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5:43 a.m. - 2002-06-21


I have very little time to write here. Which means that for all intents and purposes, I want this to be a short entry and it will end up being average sized or longer because that's how it always goes with me.

So we had our home inspection yesterday.

Not good.

The worst crimes against us were that they couldn't get our bottom oven to work. We have a vintage double oven and stove from the 1910s or whenever the hell this damned thing was tossed together by two blind guys and a mongoloid.

It's a gas oven. I hate gas. Hate it, hate it, hate it. Every day I live in fear that I'm going to pop a frozen pizza in the oven and the house is going to explode like a scene from "Lethal Weapon".

They waited ten minutes for the oven to crank up some heat, filling the house with natural gas while they waited. They finally shut if off when the inspector and our realtor became woozy and the other realtor tried to squeeze out an air biscuit and flames shot out her ass. That's when you know you have a house full of natural gas.

So that's not good, but hopefully, it can be fixed.

Then...the sink in our guest bathroom?? The bottom of it has rusted out.

The other realtor says that's not a problem. She will buy a sink for her client and have it replaced on her dime.

Cool. Thanks, other realtor.

The outside water spigot.

The thing you attach your hose to?? g-damned brother in law broke the handle off of it about a year or so ago during a particularly rowdy family get-together. Don't ask me what he was doing. Something tells me he was over there turning the water on and off rapidly to soothe his slight mental retardation.

So Wednesday night, he says he's going to fix it.

He buys this stuff called "JB Weld" or something like that. It's like glue. He's going to glue the handle back on.

I'm apprehensive about this because my g-damned brother-in-law has a perfect track record of fucking up everything he touches. He has the anti-Midas touch. Everything he touches turns to shit.

So he welds this handle back on and makes everyone promise that they won't touch the handle until the following morning to let it "set".

Fine. Just shut up about it.

So the next morning comes and we don't touch it. We've forgotten all about it because we have about a million and one things running through our mind and #999,984 is that stupid broken spigot.

The home inspector goes to check it out.


Whadda ya know?!?

My g-damned brother-in-law welded the whole g-damned thing shut!!

It won't turn on!!


That will SURE come in handy when there's a brush fire in the back yard!


Some practical joke THAT would be!!

Sooooo... we have to get ahold of the gas company and a plumber today and have both of them come to the house and fix this crap.

We are TRYING to get Susie's Mom to come sit at the house and wait for these workers to get here.

She's being difficult.

"Well, I have to go to the store and get some eggs," she says. "I don't know if I can come and sit at your house while workers are there or not."

That's fine, Granny.

That's perfectly fine.

Say...Granny...have you got that ONETHOUSANDONEHUNDREDDOLLARS you owe us????

Hell f'n NO, you don't!!


The eggs will BE THERE at the store when the workers are finished. I PROMISE YOU. We will FIND YOU EGGS.

Jesus Howard Christ.

This family REALLY pisses me off sometimes.

There were other

things that were messed up in the house, but it's nothing that duct tape wouldn't fix.

The girl STILL says she wants the house, so that's good. None of that has deterred her from buying the home.

When I got the call yesterday from Susie with the rundown of everything they found wrong, I thought I was going to puke.

My stomach started churning and felt all greasy and nasty.

...Then I remembered blowing that nasty FedEx guy on my way back from lunch and wondered if that would have had anything to do with it.


I kid, I kid.

I didn't really blow a FedEx guy. I've never blown any man. I wouldn't know what to do.

I wonder if I could give good head to a guy.

I doubt it.

I bet I'd be the absolute worst blowjob king ever.

Alas, we will never know because I have zero interest in shoving a guy's shaft in my throat.

I went to an actual record store for the first time in a year or so yesterday.

I wanted a copy of the U2 "Elevation" DVD and couldn't find it anywhere else, so thought "Well hell, U.B.....go to a record store."

Tell me something...what is it that makes record store employees think that they are the most hip and knowledgeable bastards on the face of the earth?

I worked in a record store for almost a year back in the mid-80s. I like to think that I was down-to-earth and a pleasure to be around. I helped everyone find stuff, I delivered service with a smile and I never NEVER expounded my musical tastes on the customer.

So what is it with these smarmy fucks that makes them think I want to know their opinion on what I'm buying??

I put the DVD on the counter and whip out my credit card.

"U2 is SO played out," the Jack Osbourne-looking dickwad behind the counter mumbled to his co-worker.

"Bono just needs to stick to politics," his co-worker mumbled.

BOTH of these lame asscocks were wearing t-shirts that proclaimed that customer service was very important to them.

Ohhhhh...irony. I get it. That's funny, guys.

...Goofy looking fucknuggets...

I tried to defend myself and my musical tastes.

"Yeah...but they still put on a great show," I said.

Jack Osbourne stared at me.

"Have you even SEEN Incubus?" he asked.

I smiled.

"No," I said. "But I probably should try and go see them since they won't be around in a year."

The smarmy little penisface shoved my DVD in a bag and had me sign my little slip. I cheerfully said "Thank you!" and he didn't even acknowledge the fact that I was still in his assholey presence.


That bastard is lucky that "The Osbournes" became a hit and chunky little nerds like him were given a chance to use their baby fat, piss poor eyesight and obscenely bad haircut to their advantage.

The insufferable little fucking cockmonkey.

Alright...Andrew's ready to hump my knee for his daily morning knee hump.

This has become the day's most disturbing routine in my eyes. His eyes meet mine and he stares at me with this blank, glazed over look as he grinds his crotch on my knee.


There he goes.


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