fair told ALL the DJs they could play music throughout the Fair.

So there were four DJs, all trying to get louder than the other three.

I cornered the guy in charge and said "What gives? You told me I could play the music for the fair. Only one DJ is supposed to be playing."

"I changed my mind," he said. "I told them all they could play their music."

"Ummmmm ... no," I said. "At bridal fairs, you have one DJ supplying the music for a reason. All of the DJs understand this. Then, each year, you rotate out whose turn it is to do it next year."

"Well, those are the OTHER Bridal Fair rules," he sniffed. "These are MY rules."

Oh.

It's like THAT, is it??

I honestly thought I was going to have to bust out some serious 30 year-old Kung Fu moves that I learned from my book "Basic Kung Fu Moves" I had back in '77.

Sadly, I couldn't find any blocks of wood or cement to bust.

Susie was F-U-R-I-O-U-S.

"I'm going to slap the shit out of that guy by the end of the day," she huffed. "This is NOT RIGHT. What are you going to do?"

I smiled and said "Leave it up to me."

Five minutes later, In Charge Guy waltzes past.

"Oh hey," I said. "Just wanted to let you know that the customers are complaining."

"What?!?" he said with his ever-present dramatic flair.

"Yeah," I said. "Three brides have come up complaining that they're being hit with loud music everywhere they go and they can't hear the vendors and are ready to leave."

"EEK!" the guy actually squeaked.

"And you TOLD me that I was the guy playing the music," I reiterated. "So if I were you, I'd go tell the other guys to turn down their music, or this is going to be a bust QUICKLY."

And he did just that.

Suddenly, the only music you could hear was mine.

And I cranked that baby to the MAX!

And everyone hummed along to Anne Murray's "Could I Have This Dance".

It was an exercise in tacky southern crappy bridal music.



Did okay there ... got four parties off of the day, which is good.

The other DJs didn't get anything, but they said that "Just being seen is enough".

Yeah.

Kinda like "Just being nominated is an honor".

Except nobody pays you for "being seen".


One of my old arch-nemesis was there.

While I don't know her actual name, I've always referred to her as "That Stinky-Assed Cigarette Smoking Gutter Slut".

Which is not really a fair nickname because I don't know if her ass is stinky, and I feel pretty confident that she's not a slut and if she was, she probably doesn't lay in the gutters of the city, begging to give blowjobs.

But she DOES smell like stale cigarette smoke from head to toe.

Y'know ... some cigarette smokers can get away with smoking and not stinking.

Those are the people who are not chain smokers and when they do smoke, they smoke in well-ventilated areas.

This lady smells like she has 37 full ashtrays in her closet and dumps old butts out in the pockets of her clothes to give them the sweet-sweet scent of half-burnt tobacco and nicotine.

I see this women at various social events around town and for some ungodly reason, she always feels the need to come over to me and start babbling about whatever the hell she's been doing lately.

To reiterate ... I do NOT know this woman's name.

So at the bridal fair we're talking (it's her niece getting married, blah blah blah) and she's telling her niece how great I am, blah blah blah and I'm all breathing through my mouth because my sinuses are stuffed tighter than a U-Haul in Texas with a hundred Mexicans in the back.

Keep in mind ... I can't fucking breathe.

In addition, my taste buds are on vacation which is another story for another time in another galaxy.

So I can't breathe, I can't smell ... and yet ... this woman's scent makes its way in to my sinuses and is about as welcome as a KKK member at an NAACP meeting.

I am practically choking while she invades my personal space talking about politics.

Finally, and maybe this was rude, but I said "Oh hey ... I've got to concentrate on these brides ... maybe we can talk later."

I don't think that was rude.

Not when I WANTED to say "Good Lord woman ... you have no idea how bad you smell and how boring you are. You're giving everyone within a 50 yard radius of you a migraine headache from smelling you and I couldn't give more than one ... maybe two shits about Dennis Kucinich anymore."

Yeah.

So anyway, my head is swimming.

I'm going back to bed.

You know where to send the flowers and get-well cards.

Actually ... you don't.

Which is a GOOD thing.

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