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4:29 a.m. - 2001-04-05


What? 15 entries in 30 minutes and rather than APPRECIATE the effort, y'all say you're "worried" about me???

I uhhh...just wanted to show that it takes absolutely ZILCH talent to spit out one and two sentence entries at a rapid pace.

Any monkey with semi-decent hand-eye coordination can come up with some half-assed "Deep Thoughts" ripoffs to fill a diary up with.

But THAT doesn't make it a diary.

Oh no, my chum ... a sentence that says "I think the world would be a better place if forks weren't so sharp" does not constitute a diary entry in my book.

Going to ALL THE TROUBLE I go to each and every single morning to fill the diary up with shenanigans and hijinks from the previous day ... NOW THATSA DIARY!!

Actually ... I had 30 minutes to kill yesterday ... and the Classy thought had been running through my mind for a few weeks now and I just wanted it up on the web for some reason and so then I just followed it up with whatever went through my head for 30 minutes.

And that sentence had too many "and's" in it.

Anyway ... don't worry about me, my little chickadees ... I was just having fun.

(But the Confruzzled thing was true. Her eyes on her banner follow you everywhere. That's not just paranoia talking, either)

I had a dream last night that I was God.

Don't you think Freud would have had a field day with that one??

Anyway, I've got the long hair, the beard and the robes in my dream. And everyone I come into contact with just kisses my ass.

So in my dream, I go to visit an old friend, Will, who's having a pool party. Lotsa babes in bikinis and they're all impressed because God has shown up at their pool party.

Then, I wander into the house and there's a buncha people inside, and they're all about to go upstairs, get naked and have an orgy.

Sounds good to me. I ask to be counted in.

Then, Will says "You can't be in the're God."

So I'm bummed in my dream. I mean...these were some HOT dream chicks!! I was REALLY wanted to orgy out with them!

But, because I was God ... it wasn't in the cards for me.

I woke up once I realized I couldn't be in the orgy and then the unsettling fact that I wasn't really God and the whole thing had been a dream set in.


I wanna be God and sex up some fine hot dream chicks!

Had a strange day at work yesterday, phone call-wise.

I get a call at the office. I pick up the phone and this guy says "Biggest Rat!!!"

I'm like "Yeah! Who's this??"

He said his name was Mike Moore. I'm almost sure of that.

I don't know a Mike Moore. Unless you count the guy that made "Roger and Me" ... the guy Gay Wayne has a constant hard-on for.

Anywhooo...Mike Moore just wants to chat, which is making me uncomfortable because I haven't a clue who he is.

He wants to know all the functions I'm doing for Biggest Rat. Foolishly, I tell him.

Then there's an extremely awkward silence between us.

Finally he says "I really like your comics."


My Comics???

Our newspaper has maybe four political cartoons in it each week. That must be what he's talking about.

Oh. Scratch that. He then says "I mean...your columns." like my columns and thought they were called "comics".

Gotcha Mike ... You scary-assed random phone calling bastard, you.

The awkward silences and dead phone air threaten to take over the conversation, so I tell Mike I've got an appointment to get to, thanks for calling. Mike says "Good luck" with the competition and we hang up.

And I shiver for about five minutes, because the guy really stirred up my heebie jeebies.

Then I get ANOTHER phone call.

"Dan Durham, please," the guy says.

That's nowhere even NEAR my name, but I take the call anyway.

"Are you going to be there for a few minutes?" the voice asks.

"I'll be here until 11:15," I clarify.

"I'll be over in five minutes," the voice says. "I have something I want to talk to you about."

Five minutes later, this guy comes through the door with more warts on his face than a frog.

He starts jabbering away about some project of the public school system. I stare at him, waiting to see what he wants out of me.

Ten minutes into his incessant gibberish, I realize that he wants me to write a story about his little project. But he never SAID this.

He could have easily been hitting me up for money, asking me to come speak to a school, wanting me to volunteer for the project, etc.

Fucking TELL ME that you want a story written at the beginning of the conversation, Warthog!

Or better yet ... TELL ME over the phone that you want a story written. That way, when you come screeching up into our parking lot five minutes later, I'll know that you're here to have a story written and not here to blow the place up, dood.


It was weird.

WEIRD, I'm tellin' ya...

The manager of our local Goodwill called me yesterday too, to ask me to be a celebrity escort for their employee fashion show.

I agreed to do it.

I did it last year and managed to get out of there without anyone trying to gnaw my arm off as I walked them down the runway, so I figured I could do it two years in a row.

Plus...I had a hidden agenda. I needed Libby (the lady from Goodwill) to help me.

I told her I was running for Biggest Rat and needed some "gangster clothing" for the people helping me rob the restaurants.

She said she had some yellow and orange polyester "pimp suits" that I was welcome to use.


She then said "I've got lots of clothes that you could wear if you weren't so heavy."


Thanks Libber! I needed that jolt of sweetness to get my self esteem kicked into high gear!!

So it looks like I'll be wearing a potato sack to rob restaurants in, because I'm SOOOOO HEAVY!!

He ain't heavy. He's my Unnnncleeeee.

My sister called me last night.

Not the one I always see, the other one who I haven't seen in four years except for when Dad got sick last year.

Mom and Dad's 40th anniversary is next month and the three of us kids have been trying to decide what we wanted to do for them.

Julie (my sister) has decided to just give them cash to take to Vegas with them.

My parents fly to Vegas at least four times a year and gamble chunks of my inheritance away.

"No. I'm not bitter," I say as I roll my eyes.

They have a $2,000 gift certificate from Neiman Marcus in Vegas, and we're looking to scrape up $500 to add to that.

Julie wants them to buy a laptop.

I want them to buy stock in the WWF, so I can give Stone Cold Steve Austin a piece of my mind and if he tries to backtalk me, I'd step back and say "I OWN $2,500 worth of your ASS, you uppitty redneck bastard!!"

Not really. The laptop would be just fine.

Anyway, she talked for like 30 minutes and totally threw off my allotted "Ed" recapping time so I didn't get the "Ed" recap written.

Which means ... between the letter stuffing, visiting area restaurants and begging them to be part of my "Hit Night", a top secret website meeting tonight at 8 p.m., "Survivor", actual WORK and more...I've gotta find time to write an "Ed" recap.

Am I stressed??? Nahhhh.

I can do it.

How do I KNOW this??



I can do anything I set my mind to.

Except lactate.

I have the damndest time trying to produce milk from my bosom.

Go figure.

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