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5:58 p.m. - 2002-12-04


Like most Americans, some Canadians, a few Mexicans and the occasional French tourist … I am completely fucking baffled by the Levis corporation and its decision to use a creepy little doll named Buddy Lee to hawk its product.

I don’t recall being this creeped out by a doll since that Zuni Fetish Doll in the “Trilogy of Terror” TV-movie from the 1970s. And in the Zuni Fetish Doll’s defense … it didn’t keep me up at nights like Buddy Lee has.

It’s not so much that I’m terrified the doll is going to jump out of the TV screen and beat me to death with its tiny plastic fists … it’s the constant amazement that these commercials make about as much sense as Whitney Houston trying to skirt around the issue that she's a raging crackhead.

Who dreamt up these fucked up commercials?

Most of them revolve around a guy on some kinda road trip, searching for his inner soul. Then all of a sudden, there's that fucking doll, scaring the bejeezus outta me.

My heart can't take many more of these Levis commercials.

That is some bizarre surreal shit, for sure.

Like watching "The Golden Girls" on acid and waiting impatiently for Bea Arthur to drop her drawers and start masturbating furiously in front of the other girls so that you can pull your pud at home along with her.


Did I just type that?

I guess I can now move that one out of the "Secret Fantasy" list into the "Public Fantasy" list.

Anyway...I'm thinking of starting a boycott of Levis until they shitcan Buddy Lee.


...And their creepy little doll guy too.

Since writing this, I have been informed by numerous people that it's actually Lee Jeans and not Levis that have hired this fucked-up little doll to hawk their jeans. That just goes to show you ... the ad campaign is NOT working because it has people like me leaping from their chairs and hiding behind their sofas and not even paying attention to the end of the commercials to find out the name of the company that's employed this Devil Doll From Hell. So boycott Lee Jeans...not Levis. Levis hire sexy young sex thangs to sell their jeans. They're alright by me.

You know the best part about being a professional writer?

No…it’s not all the loose women who throw themselves at you at book signings, wanting you to scribble something obtuse on their breasts while they stare longingly into your eyes, wondering what it must be like to have hot animalistic sex with a guy who makes his living crafting sentences and who knows how to spell words like “animalistic”.

That’s the second best part.

The best part is being able to get out of work by simply saying “I’ve got writer’s block”.

Y’see … writer’s block is our Get Out Of Jail Free card. It’s a perfectly acceptable excuse to fuck off for eight hours and at the end of the day say “Gee…I hope tomorrow’s a better day” when you know damned good and well it won’t be as long as you still have an internet connection in the morning.

Here’s a fact for ya … there’s no such thing as writer’s block. It’s something some writer made up to get out of work because writers are creative like that.

Now…there is such a thing as writing pure crap. Writing stuff that is just bloody chunky weasel shit. You know … like this diary.

And it’s when writers write this crap that they bring the back of their hand to their foreheads, act as if they’re about to pass out and say “Damn this writer’s block! Damn it straight to HELLLL!”

And all our co-workers go “Damn…it must really suck to be a writer!”

Until someone else says “Yeah. But think of all the naked boobies they must sign on a regular basis, huh?”

I almost feel guilty being a writer and having this whole “Writer’s Block” excuse handy. How many other occupations have such a great method for getting out of work?

Do you think cops can have “Cop Block” where they don’t chase down criminals because they are having issues with their jobs?

Or firemen can have “Fireman Block” where they just sit around the station and play cards while entire city blocks are engulfed in flames because they can’t remember how to attach a hose to a fire hydrant?

Or whores have “Whore Block” where they completely forget how to give head and end up snapping a guy’s pecker off and swallowing it whole?


Only writers get the block.

Because writers came up with it first.

Respect the writer.

We’re smarter than the rest of you assholes.

Somebody brought onion bagels to work yesterday and left them in our break room.

It didn’t register with me that these were, in fact, onion bagels until I took a bite out of one of them and was hit with an overwhelming urge to suck a cat’s ass dry to try and get the taste out of my mouth.

Even this morning, I still can’t get the taste of rancid onions out of my mouth.

Word to the wise…if you’re thinking of buying me a Christmas gift…do me a favor and pass on the onion bagel sampler.

And then ... oh was a rare occasion that I brought my lunch to work yesterday. I brought this concoction I like to call "Chili Mac"...elbow macaroni with chili layered on top of it. Not the greatest meal you'll ever eat, but it beats eating cockroaches for lunch. Which I wasn't planning on eating cockroaches ... I'm just saying...

I don't normally bring my lunch because the break room's microwave hasn't been cleaned in about three years. It's coated in layers of nasty assed funk that has hardened and cannot be scraped off the inside of the microwave. And most of this funk is exploded cheese which makes it all the more sickening to me.

I carefully put my plate of chili mac in the nasty assed microwave, set the timer for two minutes and backed away from the microwave to avoid any micro waves emitted from the cracked door on the front.

The stuff heated for about 30 seconds.

And then. The microwave. Stopped.

I stared at the thing, hoping that my staring powers would be enough to jog the decrepit machine back into operation.

No such luck. It just stared right back. All gooey and crusty and chock full o' disease.

I figured that maybe it needed some kind words of encouragement to come back on and finish cooking my chili mac.

"Come on you goddamned piece of fucking shit," I whispered. "Cook my fucking lunch you worthless box of gunk-covered smegma."


I threw open the microwave door, fished through the crusty funk, retrieved my plate, scraped the three year old burnt cheese off of the bottom of the plate and retired to my office to eat cold chili mac.

Christ. I've eaten lukewarm leper rectum that tasted better than that shit.

Word to the wise...cold chili mac will fuck your insides up like a Clorox cocktail.

If you don't believe me, just ask the toilet in the men's room at my workplace.

Stall number two.

It'll tell you all about it.

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