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6:27 a.m. - 2005-11-17


My wife and son are ... hmmmm ... there's not really a clinical term for it so I'll just invent one ... dirty shitwalkers.


"Dirty Shitwalkers".

That says it all.

Y'see ... every night, I tend to do something completely crazy and insane.

I go to my bedroom and there's this big kinda rectangular soft thing in the middle of the bedroom that we call a "bed".

I lay down on it.

And usually anywhere between 10 and 30 minutes, I'm asleep.

I then stay asleep in this bed usually anywhere between four and six hours.

I know ... weird, isn't it??

Because my wife and son ... they don't necessarily do that.

Y'see ... they're dirty shitwalkers.

Here's a for instance...

For instance, last night my wife decided she was going to sleep on the couch because I don't know why.

That's fine. That means more room for me in the big rectangular soft thing in the bedroom.

This was at 10:00.

By midnight, my wife had gotten up off the couch and dirty shitwalked to the bed where she climbed in and decided to spend a few hours there.

By 2:00, she got up out of our bed and dirty shitwalked to the guest bedroom where she finished off the night asleep in the guest bed.

Meanwhile, this must have sent a telepathic message to our son who decided at 3 a.m. it was time to change beds and come sleep in my bed.

So he dirty shitwalks to my bed, climbs in and starts kicking the living shit out of me because the kid can't sleep still. He's got to roll around like a kindergartener who's had his eye poked out with a stick on the playground.

There's never any telling who I'll go to bed with and who I'll wake up with in my bed.

Granted ... I can rule out Tara Reid.

I think anyway.

Speaking of Tara, I don't care what the gossip hounds say about her, I still find her attractive.

So what if she's a flaming boozehound hellbent on a liver transplant by the time she's 32.

She's hot.


I said it.

And it felt goooood.

I'm having to work on an advertisement for my business because my wife has decided that it's time I started to advertise my business.

I really hate doing this kinda thing because you have to write about yourself legitimately without sounding like you're bragging.

You know ... you can't write something like "Uncle Bob's DJ Service ... We're the Best Goddamned Fucking DJ Service In The World And If You Don't Choose Us To DJ Your Party It's Your Own Goddamned Fault That It Sucked."

I mean ... I wish I could write that and be done with it.

Alas, society dictates that advertising doesn't traipse into territory where you're taking the Lord's name in vain while trying to get your point across.

Frickin' society.

I really despise you sometimes, society.

Susie has now caught the virus that Andrew had.

She comes home from work, collapses on the couch with a heavy blanket over her and shivers.


She's such a wuss sometimes.

Like she's the first person to ever have a 103 degree temperature.

Get over it, Whiney O'Pisspants.

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