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4:00 p.m. - 2008-06-25




I swear ... sometimes I just wanna ... UNNNGH!!!


How ya doin'?


Oh hell ... you don't wanna hear about me.

How are YOU doing?




I'm so glad to hear that!

I mean ... you ... YOU deserve to have that happen to you! You're an awesome human being!

So anyway.

Been real busy with a bunch o' crazy shit lately.

I worked with this ... this ... how do I put this delicately ... ummm ... PSYCHOTIC FUCKING BRIDE recently.

Check this out, Scooter ...

The girl booked me like a year ago. Nice girl at first. Easy on the eyes. Etc. Etc.

When we first met, she asked if I "played games" at wedding receptions.

I don't. Not normally.

I mean ... I have. But I'm not Bob Fucking Eubanks here. I'm a DJ, not a game show host.

I'm also a whore. Have I mentioned that? I'll say that I'll do anything you want as long as you pay me handsomely at the end of my duties.

So this girl tries to describe this game she saw at someone else's wedding ten years before. The bride takes the groom's shoe and holds it up every time a question is asked, blah blah blah.

I'm all "Yes, ma'am! We can play that game!"

In the meantime, I'm racking my brain trying to decipher what the hell she's talking about.

So we email back and forth several times over the last year. Mostly about music and stuff because ... and I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned this before ... but I'm a DJ. Short for "Disc Jockey". I play music at private parties and people dance. That's what I do.

So a few weeks ago the wedding is finally here.

Everything's going smoothly.

People are dancing,drinking, laughing, having a great time.

At one point the bride walks up to me grinning.

"When are we going to play the Shoe Game?" she says.


More appropriately for the situation ... oh shit.

I had forgotten about the Shoe Game.

In my defense, I do at least one party a week, sometimes two.

I'm a DJ. Have I mentioned that yet? I'm sorry, I'm getting old and I forget the simplest things these days.

So basically, I play music. Don't do games. Not Bob F'n Eubanks.

Picture's drawn now, okay??

"Ummm ...," I said, shooting her one of my patented "Aw Shucks!" grins. "Are you sure you want to do it? Your guests seem to be having a good time dancing and all and it'd be a shame if ..."

"You're not going to play the Shoe Game?"

"No! No! I didn't say that! We can play it, just ..."

("Just ... I don't have a clue on how to play your fucking Shoe Game")

"...Just remind me of the rules one more time."

I have never seen a bride get so angry so quickly.

"YOU don't know HOW to PLAY the SHOE GAME?!?" she said through clenched teeth.

DJ. Not Game Show Host.

"It's just been a while," I said. "Don't worry, it'll be fun. We'll do it in five minutes, okay?"

She walked away.

I had five minutes to figure out how to play this woman's Shoe Game.

I decided that I'd ask them questions, they'd be seated back to back, they'd answer the questions by holding up a shoe and then whoever got the most points would be the winner.


By Uncle Bob

1) I do not offer the options of playing games at my parties.

2) The woman mentioned it in passing during a conversation a year ago and it was never brought up again.

3) I'm ruggedly handsome in my old age and dammit ... sometimes that should be enough to please a bride!

Five minutes passed, I brought two chairs out to the dance floor, called the bride and groom out and had them seated.

I stumbled and stuttered my way through an introduction and explained that we played these games using "my rules".

(Because using "my rules" is just as binding as an oral agreement. You don't like my rules? Fuck you. I win. You lose. Every single time, random person who doesn't like my rules)

First question: "Who is going to be in charge of the remote control in your new household?"

The bride snaps her head my way and gives me a look like she just accidentally bit down on a corpse's leathered testes sac.

"What kind of question is that?" she demanded.

Dead silence.

Dead fucking silence.

Now ... hypothetical situation here ... but if Bob Fucking Eubanks were hosting this little dog and pony show, he would have probably winked at the camera and said something peppered with double entendres to the delight of his studio audience.


I was biting my tongue until it bled to keep from screaming "I'M NOT A GAME SHOW HOST, I'M A FUCKING DJ!!"

As you might imagine, I was pulling questions for the game out of my ass. Because I was fully unprepared for this little demonstration of my utter stupidity.

So as my sweat glands casually decide to go into overdrive, I ask another question.

"Who is the better cook in the house?"

I mean ... Christ. I suck. I GET IT.

The only thing I can compare it to is ... it's like if I waltzed into your workplace, handed you a microphone and said "You're a game show host now. Entertain the everloving FUCK out of me NOW, BITCH."

The bride PUTS HER SHOE BACK ON and says loud enough for everyone to hear "Just play some music."


As you might imagine, the mood in the room has gone from festive to that feeling of shame you have when you first open your eyes to find out that your secret masturbation session has turned into a public affair with family members and/or friends who've innocently walked in on you when you thought the door was locked, I mean you checked it and the motherfucking door was LOCKED in about 90 seconds time.

NOBODY wanted to look me in the eye at that point.

I had been SERVED by Satan's mistress in front of everyone.

Keep in mind ... at this point I didn't even have any music READY to be played.

So, as if the mood wasn't awkward enough, it was accompanied by dead silence as I heard people murmuring "What's wrong? What happened? Why is the DJ sweating so much? Is he going to die, Mommy?"

I put on my best cheerful voice and boomed into the microphone "WHO'S READY TO CHA CHA?!?" as the Cha Cha Slide began.

Meantime, the bride was complaining to whoever was within earshot that I had ruined her wedding reception.

Nevermind the fact that I had a great dance floor going five minutes earlier and everyone was having a great time up until then ... the reception was now RUINED.

Well soil my shorts, Shirley ... I didn't mean to rain on your fucking parade.

I went over to the groom and said "Man, I am SO SORRY about that. I don't think we were on the same page there."

He shrugged, grinned and said "PMS dude."


When am I ever going to learn that I will never be able to defeat PMS?

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