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12:44 p.m. - 2001-11-12

COME TO NEW YORK! HELP CLEAN UP THE MESS!

Soooooo...are we looking at another terrorist attack??

My personal opinion is that a bomb went off on the plane. It basically exploded in mid-air, I mean...C'MON!!

Two months and a day after the last tragedy...I mean...C'MON!!

Roughly the same time of day as the last one...I mean...(say it with me here...) C'MON!!

I'll tell ya what...if this WAS a terrorist attack...we sure as HELL had better not let them chill out for Ramaden or whatever it is.

I say...the first day of Ramaden we don't bomb them at all. Let them THINK we're gonna respect their wishes.

The SECOND day...we blast the living shit out of them.

...Bastards...


You know, I still remember some of the grief I had to take for talking trash about the Taliban after they attacked us.

All the politically correct people came out of the woodwork, condemning me for calling the Taliban ugly, smelly and stupid.

Last night on "South Park", the four boys went to Afghanistan to return a goat and had to deal with Osama bin Laden.

THEY called the Taliban stupid, ugly and stinky as well.

So I'm kinda like the "South Park" of diaries.

Except people think I'm a crass and ignorant bastard while they praise "South Park" for its innovative styles.

I'll never win.


The evil boss Wendigo had a dream about me last night.

She seriously needs to lay off the ice cream before going to bed. Her dreams are getting stranger and stranger.

She said I looked like Liza Minelli in her dream.

That's one damned scary thought.


Had lunch with Edweird and another guy here at the office.

The other guy brought some homemade chili for lunch. We joked about how he'd have to head for the bathroom soon after eating.

This boy has no fear of public pooping. I've written about his bathroom habits before...I think he likes the company's restroom better than his one at home, since he's CONSTANTLY in there.

Maybe he has some sort of bowel disorder.

Then again...I smelled his chili. This boy's GONNA have a bowel disorder if he didn't already.

Anyway...he just walked past my office very quickly. I'm sure he's in the bathroom right now. Edweird was talking about going in there and wetting down some paper towels and throwing them over the stall door and hitting him with them.

I just paged Edweird. He's decided that his sinuses couldn't handle a chili poop today so he's not going to go attack him after all.

I love working for a professional company.


Susie has "class" tonight, so it's me and the cutest baby in the world batching it up tonight.

I think he likes it when Daddy watches him all night because he doesn't have to eat the crap that Mama makes him eat. No veggies or processed lamb when Daddy's in charge. It's peanut butter, hot dogs and pudding, babe. We get all hopped up on that and then it's time for a couple of hours of "Stick Your Finger In Daddy's Belly Button".

HIS favorite game ... not mine. But it makes me laugh and the kid gets off on making his parents laugh. So it's a win-win situation.


My crotch is REALLLLLLLY itching today.

It's actually almost painful. Kinda like George Michael is rubbing his stubble all over my scrotum.

Scrotum stubble rubbin'.

I've tried to play it off, casually scratching myself like a dog bathed in fleas, but I think people are beginning to think something's up.

I need to send out a memo.

"Dear Co-workers,

On Friday, November 9th, I had a heart catherization performed. This would explain why I wasn't sitting in my office making that moronic face that I make 90% of the time while staring at my computer.

In order to prep me for my surgery, my crotch needed to be shaved. Only a small patch really NEEDED to be shaved off, but I had a bitter and spiteful nurse assigned to me who didn't really understand that I was kidding when I said "Make me look like a four year old!" as I pulled my gown up around my chest.

Today, three days after the fact, I'm feeling fine (thank you all for asking). Except for the constant itching I have from pubal stubble. So please...if you see me rubbing my crotch like a 12 year-old locked in a bathroom with a copy of his Mom's Glamour magazine, either avert your eyes or wait until I'm finished before speaking to me.

And for God's sakes...quit getting on the intercom and saying "Y'all need to go see New Boy! He's doing it again!"

Thank you.

The New Boy


Alright...I've got work to do. In the timeless words of REO Speedwagon...it's time for me to fly.

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