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Virginia C. Beecher Is My Bitch!

2003-01-09 - 4:40 p.m.

(Ahem, ahem) Today’s the day, today’s the day of the game! Ok, well no. Actually, it was yesterday. And I didn’t even wear that new dress (you know, that yellow and blue dress). Sigh, already off to a bad start now. I mean seriously Clyde, how many of you are gonna get a friggin’ “Good News” joke? I mean, BESIDES Matt Reera and Amy Lake. Alright, let me start again, we’ll come back to this. . .

So, I guess Ellen still hasn’t gotten her ass kicked, but the threat is still out there, on the table. Yup, sitting there on the table. Flapping around in the breeze. Like a day old slab of roast beef. Yup. But seriously, there was too much time given over to spitting and ostracizing Mormons for Ellen to get her ass kicked on Monday. Ahhhh, ostracizing Mormons. But seriously, RW LA David reminds me of my old friend Slaughterhouse (a.k.a. - Gerad). Slaughterhouse had an anger management problem too. (So did Aaron Clish, but that’s a whole different entry, entitled “Son of ‘A Parent Needs To Know” [not to be confused with “Son of ‘Apparent Needs To Know”]). Oh man, second paragraph of what was supposed to be a fresh slate of wonderment and already I’ve bungled it up with brackets inside parantheses and what not. Ok, back on task. So yeah, Real World/Road Rules Battle of the Sexes was pretty darn tootin’ trashy and I loved every fucking minute of it. RW LA Beth S is still the original Queen of the Skanky Ho's and RW NY1 Eric and RR1 Mark are old enough to be my grandfathers, and Lateriaan ("L.T." if you're nasty) still frightens me. But if it comes down to it, and I’m forced to pick between Ellen and Jisela, I’m just gonna have to defer to the Land of the Rising Sun and go with Ellen. Well, this depends if it’s Pre-Ass-Kicked-Ellen or Post. We shall see. God help me. First Kendall and now Jisela! WHAT would Malik think of me?!

Ok, let’s try the big thing again. (Ahem, Ahem) Speaking of Slaughterhouse, I ran into his mom at the Belknap Mall yesterday! Not only did I see her, but I saw that bastion of Guinivereiosity herself, pining away for a Pony (and braces!) Ann B. Smith! Oh it’s true, it’s true! And I wasn’t sure if she recognized me, so I grabbed three randoms in the mall and made them play the parts of Jon, McLaughlin, and Chad and we gave all those around a rousing rendition of “Turn Around, Turn Around, Turn Around, Faaaat Heaaaad!”. We killed. Unfortunately, Ann B. just chortled while the momraths outgrabed and went on her merry way. Well I never! Wait, wait, wait. THIS isn’t how I wanted to approach this big thing either. We’ll come back to this . . .

So yeah, I haven’t slept in Rollinsford since last Friday. It seems ever since the Snow Time Shoveling Escapade Zach Getting Docked 4 Hours Of Pay Because He Was Late Even Though It Was Out Of His Control And He Stupidly Relied On Someone Else Who He Himself Would Have Benefited From The Money Zach Would Have Gotten Had He Not Been Docked The Aforementioned 4 Hours EPISODE, I haven’t been to keen on hanging out there. Not to mention that I have no way get to work. So I’ve been staying at Andrea’s, Kate’s, and Tuesday night I slept in Sanbornton at my mother’s. So yeah. Monday night was so incredibly dead at the mall. Probably because it’s been snowing off and on for about two months now. Yeah. So I pretty much sat at work picking my feet while Kate drooled over her half-naked Justin Timberlake Rolling Stone. Kate and I displayed our immense maturity levels by going through the phone sex numbers listed in the back and underlining our favorite words/passages. Our hands down winner was “We Asian girls like Bangee Bangee!” Although we did feel slightly ashamed with our antics, simply due to the fact that Deerly Lou, The Cheerful Fawn was looking down upon us from the shelf with icy disaproval. We’ll never be able to live up to Deery Lou’s standards.

“Poor wayward children. Perhaps some hallucinogens will cheer you up.”

(Ahem, ahem) So did I ever tell that story about being stuck up in Wonalancet? Or still being able to know the directions to my camp even though I hadn’t made the trip in so many years? Or the one about which downtown is wonkier: Dover, Durham, or Laconia? Yeah, So I went driving with my dad a lot over break. He is insane. He’s actually a good person to go driving with because he stays very laid back because of how much driving he does for work. But he always is anticipating the worst. He actually HOPES for the worst. If he heard a weather report that called for downpours of spiteful volcanic frogs that would make him want us to go driving that much more. He loved having me go by Abbot’s Farm and yell out, “Careful! Boy on a Donkey!” and then after it was clear that no boy and no donkey were in the firing range, he’d simply declare, “False Alarm . . . but that doesn’t mean there won’t be a Boy, a Donkey, or a Boy on a Donkey next time.” We practiced different types of parking in the hollowed shell of a mall where such swinging spots as Jackson Star, Osco Drug, and Fayva! For some reason, my dad seems to think that “doing donuts” and asking to “skitch” are horrible ideas when one is driving. When I explained to him what “skitching” was he just turned ashen and shook his head sort of like the time he realized Ben, Jeff, and Tim were burning themselves with Balsam Fir incense sticks in our living room at 145. You know the look. Almost like when I come home all inked up, but not *quite* as bad. Man, this isn’t working either. You know what? We’ll come back to this. . .

So yeah, I feel like my parents are in Washington D.C. At least I don’t have chicken pox. Well, there’s the crabs, but what’s a case of crabs between good friends? But yeah, beyond the crabs, I feel like my parents are abroad since when they went to the big D.C. I was shuttled between the Walden’s, the Perry’s, and the Goodwin’s. And now I’m getting shuttled around again. Yeah. Odd that the Walden’s end up being a part of this both times. Last night Kate and I decided to humiliate Deery Lou even more by coming up with a personal list of “words that gross us the fuck out”. A fun time was had by all. Well, not “all” really. Just Kate and I. But still, I broke some shelfing in a laughing spasm due to learning of something by the name of labiaplasty. Yes. It’s exactly what it sounds like. But I won some points for some more down home originals like “polyps”, “pustule”, “ribsplitter”, “fungal”, and “staph”. Although Kate *did* deduct points at the same time because I made up a word. That word would be “Queefeoplasty”. Poor, poor Deerly Lou.

(Ahem, ahem) So yeah, spent some MAJOR time at the ol’ Belknap Mall Wednesday. I don’t reccomend it. It’s tough when Decelle’s is one of your anchor stores. It’s even tougher when Decelle’s goes out of business. I didn’t run into Fred McDonald, so there was no instances of anyone calling me Sport, Champ, Chief, Tiger, Sexy or any of the other names Mr. McDonald would call us. But there was a guy there that kept calling me “son”. And it wasn’t my Dad! Although he was there too. No, this island of a man had a big white walrus mustache and wore a badge and had on this official looking khaki shirt with lots of buckles and insignias. They called him The Director. I called him Wilford Brimley. And he scared the living crap out of me. (Both the real Brimley AND my newly adopted Brimley)

He made me wait in line. Three times! Amidst Ann B. Smith and all other sort of Lake City riff raff! And did he even offer me any Quaker Oats of any kind?! Noooooo. Wilford Brimley is a bitch-ass sell out, and it’s about time someone just came out and said it! And that someone is me! Wilford Brimley is a bitch-ass sell out! Oh wait, I already said that. Man, I was SO CLOSE this time. Ah well, we’ll come back to this. . .

“Answer Keys and Yellow Arrows are my poison.”

Sometimes I suck. No, no it’s true. Let me finish. I didn’t get Tim’s scrapbook finished before he left to go back to California. I totally blanked on Rachel’s birthday despite my thought that the world should stop spinning for mine. I *still* haven’t replied to Megan’s e-mail from THANKSGIVING. I totally abandoned my invaluable heirloom of a Dick Tracy pillow at Hannah’s and left him there to rot. Sniff, sniff. I’m too mean to people that I’m merely trying to protect. And I know that’s a problem and I feel bad about it. But I guess not bad enough to change. I got to go out with Brook Tuesday night when I was home. We went to Pizzaria Uno in Concord. I ordered some Pizza Skins. Mmmmmm. They were good. After talking with Brooke it dawned on me the irony that one name can cause so many different kinds of trouble to different people. Ok, gonna take the cryptic codeometer off now. Well, Jimbo’s coming up to visit this weekend. So Ben and I will give the impression of a happy home and show Jimbo nothing but domestic bliss. Which will probably only freak him the fuck out and make him cry. We may even get a visit from Liz. The world is truly ending.

(Ahem, ahem) Speaking of the world ending. It seems that after all this practice driving with my dad, after all this hoo-ha-hulabaloo of paragraphs gone wrong, all this Wildfordary Brimleylagory I had to take a test. This test didn’t have anything to do with Donald Duck nor was it in any relation to the infamous Earth Shattering Walter Bliss Fish Test. There was no litmus in this here test. Nope. It was a two part test. First part written, second part driv-dravery. All around LA. Up and down around the turn. But no tricks near Pickle Lillys. No siree. The only thing that tripped me up was that I didn’t know a Deer Crossing sign when I saw it. I thought it simply meant that one was approaching a Soda Shoppe. I’m so dumb.

It’s been real,

Diego

ps - (Ahem, ahem) I got my license.

(Mmmmmmmm, fried bread. . .)

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