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5:38 a.m. - 2001-09-09

DAVID LETTERMAN THINKS I'M COOL

I received a strange phone call yesterday.

It was the theater critic from the newspaper that I left a few months ago. He's an older guy...early 60s...named Fred.

He wasn't the best theater critic in the world...in fact, he was downright awful at times. But he loved the theater, loved going to the theater and saved me from having to go and watch utter crap once a week.

...I'm not a theater person. I don't even like going to the movies.

So anyway, he calls and the first thing he says after I say hello is "You left me!" like a jilted lover.

I laugh nervously and admit that ...yes...after two months now...I'm no longer the editor of the newspaper.

He tells me that he CRIED when he found out I was no longer there. That I was the best thing in that newspaper and I was the best editor he ever knew and I always had so much patience with him and his writing and always made his writing look better than it should.

Uh-huh, uh-huh,uh-huh and uh-huh.

He then asks if I'm going to be releasing some of my better columns in book form like Roy Blount Jr. Because I'm a better writer than Roy Blount Jr. is and Roy Blount Jr. is a millionaire.

Excuse me but who the hell is Roy Blount Jr.?

I was very cordial with the guy and told him he was very talented as well and turned the phone call into an ass-kissing fest. He kept insisting that I gathered up some of my columns and started shopping them around to publishers and THAT'S what I needed to do.

Okay Fred. I had about 5,000 faithful readers at the newspaper. So technically, I'll sell about 5,000 copies of my book. And technically, I'd be thrown out on my ass so quickly by a publishing company for selling such a low amount of books that I'd bruise my spine.

I'll look into it Fred. Thanks.

He then says that he doubts he's going to write as much for the newspaper anymore, if at all, because I've left there.

Like I was the whole reason he was writing there.

Did I mention he's probably gay? Never been married, likes the theater, used to give me money every time he blew me?

Eh...it's probably not that important to the story.

Anyway, he misses me and that's nice.


So THEN, I have a series of weird dreams last night, all stemming from that phone conversation.

It seemed that everywhere I went, I was regaled as some sort of literary superstar. EVERYBODY missed my writings EVERYWHERE I went.

At one point, I went into a restaurant to pick up some barbecue.

People cheered when I walked in.

I got into a loud but friendly argument with one of the regulars in the restaurant. The customers laughed at everything I said, like I was Tony Danza on the set of "Who's The Boss".

As my barbecue was served, I went over and hugged the guy I had been arguing with to let the customers know we were just playing around. The guy whispered in my ear "Thanks for making me famous."

It was strange, but it felt good.

Then, David Letterman entered the picture.

Dave wanted me to know how much my writing had meant to him and how much he liked me.

It was like we were old friends. I was messin' with Dave, ragging on his hair and stuff and he was just yukking it up.

He had to go film his show but he let me know that I needed to go back to writing humor and entertaining people.

I was all like "Whatever Dave."

Strange dream. I woke up and felt good about the dream but also thought "I've really got to pee."

So I got up and peed. It was a nice pee.

By "nice pee" I mean that nothing burned during the duration of urination.


We had to get up early this morning because the church is having a breakfast at 7:30, where one of the older/oldest members of the church is going to speak about fighting in Normandy during World War Whatever and his return to Normandy a few months ago to relive those memories.

He's a nice old man and the only reason we're going is to support him.

I just pray to God he doesn't own a gun and a flight helmet and he straps those on during his speech and starts shooting at us and calling us a buncha "Goddamned Gooks".

That's all I need early in the morning...an old man suffering from War flashbacks.

That's a surefire way to ruin a breakfast of scrambled eggs and biscuits.


Andy and I watched "The Tigger Movie" yesterday because Andy has a crush on Tigger. He's pretty fond of Winnie the Pooh too, but if he had to have sex with one of them, my money's on Tigger.

Andy's got some new thing going. When he gets WAYYYYY excited, he'll grab your arm and bite it. Apparently, this relieves some of the pressures brought on by excitement.

So he's sitting in my lap, intently watching this movie and I started dozing off. The movie was not really keeping my attention and I was tired anyway.

The next thing I knew, I had eight sharp baby teeth buried into my forearm, trying to gnaw a vein out of my arm.

"OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW," I said loudly.

Andy looked at me and then looked at the TV and then back at me. I think he was trying to tell me to stay awake because you never know what kinda crap Tigger's going to get himself into.

So I stayed awake for the rest of the movie and rubbed my sore arm.

Andy bounced on my lap, slapping his knees and making excited sounds.

If Tigger was a pedophile, I bet he could get sooooo much action.

Probably not as much as Barney though.

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