AN APOLOGY FROM CLEOTIS G. WHOREBANGER

Man.

I kinda sorta owe some of you an apology.

It seems I flaunted my real name on this site on several occasions in the past when I had completely forgotten that I had.

BUT ... in my defense ... most of the time I had done this were in situations where I just threw my weekly humor column in this space, back when I was writing a weekly humor column.

When I wrote the humor column it was done locally and everyone knew my real name there anyway.

AND ... back then nobody was really reading me. I had a handful of people reading this diary when I was busy driving my real name into people's skulls.

AAAAAND ... I was high on the weed back then too.

Yep.

Smokin' the ol' grassola.

Tokin' the jizzoint.

Coughin' and sputterin' the THC all over my party partners.

Hell ... the very first entry I ever did here had my real name in it.

Duh.

So sorry for being so paranoid and thinking that a few of you had to actually go to great lengths to find out my real name.

All you had to do was read this crap from the beginning to know my name.

Sheesh.

I'm such a dumbass.

Had my first day of official "work" yesterday with my new business.

While we have an independent contractor who will install the wiring in these houses, my partner has learned how to do it himself since he's Joe Handyman while I'm Joe Handicapped.

And that's $400 that we pocket ourselves. The contractor will start getting used when we no longer have time to do this ourselves.

Have I already explained this?

I feel like I have.

Anyway ... he showed me how to strip wires (WHOOOHOOOO!! SEX-SAYYYY!) and put the little things on the end of them for cable and telephones and shit like that.

Luckily, he had already put all the wiring in the walls, so we didn't have to do any of THAT crap.

This was in a brand new house still being built ... well ... it's actually being finished. Painters were there touching up the walls and shit.

So it was 99 degrees here yesterday afternoon.

And we're in a house with a roof with no air conditioning.

It got a weeeeee bit hot in there yesterday.

And I had a weeeeee bit of an acid flashback or something because I was getting delusional as the hours went on.

The ONLY thing in this house that was completely finished was the pool in the back yard.

Full of crystal clear water, the pool mocked me just outside the patio's doorway.

Oh how I wanted to doff my clothing and jump feet first into the pool, feeling the cold rush of water slap my testicles like a drunk and inexperienced prostitute.

I don't think my partner who's just a weeeee bit more professional than I am would approve of such an act.

So I didn't.

But damn. That's just cruel to have a pool finished while you have workers doing such grueling work as putting those little thingies on the ends of cables in near 100-degree weather.

Cruel assed bastard.

I DJ'ed a fundraiser for a local politician last night. Apparently I'm becoming the "go-to" guy when local politicians need DJs for fund-raising parties as this is the second one I've done and the first politician referred me to the second one.

Which is alright, I guess.

I mean ... I could be the "go-to" guy for the local hillbilly hootenanny or something.

So I'm playing this fund raiser and it's a bunch of stuffy old judges and their wives there talking about how many holes they shot early in the day.

I first thought they were talking about how many "ho's" they shot earlier in the day and thought "Holy shit! What have I got myself into? The local whore killers association?!?"

Nope.

They were just talking about golf.

So I'm playing all this Dean Martin/Frank Sinatra/Tony Bennett/Slayer music for them and the politician's adult son stumbles over to me.

This guy had been drinking heavily since the shindig started and now his hair was all askew on top of his head with his $350 sunglasses on a $125 strap around his neck.

He was like the alcoholic Joe Cool.

"Are you going to be playing anything else besides this music?" he asked.

"What would you like to hear?" I asked back.

(When dealing with drunks, ALWAYS answer each question with another question. Eventually they give up trying to communicate and shuffle away)

"Play some Phish or Widespread Panic," he belched.

Yeah.

If there's anything elderly senior citizens like to hear at stuffy fund-raisers, it's smelly hippie jam bands.

So I put on Phish's "Bounce Around The Room". It's one of their typical songs which incorporates a smidgen of melody and whose primary usage is to de-harsh an acid buzz.

Sure as shit ... here's the politician's son ... holding his can of beer in one hand and dancing around the room in his own little space, doing the hippie hand move that looks like they're carefully plucking imaginary butterflies out of the air.

I'm sure the politician was impressed.

"Look Judge! There's my boy over there dancing like a hippie! Isn't that cute?"

Uhhhh...sorry pal. But your son IS a hippie.

And apparently he's bogarting all the drugs because he didn't offer to share with the DJ.

Cruel assed bastard.

And finally ... for you single ladies ...

HOW TO SPOT A RICH GUY

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