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08:20:13 - 2000-03-08


*Change the oil in the car.

*Get my haircut.

*Track down Richard Simmons' personal phone number, calling his house and repeatedly accusing him of being a "fat fuck" until he bursts into tears.

* Take up smoking.

* Secretly suffer from Vagina Envy for about an hour.

* Go see "The Cider House Rules" matinee, sit in the back of the theater and honk an air horn every five minutes.

* Update my 'N Sync page to include Nick's bio and pictures.

* Cancel my subscription to "Throbbing Beaver Monthly".

* Go to the ghetto side of town to see my "homeys, my brothers" and see if maybe ol' Unca Bob can cop him some crack rock. "Yoo hoo!! Hey boys!! Anyone have any good crack rock for Uncle Bob, the guy that's not a narc??"

* Go to the post office and make idle threats toward post office box owners. Things like "I'm going to mess up your hair real bad" and "You'd better watch out ... I know where your post office box is."

*Get by City Hall and see if anyone's nominated me for Mayor yet.

* Pop up some corn and stand outside the local theater selling "Uncle Bob's Discount Urine-Soaked Popcorn" just to watch people's faces.

* Call the gas company and complain about a funny smell in my house, then drop the phone and set the house on fire to time the firemen's efficiency.

* Try to get an ALLOVER tan in the back yard until the neighbors start booing.

* Shave the cat.

* Spelunk around noon.

* Go to Walmart, fill up a shopping cart full of condoms, go to the cutest check out girls line, smile and say "What time do you get off?"

* Fill out my portion of the police blotter and acknowledge that I understand the restraining order fully and apologize profusely, but not sincerely, to the Walmart girl.

* Help the Pope write that confession speech, making sure he includes the part about me being sorry I whacked off so much as a teenager.

* Contemplate what hell is going to be like because I used the words "the pope" and "whacked off" in the same sentence.

* Call Spielberg and tell him the script is running late, I'll get to it when I can ...suffer, you one-kidneyed bitch.

* Stop by Municipal Court and contest this goddamned speeding ticket for 127 in a 35 zone. Oh yeah?? PROVE IT is all I've got to say...

* Go down to the local convenience store and listen to all the eggs in an effort to find the perfect egg, solely for the amusement of the drug-addled clerks who sit and watch me for hours.

* Put on clown makeup and drive around town and leer at old ladies at red lights. When they look my way, I'll fling my tongue all around like Gene Simmons. This is kinda my idea of a homemade "Welcome Wagon" of sorts.

* Switch to rum about 3 p.m.

* Call the local Top 40 radio station and badger them into playing "Barbie Girl" for a dying man in his 30s. Then, when they finally do, call them back and tell them that song sucks, and that I meant the "other" "Barbie Girl" and then I'll start singing "Brown Eyed Girl" by Van Morrison but sing "You're My ... Barbie Girl". If you do that enough times during the day, you can make a deejay walk out mid-shift. Radio deejays are some tempermental little shits.

* Fix Jerk chicken for dinner (don't ask for my secret Jerk sauce, I can't tell ya. I can tell ya this's gotta lotta spunk to it), listen to the wife bitch about her day and then shuttle her out the door and off to church, lock the door and go sodomize the hand-held shower massager.

* Go to bed, wake up and do it all over again tomorrow. Except I have an appointment with a one-legged ballerina tomorrow. I hear she sucks. A lot of handstands and shit. Fuckin' go into gymnastics, Lefty...there ain't no handstands in ballet. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Hey! Come answer my QUESTION OF THE DAY .

If you want to read my OTHER diary when UNCLE BOB was 18 and pitiful , PLUS check out my senior yearbook photo (I'm not gay...but I woulda done me...) CLICK HERE .

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