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5:22 a.m. - 2001-06-14


Where do I start?

Probably right the top of the page, dumbass.

Sooooo ...yesterday....

My retarded brother-in-law brought my resume to me yesterday morning.

THE REASON that I had my mother-in-law write my resume when I myself am a professional writer is because my mother-in-law is a professional RESUME writer, while I'm a professional HUMOR writer.

It's like wondering why a ballet dancer won't show you her coochie when she dances. She's a BALLET DANCER, not a STRIPPER.

I never bothered to learn what makes a good resume. My mother-in-law did.

...About 30 years ago anyway. These days, she's lucky to remember to put your name on the damned thing.

The resume looked like crap. I'll be the first to admit it. But it was better than what I could have done. Mine would have read:


I write semi-funny shit even though you want me writing serious shit.

Hire me anyway, dude.


Uncle Bob

So anyway, my freakin' brother-in-law who has NEVER came over to my house without helping himself to the refrigerator and grabbing a Coca-Cola is just dropping off the resume on his way to work, right?

Stop by, leave the car running, hand me the resume and leave...right?

"You got an extra Coke in there," he asks in the doorway.

I sigh. I guess it's probably the least I can him a coke and all ... so I run to the kitchen, hand him a Coke and slam the door in his face while he's thanking me.

I look at the resume.'s Shit City. But I have one now.

So I leave for work. Go to work and make copies of the resume and some segments of the book that I wrote for this company last year and stuff them all in a folder.

I then go to my file cabinet and start searching for my OLD resume that Mom-in-Law did. I found a newspaper that had three celebrity interviews in a row in interview with the lead singer of K's Choice (they had a song "Not An Addict" that was a semi-hit), an interview with the lead singer of War ("Low Rider", "Spill The Wine"...etc.) and the bongo player from a band named Vallejo whose first CD went plywood.

I shoved that portion of newspaper into the folder.

I then found a bio on a now-defunct band called The Rat Race that I wrote years ago.

Shoved in the folder.

Finally found my old resume which hadn't been updated since 1989.

I stapled that to the new resume and shoved THAT in the folder.

Now I had plenty of crap in the folder for these people to look at. I felt better about my folder. NOT confident...just better.

I took the whole thing over to Wendi and handed it to her, explaining just how insanely crappy the resume was.

She explained that the resume was merely a formality and they probably wouldn't even look at it.



You mean to tell me that I've been sweating buckets of 100% pure STRESS over this shit and they're not even going to LOOK AT IT?!?!?!?


If they don't look at it, I might still have a chance at nailing this job.

She checked with the guy to see if he wanted to talk to me right then.

He didn't. BUT he was reading the book I wrote and nodding his head, taking in all the wonderful prose that I'm so capable of emoting under stressful deadline situations.

...Either that or he was trying to stay awake and nodding off into a deep slumber reading the boring crap.

So I'm just waiting on word from the man as to when I can come in and talk to him, thus impressing him with my charm, my impeccable hygiene and my ability to sweat on cue.

As always, I'll keep you updated.

I then went to the Music Fest office for my appointment with the head honcho there to give her my list of acts that we need to pursue.

She looked over the list and said there were many names that they hadn't considered.

I told her that I had a buncha friends online from all over the world who had suggested bands and she wanted to know which bands got mentioned more than once.

So I pointed them out.

The Jennifer Nettles Band, Flickerstick, Eve 6, Barenaked Ladies, etc.

She was intrigued by the Flickerstick thing since they're currently on that VH1 show, "Bands on the Run" and thought they might be a good addition to the Festival.

They tried to get Eve 6 this year but couldn't get a commitment.

Barenaked Ladies want 100 grand for an appearance, which is a tad outta our price range.

Overall, she was thrilled with the amount of new names I gave her and said that she would be conferring with me throughout the year on different acts and whether or not I thought we should bring them to the festival next spring.

Which makes me an unofficial member of the committee.

Not official.

I guess that's okay. This way, I don't have to show up for boring meetings. I just get the call that says "Should we bring in Hall and Oates?" and I can say "What? Are you fucking retarded? Isn't Oates dead?" and then slam down the receiver on her.

I skipped my luncheon with the District Attorney. It was more of a press conference where they serve lunch anyway ... and at 11:45 I was on the other side of the city and didn't want to fly downtown and try to find a parking space and rush up to a luncheon that I didn't want to go to in the first place.

So if the state's district attorney is reading this ... I'm sorry.

...Sorry that I insinuated you were a lesbian yesterday...

(She IS a lesbian...she just hasn't come out of the closet yet)

The rest of the day was rather boring. The highlight was my drunk-assed boss (DAB) trying to show me how to put HIS three pages a week together.

I put together 32 pages a week and do it in the same amount of time it takes him to do three pages.

I uhhhhh...I think I know how to put your simple little three pages a week together, DAB. For I, the Jedi Master, have mastered the incredible act of cutting and pasting text. You incredibly lame fuck, you.

I left the office at 4:40 to go home and mow the yard.

Got home, changed into t-shirt and shorts, admired my fine ass in the mirror for several minutes, cinching my butt cheeks and wondering when did I start looking so much like Mel Gibson, as the dog barked excitedly. Probably because she thought Mel Gibson was her new master.

No dog. It is I. Uncle Bob. The Mel Gibson lookalike.

I mowed the front yard in heat so intense that my eyeballs were sweating.

I went to the backyard when Nosy-Assed Neighbor (NAN) came outside to fill me in on the latest neighborhood gossip.

Apparently, all's quiet on the "gang member" front. Ever since I talked to the cops last week and had police start patrolling our streets more, the gang boy's been real quiet.

She said she thinks he's dealing drugs out of the house. I made a mental note to go score some weed from the boy when the hoopla died down.


ME: "Hi! I'm here to score some weed, neighborhood gang banger and drug dealer!"

GANG BOY: "Aren't you Mel Gibson?"

ME: "Hahaha! No, that's just my ass."

GANG BOY: "Are you a cop?"

ME: "Hahaha! No...I'm just the guy who CALLED the cops on you."

GANG BOY: "Ah. I don't have any weed, but here's a cap...IN YO' ASS!!!"


Thank you. My one act play entitled "Uncle Bob Tries To Make Amends With The Gang Boy In His Neighborhood". Coming to a really shitty theater near you.

So anyway, NAN talked so much that the sun was going down and my inspiration to cut the rest of the yard was waning.

So I put the lawn mower up and told the wife she was taking me out to eat once I got out of the shower.

We went to Kenny Rogers' Roasters, which has some great roasted chicken and veggies. You should try it sometime.

Came home, wrestled with Andy (I LET him pin me several times to his delight. I sure hope he's not under the impression that he can kick my ass now. Because...even though he seems to be pretty strong, I feel confident I could still whoop his ass if need be), and then put him to bed.

I meant to tell you guys ... I cried the day Timothy McVeigh was executed.

Not because the fucker was gone or anything. But at the end of the Today show, they showed pictures of all 168 people killed in the blast.

And when they showed a six and a half month old child, I just lost it.

I can't imagine losing my boy to something so senseless. CAN NOT IMAGINE.

I sure hope that fucker's shoveling fiery coal in hell right now with the devil's wang shoved as far up his ass as it will go.

Also forgot to comment on that AFI "100 Most Heart-Pounding Movies" special that was on CBS on Tuesday night.

"Psycho" was number one. Okay, I've seen this flick once and thought it was lame.

Maybe if you were in the theater in 1950-whatever and were watching the shower scene, it might have been creepy.

But watching it on TV after seeing the shower scene countless times before ... the movie lost its appeal to me.

"Jaws" was number two. I can attest to the fact that "Jaws" scared the shit outta me when I saw it in the theater in 1976. And now that I've seen the shark come out of the water and the dead head pop out of the boat several times ... those have lost their appeal to me too.

"The Exorcist" number three. If I'm sober, that movie STILL scares the shit outta me. If I'm wasted, it's hilarious.

"North By Northwest" number four. Never seen it, but one word kept going through my head..."Why?"

"Silence of the Lambs" number five. Boring. That movie was as scary as the morning news.

"Alien"...freaked me out in the theater the first time. Not as much as "Exorcist" or "Jaws"...but still effective enough to make me WANT to shit my pants.

"The Birds"...gimme a break. It might scare a four year old. Other than that, Hitchcock's movies were pretty tame to me.

I don't remember the rest because I've blocked them out of my short term memory. But they weren't all that "heart pounding" to me.

And finally, thanks to all y'all who went and signed Weetabix's guestbook yesterday for her 30th birthday.

You are all true soldiers in my army.

This mind control shit really works. I'm impressed.

Plus...if you hadn't read Weetabix before, you found out that she's got a twisted little outlook on life herself and hopefully found a new favorite in your diary list.

I know I did.

With that...I've gotta go shower and get the kid to daycare.

'Dios Suckahs.

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