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8:32 a.m. - 2002-08-07



Far be it for me to gloat ... BUT BILL IS THE MOLE!!! BILL IS THE MOLE!!!!

That said, sometime next week, two of my entries will be written by the biggest loser in Diaryland...Weetabix.

You guys will probably never even notice the difference. will. The entries will actually be ENTERTAINING for a change.

I received a windfall of discs yesterday…a total of nine discs from you guys which was quite frankly … awesome!

Of course, this means that all of my free time has been spent burning discs for the last 12 hours. You know…with a whopping 5.5 hours for sleep.

Soooooo…how about that burning CD stuff, huh? Man…THAT’S some wild and wacky stuff, huh?

Sorry…if it isn’t painfully obvious yet, I have nothing to write about.

Except for Creepy Pipe Guy.

Creepy Pipe Guy works in the same building as I do, but not with the same company. There’s several rag tag businesses on the floors above us. I think one is full of telemarketers or something, because all of the people that work there look like they’re in a daze, wondering at what exact moment did their lives take a wrong turn and they ended up in a dead end job where people that don’t hang up on them are called “successes”.

I’m not sure where Creepy Pipe Guy works. It wouldn’t shock me if I found out he was a telemarketer though. He’s got a unique voice. Kinda like if Corky from “Life Goes On” had mastered the art of enunciation or something.

Anyway, Creepy Pipe Guy takes many breaks throughout the day and heads down to the employee entrance to the building (aka the back door) where he lights up a pipe and runs his fingers through his greasy 57 year-old hair, adjusting his thick glasses on the bridge of his nose while picking foreign matter out of his mustache. While standing there, smoking away on his stinky tobacco, he makes it a point to try to engage every single bastard that walks through that door in conversation.

It’s hot outside now that it’s August. My guess is that it’s in the hundreds outside.

This doesn’t stop Creepy Pipe Guy from trying to talk your ear off as you desperately try to get inside the building before your ass is literally sweated off.

Yesterday, as I came back from lunch, Creepy Pipe Guy was outside, lighting his pipe and arranging all the flecks of dead skin in his mustache to form some kind of bizarre smiley face or something.

“Hot one today, huh?” he says, waving a burning cigarette lighter around the bowl in his pipe.

“Yeah,” I said, trying not to look directly into Creepy Pipe Guy’s eyes. Once you make eye contact with Creepy Pipe Guy, you may as well have signed your death warrant because he takes that as a sign of weakness and then pounces on you for the kill.

“It’s too hot to be outside,” he says, puffing away on his cheap tobacco.

Okay … I’ve never had a jones for nicotine. But I can tell you that if I did, I wouldn’t risk a heat stroke to nurture that bad boy. Nope…you’d find me clawing at my arms and snapping at everyone within shouting distance before you’d find me outside on a hot August day in Alabama stoking the pipe.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to maneuver my way around Creepy Pipe Guy without actually looking at him.

“What is it you guys do down there?” he asked me, referring to my employers.

“We make coffee table books for various cities around the country,” I said.

Then I accidentally locked eyes with him. And like Dracula, that sonofabitch sucked me in to his lair with his beady magnified eyes swirling in a haze of cherry-scented pipe smoke.

“Coffee table books?” he said, adding more tobacco to his pipe as if to signify that he’s ready to hunker down and have a discussion about coffee table books. “What kind of coffee table books?”

He kept saying “coffee table books” like this was a foreign slang term to him that left him slightly disgusted. Like the words “coffee table books” translated into “infected sweaty armpits” in his hairy ears.

So I explained to him that we are commissioned by cities to write books about their cities and these books make lovely Christmas gifts for the people of those cities. Creepy Pipe Guy looked at me in awe…as if there was anyone on this earth that would prefer a coffee table book over a pouch of Black Cavendish tobacco for Christmas.

By this point, sweat was gushing out my forehead like a fire hydrant on a summer day in Harlem and I unlocked my eyes from his and excused myself from Creepy Pipe Guy.

I have a feeling it’s not over between Creepy Pipe Guy and me.

Not by a long shot.

Man…are there any cuter children on this earth than these little twins who got their heads ripped apart yesterday?

Every picture I’ve seen of them makes me just go “Awwww!”

Even the pics where they still shared a skull.

For those of you who don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, these two babies were discovered in a Mexican Circus as a side show attraction. Raised by wolves, these babies were the pride and joy of Guatemala until some Americans came forward and said “You know, we could probably cause a lot of friction if we were to separate those kids into two different people.”

So the other day, they took the kids into an operating room and from the way the doctors described it, they snapped them apart like a wishbone at Thanksgiving dinner.

Now, they’re some cute little Guatemalan babies. No wonder it was news when they separated them. I bet had they been ugly little kids joined at the scalp, nobody woulda paid attention to them. They’d probably still be walking around Guatemala with one walking and the other carefully balanced on top of the walker’s head.

I bet they would have been hellacious gymnasts someday had they kept them joined at the head.

Alright…that’s enough. I can feel the hellfire burning my ass as I type.

And finally, that creepy little guy from Ally McBeal and Passions passed away yesterday.

I never knew his story. I’d see him every now and then on television and wonder “Dude…what’s up with THAT?!?”

I mean…he was really tiny like Tattoo from “Fantasy Island” … so I figured…”Okay…the guy’s a midget”.

But he looked REALLY young. Like he was six or something. So I thought, “Okay…he’s a kid”.

But then he’d always be wearing these clothes that looked like they were made for adults and just shrunk. So then I’d think…”Okay … midget”.

Then he’d start talking and his voice was all squeaky and I’d think “Okay…Jiminy Cricket fanatic.”

Of course, I’m not exactly GLAD that he’s dead. I mean…it’s sad and all.

But at least it solved this mystery that’s been eating away at me for several years.

He was 20.

He had some kinda weird disease that made him look like a second grader.

He liked movies and at one time worked as a ventriloquist’s dummy before a magic fairy turned him into a little boy.

Gimme a break. This guy made Michael Jackson look normal.

I’ve often wondered…when midgets die, do they get buried in little midget caskets? Or are they buried in regular sized caskets and the mortician stuffs newspaper in the rest of the casket to keep them from moving around like a fine piece of china being boxed up for storage?

If they're buried in midget caskets, are there six pall bearers or only four? I would think with six pallbearers, the guys would be tripping all over themselves. Better make it four, right?

Four would still be cutting it close. I would think the guys in front would have scraped up heels from the guys pulling up the rear.

Technically, they could probably just use two pallbearers. The guy couldn’t have weighed more than 40 lbs tops.

For that matter, they could probably just sling him over the biggest guy’s shoulder who could then toss him in the grave like a 40 lb. Sack of potatoes.

Wait a second.

Hang on…someone’s at the door.


Ah. It’s Satan. He’s ready for me.

Gotta go.

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