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10:02:30 - 2001-02-19

A POOPLOAD OF THOUGHTS FROM A WEEKEND LOST

My God ... it's cold in this house.

Technically, it's 74 degrees according to the thermostat. But my testicles are frozen.

Cold, I'm 'a tellin' ya.


Soooo...how was that weekend of yours???

Mine was wayyyy too short, and I'm getting sick of it because that happens more and more each week. The weeks get longer, the weekends get shorter.

I dunno who's in charge of this, but I'm ready for it to stop.

Sorry...I'm slowly working my way into Uncle Bob mode. Still trying to wake up. Space Pooch has already pissed me off this morning, running around the house and banging into everything with her space helmet on, waking the wife up.

Of course...Andy's sound asleep. He slept most of yesterday. We watched "Oz" together last night, which Susie said was not a good "father/son" thing to do.

Screw it. He digs Schillinger. Who am I to shoot down one of his few joys in life beside sucking boobies and shitting his pants?


God...Space Pooch is loud this morning.

And...I'm not exactly sure why ... but her ummmmm....gas ... has got to be the most disgusting gas a dog can have. It smells like she's conducting a science experiment with sulfur and burnt ass flesh.

Disgusting, I'm 'a tellin' ya.


Went to a chili supper at church last night. The chili was okay, but I'll be honest ... it couldn't hold a candle to mine.

My chili is THICK. It's damned near paste. It's meaty (sorry vegetarians) and tasty and ummmmm...it could probably be shipped over to Iraq and it would make them all happy and they'd say "We don't want to bomb America after all!" And there would be much dancing in the streets, etc., etc.

Speaking of which...way to go George Dubya. Bomb Iraq. Yeah. That's a great way to get your presidency off to a good start. They flew in a No Fly Zone. Oh yeah. Can't have that, can we? Let's pick up where Daddy left off ... let's tweak the madman until he gets pissed beyond belief and REALLY gets serious with us. Start early in the presidency so you have a full four years to fuck with him. Yeah. That's the ticket, Dubya. Way to make friends and influence people.

Then again ... Daddy only lasted in the White House four years.

And YOU'RE only going to last four years. Because Americans don't like living in fear.

Uncle Bob guarantees it.


Anyway ... after the chili supper last night ... we had this "short" meeting about leaving money to the church when we die.

I have no problem with this, and planned to do it anyway.

But we had a special guest. Some attorney guy who wanted to show us a slide show.

With 93 slides.

Each one getting a lengthy discussion.

About capital gains. And interest rates. And other words that I could give two craps about.

I'm laying my cards on the table here. I don't know JACK about money and figures and gains and trusts and liposuction and all that other crap that people who deal with other people's money think is the stuff that we should all care about.

When I hear "Capital Gains" I'm like Pavlov's Dog ... I start nodding off and it's a fight to keep me awake.

ESPECIALLY after two bowls of mediocre chili.

So for ONE SOLID HOUR we were entertained with all these figures and how important it is for us to put in our wills NOW that we want to leave money for the church.

Christ. It's Sunday night...8 p.m. When I get home ... wait...IF I get home ... I'll call my lawyer and get that taken care of immediately.

Now...may I go please???

I say "my lawyer". I don't have "a lawyer". I have a friend who's a lawyer who I have known since he was in law school, so I call him "my lawyer". He's agreed to be "my lawyer", when he's really just "my lawyer friend".

I don't sit around at power lunches saying "My lawyer said that I should sit on my blahblahs because the capital gains for the fiscal year of 2001 will appreciate accordingly."

I sit around lunches with Mattie Gee and say "My lawyer's farts smell awful."

But not as bad as Space Pooch, who just tore another stitch out of her ass with that last explosion.


Speaking of Space Pooch and her gastrointestinal tract ... we have company coming to town to spend the night tomorrow night.

I told Susie to call the girl (a friend of hers) to let her know about Maggie's problem. Folks, it was so bad last night, we could smell her poots from across the house. She was by the front door, we were at the back of the house, and it smelled like she was right there.

I'm used to it now. We think it may be the antibiotics that she's on or the stitches in her butt. Whatever it is ... I'm getting tired of it. It's been going on for two weeks and ... I love my dog and everything ... but it's pretty bad that we can't even have people over to the house because the dog has some pretty uncontrollable and nauseating farts.

Alright ... enough about her.


Ummmmm...okay ... Total MP3 Request Live is unofficially closed.

I mean ... you can STILL leave your favorite MP3s that you think every single member of Uncle Bob's Army needs in their collection.

But damn. I could have a staff of trained monkeys lending me a hand in downloading all these suggestions and STILL never get finished with them all.

I appreciate each and every one of you guys and gals helping the old man out with your suggestions.

I may be nearing 40 ... but I still love the rock and roll.

Some of it's a bit too .... ummmmm ...loud for my tastes. I like heavy metal/hardcore/whatever ... but I also like for it to have a beat behind it and not just be thrashing guitars with a lead singer who's doing his best to sound like Satan's butt boy while singing.

I mean ... I'm sure that thrash has its place in the annals of rock and roll history. In my day...it was Alice Cooper, Kiss, Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin. Now it's Devil's Digestive System, Black Lonely Death and Porkable Children.

My ... how times have changed.


Wow.

I just found out that Dale Earnhardt died in the Daytona 500 yesterday.

I'll admit...even though I live in Alabama, I'm not a big NASCAR fan.

Hell, I've never seen a single race. It's just not my cup of tea.

But Dale is like Elvis down here. Everywhere you look, you see somebody wearing his t-shirts, caps or silk thongs.

Okay ... so I've seen my share of strippers with Dale Earnhardt g-strings gyrating in my drunken face. Sue me.

My parents are NASCAR fans. It's not something I like to broadcast ... "MOM AND DAD WATCH AUTO RACING!!!" and Dale was my Dad's favorite racer while Jeff Gordon is Mom's favorite because he's young and good looking and is on the Close-Up toothpaste box or something.

So Susie just told me Dale was dead and I immediately called Mom. She said that Dad was sitting there in his chair yesterday, watching the race...

...Wearing his Dale Earnhardt t-shirt.

My parents aren't REDNECKS. They live in a home that I doubt I would ever be able to afford in a neighborhood that I could never manage to live in.

She said Dad's taking it hard. They've always had a friendly rivalry since they got into NASCAR about eight years ago. Dad always saying Dale would win the race, Mom rooting for Jeff.

I guess Mom finally won.


MP3 DOWNLOAD OF THE DAY

DUB NARCOTIC SOUND SYSTEM: "Shake A Puddin'"

With sooo many suggestions this weekend, someone (and I'm sorry that I can't point out exactly WHO, but that's a ton of stuff to go through this early in the morning) brought up this song. It's a lazy little dance song that got me shaking my pudding before I ate it. It should do the same for you.

DOWNLOAD IT NOW!!


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