THE ONE WHERE UNCLE BOB LOSES IT

This is unheard of. EVERYBODY works on Deadline Day. When my dad was on his deathbed in South Carolina, I STILL had to drive six hours home to make sure I was here on Deadline Day. The reason for this is simple. We have a small staff and I'm the only goddamned person there that knows how to put out a newspaper efficiently. If I'm not there, than it's up to my drunk-assed boss to put the paper out and he cannot retain the slightest information from week to week. If we show him how to cut and paste on Tuesday, the following Tuesday he doesn't remember how to do it. It's sad, but that's what alcohol does to a frazzled mind.

So anyway, I get to work at 7:15 am, trying to beat everyone else to work and get as much done in the quiet early hours as possible.

Fifteen minutes later, Jill shows up. Jill's the one with two horrible teenage boys who are constantly in trouble and whose antics keep her crying at work on a daily basis.

Jill wants to know what I'm doing there since I've been so sick. I told her that sick or not...I CAN'T miss Deadline Day because nobody else knows how to do my job. Except her, to an extent, and she just knows my job because she sits and watches it all over my shoulder.

Soooo...my plan was to work until noon, then go home and crash, and have Jill do the rest of my job for me.

Uh-uh.

Jill had to take her boys to court, because the younger one (17)had received four tickets ...two for speeding ... one for DUI and one for altering his driver's license.

"In order to buy liquor?" I asked.

"No...cigarettes," she said in that gullible tone that screamed "Please don't put the idea into my head that my 17 year old is already an alcoholic."

The older boy had been arrested for stealing $400 from somewhere that she wouldn't tell me. Somehow, they both managed to grab the same day to be in court.

So she was gone at 9 a.m. for the day, leaving me to stay all freakin' day.

As the day went on, I started feeling better. My throat is now completely healed ... my congestion is gone ... my cough is obsolete ... I do believe my bronchitis is bye-byitis.

So 12 hours later when I finally got the paper wrapped up and finished, the associate publisher said "See you on Friday. You get plenty of rest."

Holy hell!

You mean...they all still think I'm sick and are giving me two days off to "get better"???

Tee hee!

"I'll (cough, cough) do that, associate publisher. Plenty of (huff, huff) bedrest for me...yeppers."

Sooooooo...I've got two days off ... go in on Friday for a half day...then ... THE WEEKEND!!!

Yep. I'm grinning.

Turned in all my Big Rat money yesterday.

When I got to work, there was $200 more worth of checks to add to the total, taking me up to $9,300+.

My campaign manager called and she was pissed because she REALLY wanted to hit $10,000. So she wanted the names of everyone who didn't send money to me that I had sent a letter to and she was going to call and badger them into taking a check over to the American Cancer Society.

I tried to tell her it's okay ... we did good...now let's just move on.

Nope. Not good enough for her. She wanted to reach her goal, dammit.

I tried to explain that it was Deadline Day at the office ... I didn't have time to come up with a list of people who didn't contribute when asked.

She said she'd come to the office and do it herself.

I was finally firm and just said NO!

She whimpered like a puppy and finally took NO for an answer.

About 4:00, I get a call from my boy Eddie Lavoie who puts his galpal Ramona on the line.

Ramona wants to know how much it would take for me to win this contest.

Y'see...I have no idea. I might have even won already. The totals are kept secret and it comes down to who raised the most money. I had managed to find out how much one guy raised and it was more than me. But I'm not sure if others raised more than him.

Ramona still wanted a figure. I told her ten thousand bucks, basicaly pulling a figure out of the air.

Ramona said she was going to write a check that would hopefully push me over the top and win this thing.

Thirty minutes later, Eddie calls me and says she wrote a pretty hefty check and he had just delivered it to the Cancer Society.

He gave me the exact figure and I about shit.

So thank you Ramona. I don't know if I'll win or not, but thanks for doing your best to helping me reach that goal.

I get home last night, and there's an email from one of my church people.

She said that she finally got around to writing a check for me yesterday afternoon and sending it in the mail. She doubted it would get there in time to support me, but at least she made a contribution.

Ummmmmmmm....

I had TOLD her to get it to me before May 1st. I wrote her that TWICE in emails, because she asked twice. So she sent a check in that COULD have been there in my name and helped me out...but now it helps nobody out. Well...it helps the Cancer Society out ... but it coulda killed two birds with one stone, y'know?

Then she goes on and on about how well her kids are doing in soccer. It read like an email from someone that you went to college with years ago and was getting you caught up on their life.

I sit next to this lady in church every week. Why in the world she's pouring her guts out to me in email about her kid's soccer practices is beyond me.

(Bob lifts an imaginary liquor bottle up to his lips and chugs, insinuating that the woman may have a drinking problem)

I dunno.

On the way home last night, I was craving a hot dog.

Not just any hot dog. A big sloppy hot dog with shit piled a mile high on it.

So I stopped at the store, bought bun length smoked sausage, buns, sauerkraut and chili dog sauce.

Came home and made two dogs for myself.

...And now...through the lovely world of modern day science ... I am no longer constipated.

Thankyouverymuch.

I don't think I've ever gone five days without crapping. But lemme tell ya ... when your system finally decides to cooperate ... it ain't no picnic, kids.

I'd go into detail, but then I'd have a buncha sissy bitches whining that I'm gross and I should just go away and to never grace their computer monitors again and blah blah blah.

Ya know what? I'm sick of Diaryland sissy bitches.

The ones who use their diaries to bash other people because other people's idea of a diary doesn't live up to their sissy bitch ideals.

Hey Sissy Bitches! If you don't like other people's diaries, for chrissakes ... DON'T FUCKING READ THEM!!

I was reading a few diaries last night because the wife and kid were at some stockholders meeting. And the shit I read just made me ill.

One girl, who I've had trouble with before, felt like she had to tear down a new diary because it was sad in her opinion.

Ya know what?? I feel sorry for you and your family and everyone around you because you have some kind of hangup where you think it's your job to pass judgement on everyone else's attempt at writing. When your writing is so gawdawfully BORING at times. Yet, you feel no shame at picking on others and tearing them down.

All because you have some kind of warped concept that what you're doing is "standing up for what's right".

Ya know what? Fuck you. Sit your big ass down and quit trying to turn everybody against the people that you don't like because they bust out of the gate and are more popular than you with a few entries than you are after a year and a half of whiny, bitchy, nitpicky entries.

You know who you are.

And I'll be goddamned if I'm linking you here, because quite frankly ... it's not my job to tear people down and make them feel like shit, even as strongly as I feel that what you're doing is wrong.

I'd rather you just sit there and gulp thinking "Is he talking about me?"

You're goddamned right I'm talking about you, sister.

Oh...and while I'm on my soapbox, with my chest puffed out and beating on it, let me pick on one more person in an anonymous fashion.

This idiot uses his diary to start fights with other diarists. His handful of faithful morons find this uproariously funny and push him to keep doing it. He goes to people's guestbooks and starts insanely stupid shit that isn't even close to being humorous. Then he sits back and waits for the people to start flaming him. Then he pulls out his pathetic little pecker and starts wacking off all over his computer monitor, once again secure in the fact that he has what it takes to incite anger in others with his insepid words.

You, mi amigo, are one filthy fucking cancer on Diaryland. You claim to be an adult, but you act like a nine-year-old.

I've had words with this cock-knocker in the past and he was so full of glee that I actually gave him the time of day that he posted it on his website for all to see. And of course...he beat off afterwards.

Except when it came time to print my retort to his immature shenanigans, he decided to just paraphrase me, rather than print the entire six-sentence email in order to make himself look better to his legion of ball-less idiots.

You're a puss, buddy. And if we ever met face to face, I'd pound your skull in, except I doubt I could catch you because you'd be running like a little girl who couldn't hide behind his little diary anymore.

(whew)

There. I got a few things off my chest. I feel better.

And no names were mentioned, so I didn't embarrass anyone.

But they know who they are.

Don't YOU?