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6:16 a.m. - 2005-03-21


I was watching the news last night and they had the latest results from a telephone poll they were doing.

Basically, they were asking if you think that we're doing the right thing with the war in Iraq.

And you call in and vote.

60% said we're doing the right thing (Yes ... I live in a red state).

37% said no.

And 3% were undecided.

Once again, this is a poll where you call up the station and give your opinion.

That means that 3% of the people out there took the time to write down the phone number of the station, dial the number of the station, listen to the prompt over the phone telling them how to vote and when the "beep" went off, they said "Uhhhhhh ... I dunno."

What kind of fucking life do you have to have in order to feel like the local community must know that you don't have a fucking clue as to how to answer a question?

Here's a suggestion ... if you DON'T have an opinion one way or the other ... than don't bother to call.

While the newscaster says something like "Your opinion means a lot to us" what he means is ... GET A FUCKING OPINION FIRST BEFORE YOU CALL.

It's been two years now ... we found no weapons of mass destruction ... thousands of our troops have died and even more innocent Iraqi people have died. The Iraqi people have been successfully liberated but now they can't go to dinner without worrying that a mortar shell is going to explode inside "Muhammad's Fish Shack".

Is this right or is it wrong?

"Duhhhh ... I dunno."

Slowly put the phone down, Gomer and go fuck your dog.

The local news guy doesn't need your opinion THAT badly.

So we went to an accountant the other day in order to find out if we're doing everything right when it comes to paying our taxes.

Apparently we're not.

We go to this place that a buddy recommended. He's been using them for years.

We have an appointment with this lady at 9.

At 9:20, a girl comes out and apologizes that the lady is tied up and would we mind if she did our taxes instead?

I didn't mind.

We go to her office, sit down, she looks at us and says "You look familiar".

I start babbling about all the high profile jobs I used to have ... which is usually where people know me from.

She finally determines that she's seen us in church.


So she gets up and leaves and I'm watching the pictures on her computer screen change because she's got one of those wacky screen savers that show her kids doing boring things on the screen like standing in fields and staring at cameras and shit.

And I see a familiar face there.

It's my old drug dealer from the early 90s.

She comes back in and I blurt out "Are you married to Mason Hardy?"

"Yes," she says.

Holy hell.

In my day, Mason and I were tight buddies ... we'd get fried and drive to Atlanta for concerts and strip clubs on a regular basis.

Yes, my wife was thrilled.

Honestly, she loved Mason. Not in the "I wanna have your babies" way but she thought the world of him even though she knew he was my hook-up.

So now we're on a personal level with this accountant.

And this accountant starts pointing out ways to get more taxes back than we ever knew about.

Because I have my own DJ business, I can write off just about anything. Cell phone, internet, magazine subscriptions, CDs, DVDs, dinners, mileage, hotels ... etc.

As long as I can prove it was related to my job ... if I ever need to prove such a thing.

So if Susie and I go out to dinner, order two big ribeyes with an appetizer and dessert and at one point I say "Boy my business is going good" and she says "I'm happy for you" ... SAVE THAT RECEIPT!

I don't want to say our accountant is crooked because she's not. She's a good Christian woman.

She's just ... helping us get the most money we possibly can within the boundaries of the law.

That's her job.

And ... while we don't have the final number yet ... it looks like she's about to do a helluva job.

A "Carnival Cruise to the Bahamas" type of helluva job if you get my drift.

I mean ... she asked if we donated any used clothes to an organization this past year.

Susie mentioned that after our yard sale in September, we donated everything that was left to the local Rescue Mission.

She gave us a list of prices we could claim.

Men's shoes? $10-$20.

Dresses?? $35.

Old record players? $50.

Magazines? 35 cents apiece.

And these were prices from 1989.

We told her there was no way we could remember everything we donated and she said next time take a picture but for now ... just estimate what we gave away.

We estimated about $1,700 worth of stuff.

And that was just fine with the accountant.

I'm pumped and jazzed about this now.

I've been socking away cash for the last few months to pay our taxes with.

And now it looks as if we're going to get a refund that's at least twice what I've socked away.

Which means Daddy's getting some new laser beam lights for his business.

The better to burn Karaoke singers' corneas out with.

Then, last night Mason calls me.

He's all excited and says his wife really likes us and blah blah blah let's get together.

We're getting caught up on old times and new. He's now a Daddy of two boys, they live out in the country and he stopped doing drugs years ago.

"But you can get us a joint if we get together ... right?" he asks.

"I don't know anybody anymore," I say. "I quit years ago."

"Do you still love me?" he asks out of the blue.

I had to laugh.

It'll be good to hang with Mason again.

I watched "Mean Girls" the other day.

My God ... what a funny movie.

I was expecting a somewhat sarcastic teen chick flick that would lose my attention within minutes.

I was glued to the TV and laughing my ass off.

I was watching it after work on Friday night, so it's like 1 a.m. as I'm stifling my giggles.

And whoever said the "bus scene" was funny ... my God you were right.

Now I'm walking around in bitchy teen queen mode, acting like I'm better than everyone else.

Which is a true sign of how good a movie is ... when it transforms your personality into that of an anorexic fake teen bitch.


Life is good, bitches.

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