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5:56 a.m. - 2001-07-06


I was watching TV last night (what's new?) and a commercial came on featuring a Green M&M and asked "What is it about the green ones?"

Well duh. They're supposed to make you horny, dipshit television guy. Everyone knows that.

Then I remembered something stupid I did years ago.

If you read my July 4th entry a few days ago, I mentioned my virgin girlfriend Treva who wanted to bang the drum slowly with Steve Perry, lead singer of Journey.

I remembered that for her birthday one year, before I had officially gotten in those panties and raised a ruckus, I went to the store and bought several packets of M&Ms, opening them all and taking all the green ones, putting them in one bag and carefully sealing up the bag so it looked brand new.

So for this girl's birthday, she got a bag of green M&Ms from her horny as hell boyfriend.

I remember she thought it was cute. But the social pressure a gift like that brings with it must be pretty intense and it still didn't help me get laid.

Flowers might have got me laid. A nice book of poetry. A half-filled bottle of rum.

But a bag of green M&Ms??


So guys ... take my advice...if you're dating a virgin who's stringing you along saying crazy assed shit like "I wanna wait until I'm married" ... don't expect a handful of green M&Ms to shift the winds in your direction.

My advice is to go find the school slut and rock her rolls.

Just a friendly little tip from your old Uncle Bob.

I went and saw my new office yesterday. It's cozy. As I stood in there, I felt warm and looked around for any air conditioning vents. I didn't see any.

"Is there any air conditioning in here?" I asked Wendigo.

She said "Sure" and then looked up at the ceiling to point out a vent that wasn't there. Then she says "Well, the vent in my office doesn't work, but you know me...I'm cold-natured."

Uh-huh. That's you, babe. I'm the fat bastard that sweats at the mention of perspiration.

I think on Monday, my first day there, about 3:30 or so, I'm going to unbutton my shirt and sprawl out on my desk, huffing and puffing and acting like I've got heat stroke.

Maybe they'll get the picture at that point.

Finally bought the Playboy with Belinda Carlisle in it. I may now die a peaceful death.

And for the ever-curious Dr. Eric Lewis ... they're pink, bud. Pink as a little girl's church dress.

Heavenly pink.

Of course ... just so I didn't look like a perv when I bought it ... I had to buy Andy a book as well.

So I walk up to the cash register with porn in one hand and a book on Tractors in the other hand with attached wheels to it so it will roll across the floor.

Thank God Andy was in "cute mode" and the cashier barely noticed my Playboy because she was fawning all over Andy.

I'm really glad because I didn't want to make a scene in there, buying Playboy while lugging a kid around with me.

But as soon as I walked out of the store, I ripped the plastic off the Playboy, found Belinda, dropped my pants and began humping a fire hydrant with a naked Belinda in one hand and Andy in the other. I fought valiantly to keep my tongue in my mouth while I did it, but it was near impossible as my animal lust had taken control over my body.

The passing cars weren't impressed.

I stopped by the newspaper to say my goodbyes there. I shook all the guys' hands and hugged the ladies goodbye. The whole affair took less than five minutes. I then walked out of there, glad that I had done it and knowing that I wouldn't be walking back in there anytime soon.

I also told them that if they needed anything, just call me.

About 3 p.m. my caller I.D. confirmed that they needed something.

I didn't answer it.

Drunk-Assed Boss and Drunk-Assed Jamie were not there which is no surprise because neither one of them are ever there and I'm pretty confident they were plastered in one of our local bars since it was, after all, already 11:30 a.m.

Andy's been sleeping very peacefully the last few nights. Personally, I attribute it to the fact that we no longer jump up in the middle of the night and run into his bedroom every time he moans.

I told Susie on Monday that from here on out, we do NOT go in there when he's crying and we'll just let him cry it out.

It's worked. It's not the most soothing thing in the world, but he doesn't cry for more than five minutes. By then, he's forgotten what he's crying about and all the crying has taken a lot of work, which knocks him right back out.

I think I missed my calling. I shoulda been a baby psychologist.

"Doctor ... my baby won't quit crying at night. What should I do?"

Take your baby porn shopping with you, then pretend you don't hear him crying at night. Works for me, dude.

It is SO FREAKIN' HOT here that I don't even want to go outside.

Yesterday it was in the 90s, 100% humidity so the air is thick and moist. Birds were dropping out of the sky and gang members called for a momentary cease fire because it was too hot to venture out and pop caps in asses.

It's THAT hot, I'm tellin' ya.

So my first project when I start my new job is writing profiles on Eugene, Oregon.

I did a little bit of research on the city so friendly that it has a first name and it looks like a really nice little burg.

There's a chance that I may fly out there to interview some businesses, because that's my job now.

If any of you guys are in Eugene, Oregon and want to buy yer ol' Uncle Bob a nice steak dinner while I'm there, I have a feeling it could be arranged.

Speaking of nice steak dinners, I'm grilling a couple of ribeyes for dinner tonight. I bought some last week, put them in the freezer and then convinced the wife last night that the steaks are getting freezer burn and I should probably go ahead and cook them.

They're NOT freezer burned. But the wife doesn't like eating steak more than twice a month, and we've already eaten steak three times this month and it's only the 6th.

Me? I could eat steak 'til the cows came home. Then I'd be out there, gnawing on them while they mooed furiously and tried to escape my solid grip, slowly sauntering off to go anywhere but home.

Oh yeah! I almost forgot!!

I go to get some gas yesterday. While I'm filling up, I see a sign that says a 20 oz. coke and a Nestle's King Size Candy Bar for $1.29.

That's got my name written all over it. So I walk inside the tiny, compact store.

I grab a coke and search the store for a King Sized Nestle's Crunch bar.

I finally ask the counter girl.

"I guess we out of them," she says in her cute little Southern accent.

I was upset on the inside, but I covered for it quite nicely by agreeing to taking a Baby Ruth instead.

I handed her a five spot.

The girl hands me back my change ... but there's no change there. I don't put two and two together at that point.

I go to make my way out of the store and this rather large employee is blocking my path out of the store. I squeeze past her by leaning into the candy rack.

I quickly discover ... I'm not moving anywhere.

I look down and the pocket on my cargo shorts is snagged on the candy counter.

Not just snagged ... ripped wide open.

Employeesaurus stands there, not able to move because every movement causes her great pain in her knee joints due to excessive weight shifting on her feet.

So I'm stuck. Hugging a candy display and waiting for this Super-Sized Oprah to move out of my way so I can stand upright and assess the damage.

Finally, she moves, I straighten up and see that my brand new pair of shorts is ripped all the way up the side, exposing my boxers and my supple thighs.

"Is you okay," the not-so-charming cashier asks.

I didn't know what to say. Physically, I was okay. But my new shorts were in shreds because the human refrigerator wouldn't get out of my damned way.

So I turned around and looked at the candy counter which was sticking out with its sharp metal edges, waiting to catch another person's cargo shorts and tear them into pieces as well.

I finally blurted out, "You might want to fix that candy counter", pointed at the edge sticking out and walked out of the store.

Drove home, took all my stuff out of my torn shorts, put on a new pair of shorts and stuffed my stuff in there.

That's when I noticed she had only given me three dollars change out of five dollars for a $1.29 deal.

Thus, ripping me off about 60 cents or so.

So basically, I paid 60 cents to ruin a pair of $25 shorts.

There is no God.

And if there is, he's probably snickering like crazy over my torn shorts.

Oh yeah...and for all you crusaders of fat that just got upset with me mentioning that it was a fat woman blocking my way out of the store ... maybe you should read Andrew's latest entry.

If the owner of this site feels it's okay to take a jab at fat folks, why can't I?

I'm sure this will bring the Fat Police out in droves, to piss all over my 275 lb. ass because they don't have anything better to do with their time except eat shrimp and Fritos and whine about their constant struggle with their battle of the bulge.

Or maybe they'll just stay in their Fat Police cruisers and keep munching their doughnuts.

A man can dream...can't he?

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