A REVOLUTIONARY NEW IDEA IN ONLINE JOURNALING

For the time being, this diary will be stealing other people's random diary entries and posting them here as my own ... verbatim.

There will be no links back to the original diarist and no credit given to them. For all intents and purposes, these are my entries now.

These entries will be picked entirely at random by a sophisticated piece of machinery known as a "computer".

This will be the modus operendi until I have something worthy enough to write about.

Okay?

Good.

Here we go.

I HATE MY GODDAMNED MOTHER

I hate my goddamned mother LOL and here's why it's because she's a goddamned whore that's why.

Last night she came in my room and told me to turn out the light and go to bed and I said "fucky ou whore!"

(Uncle Bob's note: This kid may be Japanese, I'm not sure.)

My goddamned mother started crying and I said "Quit your goddamned crying, you whore! And get out of my room!"

She just stood there in the doorway crying until I threw a shoe at her face and hit her in the eye. That made her cry even more. Goddamned crying whore! Shut up! LOL! Quit bleeding on the carpet you goddamned crying whore!

LOL!

I swear ... I'm going to kill her before I turn 14.

This PMS thing is a goddamned bitch.

Just like my mother.

So I've got a job interview tomorrow (this is Uncle Bob by the way now).

And because God enjoys messing with me in His own funny little way, he's decided to curse me with the zit from Hell right at the corner of my mouth so it looks as if my mouth is about an inch longer than it is.

And that inch-long part of my mouth doesn't actually move. It just sits there all reddish.

Basically, I look like the Elephant Man with acne.

Why is it I only get zits when something of importance is happening?

It's not stress because I could give two shits if I get this job or not. I have three jobs already plus my own business to manage.

Therefore, I have to believe that it's a higher power than my hormones playing with my face.

The only thing I can think of is that I took a slice of greasy pizza last week and smeared it all over my face for a laugh at work, screaming "I fucking love pizza!" while doing it.

Beyond that, I have no idea why I've got this bloody golf ball embedded in my face.

Here's how it works ... when the parents come pick their kid up, they have to walk him past Santa Claus in the lobby. If the kids wanna hang with Santa, they can. If not, keep walking.

It's a cool policy.

So, naturally, Andrew wants to hang with Santa.

Santa waves at Andrew.

Andrew starts hopping around slowly like a retarded frog.

Santa says "Do you want to come sit on my lap?"

Andrew hops over to him with a big grin on his face. Literally hopping.

Meanwhile, his pants are falling down to his knees.

So Santa pulls him up on his lap and Andrew's practically naked on Santa's lap.

Santa's trying to pull Andrew's pants up, but Andrew's oblivious that his pants are down in front of his peers. He's just obsessed with Santa.

Santa kept him on his lap long enough for the obligatory Polaroid taken by the ladies at daycare (which turned out horrible ... don't give up your day jobs, ladies) before he throws Andrew off his lap with a candy cane in his hand.

I pull Andrew's pants up as he merrily chirps "I've got a candy cane! I've got a candy cane!"

The kid is a whore for candy canes. He'd sit on Hitler's lap if it meant he'd get a candy cane afterwards.

I think Santa was a bit uncomfortable having his picture taken with a four year-old who was losing his pants on his lap.

Hell, Michael Jackson's been sued over more trivial shit than that.