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5:47 a.m. - 2003-10-21


So we get our tickets for the Wiggles in a few weeks.

Naturally ... pants were pissed over the sheer excitement of a dream finally becoming a reality.

Upon closer observation, I saw the fine print ... "Lineup subject to change".

Which means that for all we know ... the Wiggles could be replaced on a whim by ... ohhh...I dunno ... Megadeth or Marilyn Manson or Metallica or one of those other bands that start with "M".

I'm sincerely hoping that the Atlanta Civic Center does the right thing and hands over the Wiggles and doesn't get cute on us by changing up the lineup just because they covered their asses in the fine print on the tickets.

I mean ... my kid doesn't even LIKE Megadeth.

What a huge disappointment that would be.

I mean ... we show up to hear Dorothy The Dinosaur sing about her love for roses and instead we're assaulted by jackhammer-like songs about dry humping the skulls of corpses.

I will not rest until the encore of "The Wiggles Medley". Only then will I be able to exhale.


I've got a new pet peeve!!

It seems I work with a few people who have a nervous tic that makes them say "Right. Right. Uh-huh. Yeah. Right. Yeah. Sure. Uh-huh" incessantly while I talk.

This is more annoying than having someone forcibly push your fingertips in a meat grinder and hearing your fingernails being ground to a fine powder.

It's like they're not even listening to you, they're just trying to hurry you along in the story so they can talk.

Case in point...yesterday:

JACKIE: "How did you like playing Santa?"

ME: "It was ..."

JACKIE: "Yeah. Uh-huh. Wow."

ME: " I had a great ..."

JACKIE: "Yeah. Sure. I bet."

ME: "...time and really enjoyed..."

JACKIE: "I'm sure. Yeah. Uh-huh."

ME: "...the kids."

JACKIE: "Right. Sure. Yeah."

ME: "Goddammit, why do you even talk to me when you're not going to listen?"

JACKIE: "Sure. Yeah. Of course. Yeah. Right."

It's really unnerving to me. Just shut up long enough for me to get a fucking sentence out and THEN start babbling like a semi-coherent jackass. That's all I ask.

She's not the only one who does it. My boss does it as well to a certain degree.

But Jackie nervously agrees the entire time you're talking to the point where you forget what you're talking about because she's chirping like a fucking parakeet the entire time your mouth is open.

My God.

It's amazing her husband hasn't shot her and buried her in a shallow grave off a country road by now.

I did something kinda stupid yesterday but it wasn't really my fault.

My lunch partner Meagan and I went to lunch yesterday.

Yes ... it took me a few weeks to figure out how to spell her name as well. The extra "a" threw me for a loop. It's pronounced "Megan".

Anyway, we go to this local pizza place.

(Yes, I hate cheese and love pizza. Please ... no emails attempting to dissect my psyche. I've managed just fine thus far and don't need yet another amateur opinion on my idiosyncracies.)

While we're eating the pizza, something falls off of mine and goes tumbling down my torso.

I look down and see nothing. Therefore, I use my amazing deduction skills to think that a piece of sausage rolled off and hit the floor.

I commence eating.

We get back to the office and after a while I go to put something in my shirt pocket.

I look in there and there's a piece of cheese about the size of a shredded piece of cheese that is slathered in pizza sauce.

I go to fish this piece of cheese out of my pocket at my desk with my fingers.

It was really weird, but as soon as I touched the cheese, it disintegrated in my shirt pocket.

Being the busy little beaver that I am, I keep trying to fish what's left of it out.

Meanwhile, I'm smearing pizza sauce all over this white dress shirt.

Long story short, by the time I gave up trying to get this thing out of my pocket, I had managed to make a blood red circle on my shirt about four inches in diameter.

And I had a meeting with a man in five minutes.

I go to the bathroom and put all my hope into a wet paper towel, thinking that this would do the trick and magically erase the stain so that I didn't look like Billy the Three Year Old Nose Picker at our meeting.

No such luck.

In fact, it just made me look as if I was lactating blood now.

I came out of the bathroom and the guy who I was having the meeting with was stepping off the elevator.

We shook hands and made formal introductions of ourselves and I sheepishly added "I had a little accident" as I gestured toward the massive red stain on my shirt.

"Were you shot?" he asked.


Needless to say, I didn't buy what he was selling.

"Were you shot???"


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