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09:20:28 - 2000-09-15


It's been brought to my attention that I apologize too much here.

Therefore ... no more apologies. If you don't like what I have to say ... go bite a fart, you miserable fuck.

Thank you.


I'm so fucking miserable.

About 2:43 a.m. this morning, I rolled over to look at the clock and determine just how much longer I had to lay in bed.

I looked at the clock.

And pain shot through my right eye.

Okay ... I have NO IDEA what is inside my eye right now. Chances are high that it's only an eyelash.

But my eye watered for at least 10-15 minutes after that, trying unsuccessfully to flush the offending particle out of my eye naturally.

The pain finally went away and I fell back asleep.

I got up two hours later and now I can't see straight out of my eye.

I have blurred vision out of the eye.

I tried flushing my eye with water ... nothing.

I'm going to have to buy some Visine on the way to the office this morning.

I haven't bought Visine since I stopped smoking pot.

I'm shocked their stock didn't plummet.


So ... last night was our big media bash...

A little background if I may...

May I??


....This vicious outburst represents the new and visionally impaired Uncle Bob.

And ya know what....I'M NOT APOLOGIZING FOR IT EITHER!!!

So anywhoo...

We don't have legalized gambling in the state of Alabama because if we did, we'd have even more rednecks fucking their pets than we did before because they'd all blow their money on gambling and wouldn't be able to get women to go out with them because they were dirt dick poor.

BUT....we have a dogtrack.

And this dogtrack is owned by a multi-millionaire named Milton. we lovingly refer to him..."Uncle Miltie".

Because each year, Uncle Miltie invites all the media people in the area to come out to his dogtrack and enjoy a night of free food, free booze and gambling on dogs running around a dirt track like their asses were on fire.

Susie and I arrived a fashionably half hour late so we could make a grand entrance.

I didn't wear my sling.

And I forgot just how many hands you had to shake at these parties.

So, I'm walking in and every time I'm shaking a hand, I'm grabbing their hand with both my hands, so if the handshake is too strong, I can take my left hand and pry it off my right hand.

The FIRST HAND I SHOOK threatened to rip my hand off my wrist.

I grabbed his wrist, squeezed and released his grip from mine.

"Sorry," I smiled sheepishly. "I'm just getting over a broken hand."

"Oh, I'm sorry," the guy said.

"Oh...FUCK YOU WITH YOUR APOLOGIZING," I screamed, which got the attention of everyone in the room.

Well...not really. But keep in mind...apologies are now out the window in Uncle Bob's world.

...My eye still has blurred vision. This totally sucks.

So we sit down with some people and start scarfing down appetizers.

They make these little hors d'ouevres out there at the dogtrack which consist of pieces of watermelon with bacon wrapped around them.

Ever had that?

I'm not a big fan of watermelon...but that shizznit ROCKS MY TOE SOCKS, BAYBEEE.

Plus they had quiche, chicken fingers, buffalo shrimp, chilled and peeled shrimp, crab claws, and some kinda lobster pate.


But there's a price you have to pay for all this.

...You HAVE to listen to Uncle Miltie's speech.

I've met nursing home patients in the latter stages of Alzheimer's who can give better speeches than Uncle Miltie.

This guy takes "rambling" to a whole new realm.

We all sat there for 20 minutes while he SLOWLY and PAINFULLY told us that his dogtrack is a great and wonderful place because he employs over 2,000 black people there.

Well, I'll be. Can somebody PLEASE fetch Uncle Miltie a Racist Citizen of the Year Award from the kitchen??

Y'see...we live in the buckle of the Bible Belt, where a LARGE percentage of people down here think the dogtrack is sinful because there's WAGERING going on behind them there doors.

Or as the southern Baptists like to call it ... "WAYYYYYYYY-gerin'"

Think I'm apologizing for bashing the Baptists???


I'M NOT!!!!

(The new Uncle Bob...remember??)

Now...I'm not a gambler. I HAVE gambled about 10 times in my life, but it was never an addiction or problem with me.

Luckily for me ... I really HAVE no addictions.

Oh, sure. If you pushed me to the ground, sat squarely on my chest and began slapping me to and fro across the face and saying "What's your addiction??? What's your addiction??", eventually I would have to scream "Oh GOD!!! PLEASE STOP SLAPPING ME!!!! I...I...I...I GUESS I'M ADDICTED TO SURFING THE INTERNET!!!! BUT FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST....PLEEEEEEEASE STOP SLAPPING ME!!!!!!"

...But gambling? Nahhhh.

Anyway...shit...where was I....oh yeah...

So Uncle Miltie is speaking and he keeps reiterating that he doesn't like to toot his own horn.


So what does he do??

He decides to show the media this new commercial for his dogtrack that talks about all the wonderful things they've done for the community in order to sway the religious right to thinking that maybe he's NOT the son of Satan like so many of them originally pegged him as.

So NOW we have to sit through this self-serving commercial on how the dogtrack has supplied thousands of jobs, built schools and hospitals, helped out local charities, rescued cats from tops of trees and generally did more good for this world than that bitch Mother Teresa could have accomplished if she had lived another hundred years.

Oh...c'mon Uncle HAVE to apologize for calling Mother Teresa a bitch...right???

(Bob sits with his arms folded across his chest and shakes his head firmly) comes the funny part. This commercial keeps going over and over again. Whoever made it for them put it on there like 20 times back-to-back.

So ... this fat cat with a $200 haircut and a diamond ring bigger than Rhode Island who just got through saying he hates to toot his own horn is jamming this commercial down our throats ad nauseum.

I guess you had to be there.

So after that, we walk upstairs from the lounge into the clubhouse where we all feast on lobster and filet mignon.

Not one or the other...BOTH.


Cheesecake for dessert.

Most everyone from my office got a little schnockered. I drank water all night (damned prescription medications...I CURSE YOU!!!)

Wow...Uncle Bob....cursing your I KNOW you've gone too HAVE TO apologize, or you're going to Hell for saying that.

...Well save me a seat in Hades, my friend....NO APOLOGIES FOR YOU!!!

I ended up gambling because everyone else at the table was betting on the dogs ... and plus the guy I was sitting with won $28 off of a $2 bet.

Fuckin' A, I'm gonna gamble now, compadre.

Here's my statistics for the evening.

I spent $10 on the dogs.

I won $11 on one race.

Therefore, I walked out with a dollar more than I went in there with.



What is the one thing you want people to think of you after they have met you?


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