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7:25 a.m. - 2004-12-10


I have come to the conclusion that women have no idea how to judge another woman's physical looks.

This goes all the way back to my grandmother who, when first meeting Rachel Horowitz -- the skinny dork that lived down the street from us who always wore t-shirts and long skirts everywhere -- declared her "gorgeous".

Maybe Rachel grew into a gorgeous creature later in life.

But at the time, she was a very hideous little monster.

It was right around then that I began to think my grandmother was clearly insane.

Lately, my wife has been doing the same thing.

"Have you met Andrew's new teacher, Miss Stacey?" she asked me last week.

"The one with the really bad limp?" I asked back.

"No, that's Miss Carla," she confirmed. "Miss Stacey is new. She's beautiful. You'll know her when you see her."

For days I dreamt about Miss Stacey and how when we finally were to meet, she'd say something like "I love your son to death and I think you're one hot daddy. Dump your wife and marry my hellacious self."

A man can dream.

So yesterday I took Andrew to daycare.

And I met Miss Stacey.

Good lord.

The only thing distinguishing her from a pitbull is a pitbull has less whiskers.

These aren't the only cases of women not being able to recognize true beauty.

I don't think I've ever known one woman who said "She's attractive" and actually pointing to a somewhat attractive woman.

Maybe I'm just attracted to sluts with too much makeup and cleavage.

I dunno.

But you women ... you all CRAZY!!

When did it become imperative that if you're going to do any smidgen of Christmas decorating, you have to have three or four of those wire reindeer that are covered in lights in your front yard?

We have 12 homes on our street and eight of them have these blinding reindeer grazing in their front yards.

I came home from work last night and thought I had accidentally driven into the airport's landing strip. It looked like fucking Times Square with all the lights.

Our outside decorating is pitiful. We have a wreath on the door and this four-foot tall tree on the front porch with lights on it.

We have the Charlie Brown of decorated homes. You pass all these reindeer on fire and then get to our wimpy little tree and wreath.

Which is fine with me.

I'm not going into debt to pay off the power bill like my neighbors and their dadblasted reindeer.

(Yes, that marks the first time in five years I've used the word "dadblasted" in this journal/diary/blog/piece of shit.)

I've been asked to interview for a job that I applied for several months ago.

It's more pay than your average piss boy makes.

But the thing I love about being a piss boy is A)the hours. I work from 10:30 a.m. until 5 p.m.

B)The freedom. I spend most of the day in my car, cruising around town listening to the Ramones "It's Alive!" CD and banging my head on the dashboard.

C)The lack of responsibility. You're Piss Boy. All the boss asks of you is that you don't guzzle the piss while cruising around town. Beyond that, there's no pressure.

I think I have to at least interview for the job.

I'd feel bad sticking it to my piss boss this early in the game.

But he knew I was overqualified to be a piss boy to begin with.

It's the sad fate of the semi-educated piss boy. Too smart to be labelled Piss Boy for any length of time ... but too lazy to care.

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