WHERE'S THE CLOSET HOMOSEXUALS AND GIMPS WHEN YOU NEED THEM?

You know how sometimes you're sitting at a red light in heavy traffic and you think to yourself, "Gee. If I had a gun and a particularly hefty set of testicles, I'd hop out of this junkheap and start blasting away every driver around me except for the fact that it'd probably make the traffic jam even worse"??

...Welcome to my world, Buckaroo.

Say it with me kiddies...."WHAT A WEEKEND!"

First, Friday night Susie's friend Julie came to town from Nashville.

You might remember Julie from such classic diary entries as "Closet Homosexuals and Gimps Are The Last People You Want Helping You Move" and "The Ballad Of Susie's Friend And Her Dumbass Boyfriend".

Julie came down with the intent on helping us pack stuff up for the big move coming this weekend.

And she did fine. Except for the fact that the girl must sleep 14 hours a day.

Holy sheep shit, I don't think I have EVER met a person who can sleep as long as this woman. Even Andrew, at his sleepies, can only log in about half the hours of this woman.

Friday night we went to grab a bite to eat and then to go walk around our new "house" which is now framed with half a roof on it, thanks for asking.

We came home, gave Andrew a bath and Julie's tired so she goes to bed at 9:30.

We follow right behind her except to our own bedroom, not Julie's, because we are not a batch of swinging perverts who share our genitalia with one another in a show of friendship.

Neigh...we sleep in our bed, she sleeps in the guest bedroom.

Now...if she was more my type, and even the least bit hot, I might ... you know...throw her a bone, so to speak.

But it's not meant to be. She's the world's most dykiest looking straight woman. She looks more like a man than a woman. And trust me ... if I wanted to sleep with a woman that looked like a man, I'd be all over Bella Abzug by now.

Ahhhhh...Bella. Sweet, sweet Bella...how I'd love to suckle your hairy toes...

Alas...we all go to bed.

I wake up at 5:30 Saturday morning and attack ... THE WORKSHOP.

Our workshop is the size of a small house for those of you who haven't been paying attention the last 1,036 entries. It's stacked to the ceiling with boxes o' crap and was at one time features in the magazine "Shitty Old Workshops Full of Boxes of Crap."

I don't expect everyone to roll out of bed at 5:30 to help me. I'm not that stupid. I'm a morning person. It's when I have the most energy. I get more done before 9 a.m. than most military branches. I'm amazing. I've got what the kids call "mad skillz" when it comes to getting up early and getting work done. I be ferocious.

So I'm out there, tooling away, I get a van full of boxes packed and am ready to go.

I move all the cars out of the driveway and take the van to the storage unit, unload those, come back and fill up another vanload of boxes.

It gets to be 9 a.m. Susie's awake and doing house chores and watching Andrew while waiting for her mother to come and watch him for the day.

Julie's STILL asleep.

So I keep tooling away at the workshop by myself.

Susie's mom and brother finally get to the house at 10:30.

Julie's STILL asleep.

I suggest we go in there and poke her with a stick to see if she's still alive. Susie says to let her sleep.

At 11:45 a.m., Julie finally awakes.

14 hours and 15 minutes of sleep.

"Why didn't anyone wake me?" she asked.

I'm wondering the same thing. But I'm personally flabbergasted that the girl wouldn't eventually wake up on her own. She almost slept an entire day.

So now, I've got a crew helping me...me, Susie, Julie and my $1,100 owing-ratty t-shirt wearing, Diet Dr. Pepper slurping brother-in-law.

Don't think for a second that he got to the house and did ANYTHING before snagging a can of DDP. That bitch was in my refrigerator quicker than a bee sting.

So everyone does fine...we all get in a routine and everything's going smoothly.

We load up a van full of trash. Nasty old boxes, stuff we don't want...old magazines mostly.

...Including old Playboys.

This has my brother-in-law (BIL) salivating. It's a virtual gold mine of Playboys. I had been subscribing since 1981 through 2000, so I had 19 years worth of Playboys. 19 times 12 is a lot. I'm not sure how much...but a lot.

So BIL wants to start shuffling through all these magazines to pull out all the Playboys. He's being extra special perverted about it because ...well...he's a big scary-looking pervert. So while we're all working, he's surrounded by boxes of magazines, leafing through the Rolling Stones, Entertainment Weeklys and National Lampoons to get to the Playboys.

He ends up with a stack of Playboys that was at LEAST four feet tall.

He starts carting these to his truck and is literally giddy. He's giggling and thinking about how he's going to abuse his little pubic hamster like a genie would pop out of it if he rubbed it enough when he gets home.

...Which ... of course...makes the rest of us sick.

Now...I'll be honest...I never abused Playboys in a sexual way. Without going into too much detail ... Playboys are just kinda ummmmm...too tame for me. I truly enjoyed them for the articles, the cartoons and the monthly celebrity layouts ("Bella Abzug...naked?? Oh man...page 131...PAGE 131!!! I CANNOT FLIP PAGES FAST ENOUGH!!!")

Anyway, it was disturbing. Especially because he kept leering at Julie after spending ten minutes in his truck in front of my house, frantically scrambling through the pages of these Playboys and slapping his crotch around like it was an unfaithful lover.

I mean...Julie. He was leering at JULIE. Your average Gatorade bottle is sexier than Julie. It definitely has more curves.

So anyway...gosh...where was I? Oh...I've got a vanload of trash and I'm about to take it to a nearby school where garbage trucks sit in the parking lot all day and take your vanloads of trash.

...Larry wants to go with me.

I freeze. I do not want Larry riding with me. I do not want quality time with my brother-in-law. I do not want Green Eggs and Ham, I do not like them Sam I Am.

He comes anyway.

I try to make casual conversation as we drive to the school.

"It's a nice day," I say.

"Yep," he says.

(silence for a mile)

"I think this is going smoothly today," I say.

"Yep," he says.

(Clearly his mind is on the task of finishing this up and getting home and locking himself in his bedroom with a four foot stack of Playboys, a box of Kleenex and his pitiful pecker for the rest of the weekend)

We get to the trash trucks and he wants to get out and smoke a cigarette while we wait in line. That's fine with me ... I'm out of topics to discuss with the scary bastard.

He gets out, saunters over to the trash guys and starts making small talk with them. They're obviously trying to ignore him and do their work, but he won't be ignored. He starts helping them unload the trash from other people's vehicles with his cigarette dangling from his obscene goatee.

It's finally my turn, we empty out my trash and he gets back in the van and we head back to the house.

"Those were nice guys," he says.

I didn't have the heart to tell him it was obvious they were trying to distance themselves from him.

"Yep," I said.

We wrap everything up about 5:00. Grandma and BIL leave so BIL can go home and hump his new paper lovers.

Me, Suze, Julie and Andrew go to Ruby Tuesday for dinner, which was good if you like being crammed into a tiny restaurant and forced to eat frozen food for $15 a plate.

We drove out to the model home afterwards since our realtor had given us the passcode to get inside with after hours and sat around the model home for about an hour. Julie was getting tired after a grueling eight-hour day so we went back home where she passed out on the couch at 9 p.m.

She awoke at 10 a.m. on Saturday. Only 13 hours of sleep. I don't know how she could function on only 13 hours of sleep, but she did it.

We were going to go to church yesterday, but Andrew got stung by a wasp after stirring up a wasp's nest (not fun). He was tough, cried for a minute or so and then went back to blowing bubbles with his magic soap bubble wand thing.

He decided to put his hand in the soapy liquid and try blowing them that way.

When that didn't work, he thought he'd try blowing bubbles with his eyes.

As the soap began stinging his eyes, he used his soap-covered hands to try to rub the soap out, mixing more soap into his eyes until his eyes were swollen shut and any sort of light was too strong for him.

We finally rid his body of all soapy liquid and I took him in his bedroom where it was dark and sang to him and calmed him down. The kid had a rough morning.

Yesterday, we did work around the house and the new owner came to check "her" house out.

She was all excited about moving in. We talked to her for about 30 minutes or so and she just kept babbling about what all she plans to do. She doesn't have a lawn mower, but she's going to save up and buy one, which tells me...this lawn won't be getting cut once we leave.

"Hey, NAN...good luck selling the house for $95,000 when the neighbor won't cut her yard!!"

After she left, Susie asked me if I felt guilty selling this girl the house.

I don't.

Susie feels a bit guilty because she doesn't think the girl's ready for all of the hardships that come with owning a home. The yardwork, the housework, the upkeep, etc.

That's not my concern.

My concern is smiling politely, insuring her that we're "sad" to be leaving this house and neighborhood, and genuinely acting like she's really getting a bargain.

And she really is. We're supposed to have an appraiser come out in the next day or two to determine the house's worth.

I guarantee you it'll be more than what we sold it for. As much as $10,000 more than what she bought it for.

If she was smart and had the time, she'd turn around and sell it immediately and make a profit off of it.

I dunno.

I'm just babbling now.

Have you ever read a diary and thought "Gee. If I had a gun, I'd shoot this diarist dead just so he'd quit babbling and I could get on with my day?"

Welcome to my world, Buckaroo.