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5:18 a.m. - 2001-04-04

CAT KILLING MADE FUN AND EASY

Ahhhhhhh...

Y'know...my Wednesday entries are always sooo...carefree.

...Lackadaisal.

...Fuckable.

Hell...I dunno. All I know is...it's Wednesday and it's all downhill from here.

I think the word "Lackadaisal" should be "Lackadaisical."

Toss an "ic" in there.

That just sounds better to me.

It's my opinion. Fuck off if you don't like it.


Speaking of fucking off if you don't like it ... there's a certain little Icebear who's been getting flamed over his attempt at an April Fool's Jokeand doesn't appreciate it very much.

(Uncle Bob croons "Welcome to my worrrrrrrld....Won't you come on innnnnn?")

Icee ... dude ... wait until they erect websites portraying you as a pedophile ...THEN come tell me how pissed you can get at some of these dildos.

I still get hate mail, even when I try to be nice.

For instance...yesterday's lame entry about the Biggest Rat dealio ... not a single curse word used, all very nice and mellow ...

And I come here this morning and check my email to find an two-word email from a William Hovik.

The email reads as follows...

(Uncle Bob gets out his bifocals...)

"Fucking racist".

That's it.

Fucking racist.

(Uncle Bob takes his bifocals off and places them gingerly on his chest, secured tightly by the chain around his neck)

William, William, William...

So I did what I could do to make amends with dear Willie.

I wrote him back.

And my letter read as follows:

"Fucking idiot".

Tee hee!!

I almost went with "Takes one to know one" but I am pretty sure that would have went over poor William Hovik'spointy little head.

Anyway ... Icebear ... there's always going to be people out there who either A) can't take a joke and think you're the Antichrist for taking a stab at humor or B)are just plain assholes.

It sucks that these buffoons have access to email and such, but hey ... that's what makes America great ... it's a free country, babe.

Roll with the punches, dude.

It was the fact that you left everyone hanging that I think mighta griped 'em. Personally, like I wrote in your guestbook ... it's best to follow up an April Fool's joke with "APRIL FOOLS!!!" and not "My life is shit and it's over as far as I'm concerned."

That kinda throws people for a loop, y'know.

Personally, I love a good prank. And yours was a good one ... just a delayed one.

Anyway...


Andy was cranky and Mama was in the shower, so I had to go get him and comfort him.

Now he's sitting in front of the television ... eyes glued to some cartoon about a dog named Spot.

My boy watches wayyyyy too much TV, but he's only five months old and can't do much else.

I'm a little worried that I'm turning him into a couch potato, but I keep telling myself, "Self...the kid CAN'T go out to play. He can't walk, it's 5:30 a.m. and still dark and the backyard's flooded. So quit beating yourself up over this, self."

And then I feel LOTS better.

LOTS!

Why, I just wanna skip around in a field of daisies and sing like this:

"LA LA LA LA LA la la la LA LA LA LA LA!!!"

And then I wanna crash head first into a tree, knocking myself out and landing on a fire ant hill and waking up covered with thousands of painful, itchy bites.

Yep.

That's what I wanna do alright.


Okay.

I work with some really WARPED people. And I'll admit...I'm probably the most warped of them all.

But New Boy was telling us yesterday how he had to kill two of his cats this weekend.

"HAD to kill"

Apparently, New Boy's six year-old son found some anti-freeze and poured some under their deck at home.

Two of the kid's cats slurped it down.

Then they started convulsing and shaking.

So New Boy took them out behind the bar and shot them dead, Old Yeller-style.

Not Tupac-style. Just clarifyin' here...

Anyway, he said he felt bad about it. Personally, I woulda rushed the cats to the nearest vet, but that's just me. I woulda at least TRIED to save my pet, not rush for the gun and load it up like my cat was an African tiger all of a sudden.

So Jamie gets a little choked up listening to the story and says he can't listen anymore and leaves the room.

Now Jamie is a sick fucker. He doesn't hesitate to poke fun at anyone, but you talk about having to shoot a cat and he tears up like Sally Field accepting an Oscar.

Five minutes later, Jamie comes back in the room.

"Have you composed yourself now, Jamie," I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Man though...that's just sad that New Boy had to kill his cats."

"Here's the sad part," I said. "He had to tie them spread eagled to a tree to keep 'em still while he shot 'em."

Even New Boy got a giggle over that one.

So then, we all just start making fun of the whole ordeal.

New Boy admitted he had to shoot one of the cats six times before it died.

I said it was because the cat kept crawling away.

Giggle, giggle, giggle.

Then I said he shot him six times, but the last three times he had his son throw the cat up in the air and shot him like he was skeet shooting.

Snort, snort, snort.

(I know this story isn't going over well with those of you who value animal life above human life. My apologies and oh...get a life)

Anyway, before long, the entire office of men were guffawing over imaginary scenarios of New Boy having to kill his cats.

Even New Boy was throwing out his own scenarios but I don't remember any of them because, quite frankly, he's about as funny as muscular dystrophy.

Please...no flaming over that story. It happened, it's over, I wouldn't have shot my own pet in a million years, end of discussion.


Drunk Boss stayed off my ass all day yesterday, which was a godsend.

I don't think he started drinking until about 6 p.m. though, so he got a late start on his abuse juice and by the time he was getting good and cranked up, I was outta there.


Got a call last night from my old buddy Billy, asking me to come deejay at a new club in town.

Actually ... it's an old club in town refurbished.

This club hasn't seen any success since the 1980s.

(For those of you reading this in town...it's in the Governor's House Hotel. I know...snicker, snicker)

I tried to politely turn Billy down, saying that Andy's my whole life now and I'm not going to go play music in a dead-assed nightclub when I could be home watching him take his first steps.

Billy swears this club will make money, because it's going to be an oldies club that plays 50s and 60s music.

(Billy's 55 years old and this is the music he grew up with)

I explained to Billy that people in their 50s don't go out to clubs anymore and if they DO, they go to a select few in town that have been popular for years and where they're content.

So Billy asks if Susie would be interested in coming there to bartend.

I laughed SOOOO hard.

I told him no, but then I reconsidered and said "Let's run this by Susie."

So I get up, go to the den and ask Susie if she'd like to give up her evenings to go work in the Governor's House Hotel, waiting on less than 20 people a night.

Susie laughed so loud that he heard her through the phone lines.

Good luck Billy.

But count our happy asses out.


I've already raised close to $200 for the Biggest Rat campaign in its second day.

A lady came in last night and gave me a hundred dollar check after seeing me on TV the other night.

Oh yeah ... I was on all three local stations' TV newscast Monday night.

My God ... okay...I KNEW I had a bald spot. I've had it since about 1990.

But NOBODY had been keeping me up to date on just how big this bastard's getting.

I had no idea until I saw myself on TV, bending over a slice of cheese.

BAM!!!

There's my bald spot, all shiny and in living color.

When I feel back there, I feel hair. Not much hair, but it certainly doesn't feel like skin.

So I didn't know it looked like I was sporting a flesh-colored yarmulke.

I keep telling myself that having a bald spot means I'm a good lover.

And I must admit ... I am a ferocious tiger in the bedroom when I wanna be...

Sometimes, I even stay awake and TALK to my woman after the fornication process.

Tell me that ain't a good lover!

What was funny was one of the local TV stations pulled me aside after the competition and wanted to interview me for the news.

"Sure," I said. "I'll do anything to get my fat face plastered across people's TV screens while they're trying to eat dinner and frighten the shit outta them."

So the camera man asks me a question ... "Why are you involved with this campaign?"

Okay ... the correct answer was to bring up those friends and family members that I've lost to cancer or are suffering from cancer.

Instead I said "It's a very prestigious thing to be involved with the Biggest Rat campaign. I've waited for years to be asked to be part of it, so when they asked, I jumped at it."

Wrong answer dipshit. It showed on the cameraman's face, so he took another stab at a question.

"What functions are you spearheading to raise money for the cause?"

I babbled on and on about my golf tournament, my silent auction, my letter writing campaign, my advertising campaign and my "Hit Night".

There was NO WAY they could edit down what I said to fit into a ten-second sound bite.

So when I watched the news Monday night, why the hell was I shocked that I didn't see my interview??

WHY???

...My bald spot probably blinded the guy. That's why.


Hey.

You.

Have a great fucking day.

I'm going to turn off the TV, take the boy into the den and we're going to chew on some vinyl books for a while until Mama lets us both suck a boob.

Hasta la vista.

Baby.

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