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5:21 a.m. - 2001-08-17


Oh you dirty sons of bitches.


Yer goddamned right I'm talking to you, four eyes.

How come nobody told me about Mix-Tapes???

Was this some sort of secret pact all of you made to undermine me???

To make me look...I dunno...FOOLISH?!?

Why I oughta....

(Uncle Bob menacingly makes a fist and shakes it slowly at the computer monitor, scowling the entire time)

I mean...I talk my ass off about how I enjoy making mixes. Sure...most of them are CD now and not tapes...but dammit all to hell...ONE OF YOU coulda pointed this site out to me!!

I feel sooo...out of touch with Diaryland right now.

I really...I really just wanna quit doing this diary.


THAT would show you guys.


After years of being a faithful card carrying member of Art of the Mix as Bobzilla, I now find out that I coulda just dumped these fantastic mixes out right here in Diaryland.


You kids. Sometimes you REALLY know how to get under Uncle Bob's skin, you do.

I'll FORGIVE you this time.

But I'm posting every damned mix I own on

That should really teach you guys to keep me outta the loop.


Soooooo...I lost a quarter in the Coke machine at work yesterday.

I survived.

But it was tough.

You see...each afternoon, I put 55 cents in the machine, get an ice cold Coca-Cola, go back to my desk, open the coke and slurp up the sugary goodness a little at a time.

This not only refreshes me, but it also keeps me alert for the rest of the day.

...And it tends to bring up some hellacious belches at times...

So I put my money in and the last quarter isn't recognized.

"You bettah RECOGNIZE," I threaten the machine, moving my head around in a circle by pivoting my neck like a sassy black woman on Jerry Springer.


Fucking piece of shit machine.

So I hit the coin return.

Thirty cents drops out.

Mocking me.

At this point, I'm perplexed. I specifically put in 55 cents. It still has one of my quarters.

So I pull the coin return switch down again.


I'm a little ticked at this point. I'm already several minutes past due my self-alloted Coke break time, and El Machino wants to fuck with me.

I stand there for a second, trying to get a grasp on the situation.

I think to myself, "Well ... the stupid thing does take dollar bills. Just shove a dollar bill in there and maybe the quarter will come out in the change."

Like the machine is a diplomatic one.

So I pull out my wallet and open it up.

I've got a ten and a five.

No one dollar bills.

I have to decide if the Coke is worth five dollars to me.

I decide that it is not.

Now then...I'm in a fix.

Should I go to evil boss Wendi and tell her that I have to leave work early because the Coke Machine took my quarter and I have no money for a Coke and this has just ruined my day and I think I feel a migraine coming on and I'm beginning to itch like crazy and it might be hives and I ...I...I just can't function without my afternoon Coke?

Should I ...the new boy of the company...go from office to office, panhandling for 25 cents because the Coke machine stole my money and nobody here understands the need, the want...the goddamned URGE I have for my afternoon Coke??

Or do I go back to my desk and scratch my arms until they bleed due to caffeine withdrawals?

I stand there for a second, waiting for some kind of apology from the Coke Machine.

It just stares back at me silently. In all its infinite redness.

Goddamned machine.

I slowly walk back to the office. I pass a water fountain on the way.

"I'll show that stupid Coke machine," I think to myself. "I'll just guzzle some of this water that's FREE. I DON'T NEED YOUR STINKING CAFFEINATED GOODNESS, COCA COLA!!! DO YOU HEAR ME?!?!?"

I lean down and turn the fountain on. Water trickles out.

I slurp the water up like a dehydrated dog in a desert.

I straighten back up, wipe my mouth on my sleeve and sneer in the direction of the Coke machine.

"Someday," I telepathically report to the Coke machine. "Someday I will exact my revenge on your sorry metal ass."

Revenge is sweet, Coke Machine.

It's just a matter of time.

So yesterday I got my first full paycheck from my new job.

It seems paychecks are like two weeks behind or some shit so that when you get pissed with the company and quit, you'll still get a paycheck two weeks after you quit, which I guess is kinda sweeeeet because you can basically just take two weeks off to stew over that goddamned last job of yours.

I've never worked for a company that did this although I understand it's a fairly common practice amongst corporations.

This kinda threw our financial situation into a tizzy two weeks ago when I got my first paycheck and it was only for a week's worth of work.

Try telling the wife you've worked three weeks and only gotten paid for one.

...After not getting a paycheck at all for a month.

Luckily, we don't live paycheck to paycheck.

But it's damned close.

So yesterday, I get my first big paycheck and it's the biggest paycheck I've ever received ever and I'm soooo rich.

Coupled with my Mighty Big TV Paycheck, I'm a freakin' thousandaire.

PLUS...Susie FINALLY got around to doing our taxes on Tuesday and we're getting a couple more thousand from the U.S. Government because of Andy.

God bless America.

Oh. And the kid too.

So anyway...we's gots some duckies now and I got my wish of going to my favorite local steakhouse for dinner last night.

It was delish, as it always is.

Andy is such a little charmer. Every waitress came over to our table to coo over him, like they were all going to get a tip for cooing.

Andy will NOT smile at strangers. He studies them intently, but it takes an act of congress to get the little shit to smile.

Then, he found a couple sitting across from us that he felt needed to be stared down baby-style.

So he stared at them.



Finally, the woman mentions to the man that they're being stared at and the man looks over at Andy and waves.

Andy hurries up and looks away, not wanting to be caught staring.

He gives if a few seconds, lifts his head up and fixes his gaze on them once again.

The man waves, Andy freaks and looks away again.

This goes on for ten minutes. Coincidentally, just enough time for us to eat our meals and be ready to go.

As we left, two couples mentioned what a quiet baby he was.

He is pretty quiet in public. I think people see us walk into a restaurant with him and think that he's going to ruin their meals with piercing screams which is never really the case.

We're walking out and I hear this woman, plainly drunk saying "Look at the bayyyyybeeeee" as loud as a space shuttle launch.

I turn around and it's that waitress that I wrote about recently but can't find the entry to who works at the steakhouse that I worked with several years ago.

And she's drunk as HELL.

"Oh, it's Bob!" she explains to her friend. "Bob and I used to work together, he's a WRITER now!"

Like her friend's going to strip down naked and spread herself out on the table and say "Take me now, you WRITER!!"

I say hi to the waitress' friend and start making my way to the cashier.

"Lemme hold the baby," the drunk waitress says.

Yeah. That's a great idea. Hand my son over to a drunk woman who's liable to mistake him for a pinata and try to punch him open.

Sure sweetie. Just don't drop him.

I hand him over and she says "Oh, he's heavier than he looks."

He starts crying immediately because he can sense the danger he's in by being held by this drunk.

She gives him back as soon as he whimpers, meaning he stayed in her arms for about 0.3 seconds.

She tells her friend one more time that I'm a writer and we used to work together. I smile, say it was nice seeing her again (whatta fuckin' liar) and we leave.

Andy gives me a look like "Don't ever pull that shit again, Pops."

I won't, kid.

As long as you keep sleeping all night...I won't.

BTW...he slept until 5 a.m. this morning, waking me up. I went and patted him on the back, he cried even more for about ten minutes and then it slowly tapered off into silence.

God bless you, Dr. Ferber.

Wherever you may be.

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