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10:11 a.m. - 2005-05-29


My college roommate from Western Kentucky University is spending the weekend with me here at the house while my wife and son rot in Hell ... I mean ... see friends in Atlanta.

Dave and I hadn't seen each other in 24 years when we met for lunch last summer.

It was a one-hour meeting that begged for more time because an hour just isn't enough time to tell 24 years of fart jokes and talk about the sleazy girlfriends you had before you met your saintly wife.

So he got into town yesterday about 2, and he immediately sniffs out my VCR and pops in a tape called Dancing Outlaw which is the most unintentionally hilarious videos you'll ever see. It's a documentary about this schizophrenic mountain man from Virginia who thinks he's a great tap-dancer but ... as I pointed out ... anyone with three weeks worth of tap lessons under their belt could dance circles around the batshit fuck.


And he also thinks he's Elvis. At times.

He tells a long, hilarious story about leaving his sunglasses at his Daddy's house and when he goes back to get them, he beats the shit out of some hillbillies who shoot his brother's eye out.

Also, he admits to huffing gasoline out of RC Cola cans.

Yes. I'm ordering the DVD.

So Dave went along with me to this wedding last night that I was promised would be another redneck wedding.

While it was no Redneck Wedding From Hell, it had its moments.

Two of the bridesmaids had matching scorpion tattoos on their shoulder blades. While I'd like to think they had them done especially for the wedding, I seriously doubt that's the case. Redneck bridesmaids don't normally have the common sense to get matching tattoos to celebrate their friend's nuptuals.

There was this little fat kid who reminded me a lot of me when I was a little fat kid except I would have kicked this little fat kid's ass if he had ever spoken to me.

I turned on the bubble machine because there were a bunch of little kids standing on the dancefloor with their fingers crammed up to the knuckle in their nostrils and nothing better to do.

So bubbles start floating around their heads and they're all giddy and then Captain Tubby comes lumbering over and starts knocking kids out of the way so he can pop bubbles.

This is a 12 year-old ox popping bubbles with three year-olds.

Then, he comes up and makes the cardinal mistake when dealing with a wedding DJ.

He asked for Celine Dion.


What kind of ignorant little fucking 12 year-old is going to stop the action on the dance floor to hear Celine Dion??

ANSWER: Augustus Gloop.

I told him I didn't have any, even though I had 2 or 3 songs of hers.

But I only play those when hot little bridesmaids with too much cleavage ask for them ... not prepubescent fucknuts who've spent way too much time eating so much food at Chinese buffets that the owners come out and say "That all you can eat! You go now, fat boy!"

So Dave told me I was being too harsh on the human beach ball and that maybe I should reconsider playing the shit for the fat little sissy.

It took me about an hour or so to give in to Dave's peer pressure (Goddamn that guy), but I finally put on that gawdawful theme song from "Titanic" that always makes me want to search frantically for metal fish hooks to jam in my ears and rip my eardrums out by the roots.

I'll be damned.

That song gave me the best dance floor I'd had all night.

Of course, Gilbert Grape had to jump out of his seat and make a beeline to one of the little bridesmaids that was closest to his age and ask her to dance.

It was sweet ... the kid made a request that he had thought the girl would like and then, with no common sense whatsoever, he ran over to the girl to ask her to dance.

Naturally, the girl shot him down in flames while Dave and I watched him.

This kid didn't handle rejection so well. In about ten years, he'll have the whole "Walk away gracefully from the bitch" move down pat ... but last night, he didn't really know how to handle this twist of fate.

The girl was dancing with another woman ... slow dancing with her ... and STILL turning down Sgt. Eatstoomuch.

Chunky Style stood there for a few seconds and then asked the little girl's partner if she'd dance with him.

Luckily for him, the older girl was a bit nicer and agreed to dance with him.

So little snooty bridesmaid had to go sit down while Crockett N. Tubbs got the last laugh and danced with a gal who had honest-to-goodness breasts.

As Dave said "If the kid plays his cards right, he could get an earful of nipple right about now" since the woman was a foot or so taller than him.

Alas, he was a fat little gentleman and kept his distance from the mams.

Sadly, nobody got so drunk that they got in fist fights. The best man told a rambling ... RAMBLING story about the groom which had no payoff whatsoever at the end. I wasn't really listening, but it had something to do with the groom wanting a motorcycle and then blowing a tire on it and fixing the tire in a wading pool. It was a bizarre ancedote to share and was greeted with silent confused stares when he finally quit talking.

I quit playing at 10:00 because I'd heard that's all the time they'd paid for in the building. We packed up, got a few pizzas and went home, sitting up and talking about sleazy girlfriends until 1 a.m.

Today, we're tracking down Dave's brother who plays drums with the Black Crowes who are in town tonight to play a concert.

Sooo ... there's a good chance I'll be in jail on Memorial Day if I'm hanging with a Black Crowe today.

Therefore ... no updates on Monday.

Unless there's broadband internet in jail.

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