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08:19:18 - 2000-05-03

A SHOCKING DISCOVERY

Wow...y'all are adamant about this whole secret diary thing, huh??

IT WAS ALL A JOKE PEOPLE!

I do NOT have a secret diary. I know that I have led many of you to believe that I have, going so far as to telling some of you that I am responsible for a secret diary by name.

I'm a bold faced liar.

LIE LIE LIE.

If I could change my middle name, I'd change it to "Big Fat LIAR".

Unfortunately, that requires some effort on my part and I'm just not into exerting any energy toward it.

So please...enough's enough. There is no secret diary being written by me.

Forget I ever said anything and just enjoy my diary as well as others. Like Banky said on the message board...I'm just fuckin' with ya.

Tee-hee.

Or...AM I???

Alright dammit to hell...ENOUGH!!!

(Bob gives himself a sharp slap to the face to snap himself back into reality)

Wow. Thanks. I needed that.

What I REALLY need is an ice cold Coke to wash down this Peanut Lovers Chex Mix that I'm consuming for breakfast.

Ever since my wife told me she was pregnant, I have been eating like a HORSE.

I keep telling myself I have to lose weight for the muggah huzzah brunnah chomp chomp chomp chomp....

Sorry...Chex mix. I can't type with my mouth full.

The ironic part is, I got a gift yesterday that should deter me from eating a bag of Chex Mix for breakfast...even though it has 40% less fat than regular potato chips.

The president of the Alabama Cattlemen's Association presented me with a framed photo of me roping a fake steer during the celebrity rodeo event a few months back.

He did this because he's a fan of mine.

...and because I badmouthed PETA pretty severely in a recent column of mine.

At the end of the column I DEMANDED to be inducted into the ACA Hall of Fame for my public stance against PETA.

Plus...I called PETA's president a twinkle-toed weenie.

Instead of a star on the Cattlemen's Association Walk of Fame, I got a framed picture of me roping a steer, a $50 gift certificate good in any restaurant or grocery store in the state and a nice, handwritten card thanking me for everything that I do for the organization.

That was sweet.

However ... this fucking picture...

Apparently, the day of this event, I had swallowed a couple of midgets.

Because my gut is STRAINING against my shirt in this shot.

I looked at it in horror and then turned on my co-workers.

"HOW COME NONE OF YOU EVER TOLD ME I WAS FAT?!?!?" I yelled.

They all looked down sheepishly. Finally Mattie Gee spoke up.

"We were afraid you'd freak out," he said quietly.

"YOU'RE GODDAMNED RIGHT I'D FREAK OUT," I yelled again. "THAT DOESN'T MEAN YOU SHOULDN'T TELL ME!!!"

Everyone was quiet. Then in unison they said "You're fat, Uncle Bob."

Well gee whiz, Peter Brady. So I am.

So now, I have this framed photo of me with a lasso above my head focusing intently on a fake steer to rope.

And the glaring image of my gut hanging over my belt and a bloated look on my face that says "Can I eat this fake steer after I rope it??"

I get my picture taken a lot, but it's usually mug shots...above the shoulders.

When I saw a full body shot of me ... I freaked.

So now...it's REALLY diet time.

No more ice cream at midnight.

No more beef stroganoff for a mid-morning snack.

No more hurpah sunnah mmmfah crettah chomp chomp chomp.

Okay...I can still eat a bag of Chex Mix for breakfast.

But that's IT.

After all...ONE OF US has to have cravings during this pregnancy.

May as well be me.

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