This place is a goddam ghost town now, friend. I've moved into my digs at the Pataphysics Research Laboratory where I will soon be continuing my diary entries for your edification -- god knows you knuckleheads need it. So follow me to the:

I moved out of Burl's mansion a few months a go. I couldn't take having mr. sparkplug in the room next to me. That bastard needs serious help. I'm not sure he even sleeps. For all hours he would sit in there mumbling loudly to himself, and consequently, disturbing my concentration and thus preventing me from completing my play, Beer Can Speaks In Tongues. Everytime friggin' time I thought I was making progress, the ideas flowing, mr. sparkplug would starting screaming at the top of his lungs, "I'm so sorry Mr. Keith -- I didn't mean to do it. OH GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE? I wish I had a Ouija board -- if we just talked, I know I could make it all . . ." How's anyone supposed to live with that I ask? It was bad enough before living with Burl, the sloppy pig man, and all the cheap floozies he brings over every night. I couldn't believe it when dumped Zsa Zsa, the only classy dame he's ever been with, for that wretched witch woman, Phyllis Diller. What the fuck is wrong with that tub of lard, no talent entertainer? Until mr. sparkplug, it was at least tolerable. I mean Dom vanished looking for Kiki. Soupy checked himself out of the hospital and disappeared. Then mr. sparkplug moved in while Burl was held captive by the King of All Lameness, Jim Nabors. You see my point? I had to get the hell out of that ramshackle house. So here I am, back in the basement of my parents' ranch style home, a house lost in a sea of similarity. I can't believe Dad said I had to pay rent -- $100 dollars a month -- what does he think I'm made of? I'm an artist with integrity. I don't have two dimes to rub together. Good thing mom keeps the fridge stocked.

Timblog
question for Burl
Wed Oct 31 18:47:02 2001

Why does everyone think that they can drink PBR and somehow be some kind of astronaut?

I am confused by some binary's.

I sure you mean astronaut? The only moon you've ever seen is the one I hope Tim keeps covered so no more innocent citizens of St. Charles are blinded for time immemorial by the rumpus his rump causes when exposed.

Sadie
Is this real?
Wed Nov 28 07:49:30 2001
I want to know because I am Burl's biggest fan! Please answer me Burl?! I am 5'5 - 100 pounds and ready for action. Please Burl! I have to talk to you.

Of course this is real! What kind of action are you ready for, anyway? Are you talking military or boink boink (the ol' in and out)? Or just aerobics? I'm not really one for that excercise crap, except for my working out my fingers on the remote control and excercising my jaw when I enjoy some nachose, and, I guess, my hand when petting the snake. So do you want a signed picture or what? I've given you a lifetime of entertainment. What do you have to offer me?

I can start unloading some records that have been cluttering up my Anacortes mansion. Perhaps I should prune the D's, dump all my Doris Day discs on the market. Then again, I know if I could part with Young Man With A Horn. Doris gets me all tingly with that platter. Maybe I can go next door and rip off the neighbor kid's emo collection -- I could make a lot of scratch from that right? The opportunities are endless -- I could make a fortune -- who will begin the bidding for this first press of Perry Como's So Smooth from 1955? Do I hear a dollar? Two dollars? Come on people! This premium Perry I'm providing for you folks -- this ain't no close-out, notched copy of some Tin Machine CD. This is the Man in the Sweater with a Smile for You all the way from Hawaii. I'd be a most happy fella if my number one dream came true, you put cash on the table for a gem of a recording. Sooner or later, you know you'll regret not jumping on this bargain. Do I hear $20? Just imagine how romantic others will think you are when you slide some Como on the turntable. I can hear hearts pounding already.

Sat Oct 20 13:39:13 2001
mac asks:

how do you score with the ladies?

Do you mean without paying or going to the Gold Club? But I kid you -- since obviously there would never have to be an exchange of money for me to get lucky -- I mean, hell, I am a STAR -- an International SUPERSTAR -- so, really, the ladies come to me. I can't walk down the street without some beauty trying to get my autograph and then a "a little bit more" if you know what I mean. But I'm no dope like Robert Blake -- you'll never see me tying the knot or letting some dame annoy me to the point that I have to take care of the problem myself (besides, that's what the help is for -- otherwise, why the fuck have them?). Love 'em and leave 'em is my credo, pal. My good looks, wealth and fame take care of the rest.

Sat Oct 20 13:42:38 2001
Frankenchrist asks:

why is shit smelly? I mean, what makes the defecation stink?

I know you ain't going to believe to believe this, but each person's scat smells different, their own personal signature so to speak. The odor you adore with your flaired nostrils is the product of the compounds created by bacteria doing their deed with the leftovers that make it to your colon. The classical smell of feces results mostly from the compounds indole and skatole (resulting from breakin' down trptophan, an amino acide) but other compounds like mercaptans, hydrogen sulfide and ammonia create a diverse buffet of sense delight. Of course, in the end,the subtly of your scat's stench is determined by epend the unique flora in the colon and what you've been eating, each adding subtle hues and shades to whatever masterpiece you create on your porcelain throne. Me, I eat nachos so I get backed up all the time -- you wouldn't want to be there when the dam releases what its been holding back. More importantly, though, what sort of things have you found in your labradoodle's dumps? Mine, Tim, has apparently been chowing down my marble collection as was readily evident when I stepped in one of his "deposits" on the front lawn and felt more than the normal squish -- boy did my top blow off, steam shooting out of my ears -- that little ingrateful bastard after all I've done for him. Some of those marbles are irreplaceable. When they sunday paper comes I'm going to club him over the snout -- fucking curr.

Burl is gone – out playing poker with his dimwitted pals I would guess. Seems like I’m the only one living here with him now. I worry about Dom. I even filed a missing person report. Worse, I don’t think Soupy is ever going to be released from the hospital. He keeps having relapses – fits of hallucinations and violent outbursts. Most of the time he is restrained by leather straps in his bed. The doctors can’t fathom what could be wrong with him. On the plus side, mr sparkplug no longer e-mails me. Hopefully he has sunk into a silent stupor and I will never hear from him again. This time here, though, has been useful. Alone upstairs I have chipped away at my play, Beer Can Speaks In Tongues -- sometimes I cast the parts while I type away – but I won’t reveal who my mind’s eye wants to see on the stage. This brings up, however, the letter I received today from Tootsie Bong, a wrinkled up old hippie who has spent too much time under the sun without ever having used sunblock. I went out on a blind date once with her, accidentally getting hit by a car in the meanwhile. For some reason, she thinks we are a couple, spiritually linked. She insists that the psychic she goes to gave her unbeatable proof. I don’t dare respond and tell her to leave me alone. It would only encourage her. I don’t think I could bear going to a jam band concert with her like she wants. The unwashed, tripping mass would turn me homicidal. My nerves are easily frayed – now if only Burl would disappear I could have this whole place to myself. . .

Jim Nabors from Hawaii asks:

what size shoe you wear??

What does it matter, Mr. Second Liver? They're both more than able to kick your sorry ass from here to Hell, where you belong, bastard. (9)

To My Loyal Fans:

Though many seem to be giving up, expecting adulation and receiving none, I promise that I will never forsake you, even if I have been infrequently updating my Small Window into my Exciting Life. To be blunt, of late I have been relaxing -- taking it easy and enjoying life as it slowly unfolds. Dom has never returned and Soupy is still in the hospital recovering from his injuries -- that means I have the whole house to myself and I love every second of it. Still, I hate to disappoint my fans so if you have any questions for me, I will gladly answer them in detail. Just post a question at ASK BURL and I will respond as speedily as my lumbering fingers can. Until next time, save some nachos for me.

mister burl ives (6:02:13 PM): is that some sort of mold spore or tim maples?
mister burl ives (6:02:27 PM): sniff sniff

berbelang (6:02:35 PM): hey you dead fat bastard
mister burl ives (6:02:52 PM): shit, the leftovers are talking. jesus!
berbelang (6:03:02 PM): I am not anthrax if that is what you are talking about
berbelang (6:03:15 PM): leftovers? what about the rightovers?
mister burl ives (6:03:20 PM): whatever -- the sheep have told me about you -- baaaaad.
berbelang (6:03:40 PM): sheep vagina is suprisingly similar to human vagina
berbelang (6:03:51 PM): thats what jimmy keeps saying anyway
mister burl ives (6:04:15 PM): Jimmy? Have you seen him? He's missing. I knocked on his door and no one answered.
mister burl ives (6:04:38 PM): I tried to call and his phone was disconnected.
berbelang (6:04:43 PM): I think he is bought that van.
mister burl ives (6:05:04 PM): with the firebreathing horse and knight painted on the side? the one with the waterbed?
mister burl ives (6:05:15 PM): It's a babemagnet.
berbelang (6:05:17 PM): he hadn't paid his rent for a while...yeah, that one
berbelang (6:05:26 PM): so true
berbelang (6:05:41 PM): he scores down by the railtracks all the time
mister burl ives (6:05:42 PM): fuck yeah -- we're going to get so lucky! I can smell the -- um nevermind.
berbelang (6:06:09 PM): Burl, who needs luck with a mug like yours?
mister burl ives (6:06:14 PM): At least he's not hanging out by the high school anymore passing out free Britney Spears CDs -- even I thought that was tacky.
berbelang (6:06:30 PM): He has moved on to bigger prey
berbelang (6:06:36 PM): college chicks
mister burl ives (6:06:50 PM): I'm no spring chicken anymore and I cant seem to um carry through. Can I borrow your viagra?
berbelang (6:07:03 PM): tells em he is going to sign up for the marines and shit like that
berbelang (6:07:19 PM): I ran out
mister burl ives (6:07:19 PM): So, what he talks about Lilith Fair now? That Tori Amos is so deep -- heh heh.
mister burl ives (6:07:31 PM): Or so Jimmy says.
mister burl ives (6:07:42 PM): He's such a prick.
berbelang (6:07:46 PM): yeah, you have to agree to agree sometimes, as jimmy always says
berbelang (6:08:04 PM): good looking for a guy with rotten teeth
mister burl ives (6:08:09 PM): If you can understand what he;s saying -- he lost his false teeth again.
mister burl ives (6:08:22 PM): says a prostitute stole them.
berbelang (6:08:35 PM): yeah, he sold it for some hooch
berbelang (6:08:40 PM): fucking liar
mister burl ives (6:09:08 PM): Yeah, who would sleep with him? It's not like being stationed in the Philipines. This is America, god dammit.
mister burl ives (6:09:27 PM): No nooky for cooky.
berbelang (6:09:53 PM): I saw him at work down at the corner tavern last night..telling some hippy coed that he was studying to be a theological anthropologist after he gets out of the service
berbelang (6:10:02 PM): chick ate it up
berbelang (6:10:16 PM): crazy little drunk broads
mister burl ives (6:10:41 PM): College girls are easy -- even Nabors can score.
berbelang (6:10:47 PM): he needs to focus on the game more. I can't keep up with his nickle and diming me.
mister burl ives (6:11:11 PM): Me, I just invite them over for a candlelight vigil. The WTC is the best thing to ever happen to my love life.
berbelang (6:11:12 PM): When I was in college all the girls were made out of biscuits
mister burl ives (6:11:27 PM): Did you ladle on the gravy?
mister burl ives (6:11:35 PM): Or smother them in butter?
berbelang (6:11:36 PM): hell yeah
berbelang (6:11:45 PM): I ladle and smother
mister burl ives (6:11:52 PM): Oh brother!
berbelang (6:12:04 PM): well i used to anyway
mister burl ives (6:12:05 PM): Did you go to a college for the Blind and the Deaf?
berbelang (6:12:14 PM): obviously
mister burl ives (6:12:19 PM): Or was it dog obedience school.
berbelang (6:12:26 PM): it is all about sensations to the blind
mister burl ives (6:12:31 PM): That isnt really college, you know.
berbelang (6:12:37 PM): its not?
mister burl ives (6:12:53 PM): Nah, they can tell. I saw the Lionel Ritchie video with the blind chick.
berbelang (6:13:04 PM): Guess what am I signing right now?
mister burl ives (6:13:25 PM): Your butt? Dont strain your back again.
berbelang (6:13:39 PM): nope
mister burl ives (6:14:04 PM): Hmmm -- your painting of Wayne Newton. Have you finally finished it?
berbelang (6:14:04 PM): tell me more about your wtc come ons...how does it work?
berbelang (6:14:43 PM): wayne is a monster...I can't paint him anymore...he giggles too much...i threw him out of the studio
mister burl ives (6:14:48 PM): "Man -- I'm so messed up. My best friend Dom was working there and he hasnt come home. I dont mean to cry, but I feel so alone. Will you hold me?"
mister burl ives (6:15:34 PM): I'm bugging hstencil right now too.
berbelang (6:15:36 PM): No, I can't, you are a ghost...
berbelang (6:15:48 PM): yeah, he loves you burl
berbelang (6:15:59 PM): as do all of god's chillun
mister burl ives (6:16:11 PM): who doesnt? I am the alpha and the omega.
mister burl ives (6:16:22 PM): I am the bagel and the feta cheese.
berbelang (6:16:27 PM): I don't but I keep trying
mister burl ives (6:16:29 PM): I am the gyro and the goat.
berbelang (6:16:40 PM): shammee and the sham
berbelang (6:16:51 PM): beaver and the pie?
mister burl ives (6:17:04 PM): Dam!~
berbelang (6:17:16 PM): little gimp and the bucket of lard?
berbelang (6:17:30 PM): Hoover Dam in the flesh?
berbelang (6:18:02 PM): man, i will hate to see what happens when the Ives levy finally bursts
mister burl ives (6:18:04 PM): hstencil keeps saying I'm Jack Cole -- that sonofabitch.
mister burl ives (6:18:20 PM): Old Faithful will never let you down.
mister burl ives (6:18:33 PM): And the girls always like to watch.
berbelang (6:18:41 PM): Jack Cole and the tuna brigade?
berbelang (6:18:54 PM): does he know about them?
berbelang (6:19:15 PM): they rock
mister burl ives (6:19:33 PM): They're the pickle and the tickle and the hammer and the sickle
mister burl ives (6:19:54 PM): They're like amy grant and michael w. smith fucking on live tv
berbelang (6:20:45 PM): I am with you there, but I thought that Jack was your enemy
mister burl ives (6:21:18 PM): I was just humoring you. I know you're in with that fuck. Jimmy said I should pretend like I like the rat screwer.
mister burl ives (6:21:49 PM): You know, like I pretend to be interested in what you have to say.
mister burl ives (6:21:54 PM): yawn.
mister burl ives (6:21:58 PM): zzzzz
mister burl ives (6:22:08 PM): gllllalllll
berbelang (6:22:12 PM): No don't worry about that - I am a total back stabber, why just yesterday I was talking to Nabors and....um, nevermind
mister burl ives (6:22:37 PM): What did that fuck have to say? I thought he was kicked out again after Babar was deposed.
berbelang (6:23:20 PM): He said that you just came back to life to be a poser..he said you USED to be a great balladeer.
berbelang (6:23:55 PM): He says your incessant appearances on FMBB only prove that you are a trend lackey
berbelang (6:24:38 PM): black sabbath or frogs?
mister burl ives (6:24:48 PM): OH YEAH? If Flame On! still existed I'd mop the floors with his second liver. Fucking pansies with al their WTC jabber. I trained those guys -- I mean -- um.
berbelang (6:25:22 PM): Yeah you beat up nabors fair and square
berbelang (6:25:31 PM): you beat him up real good
mister burl ives (6:26:12 PM): POW -- he aint so pretty anymore -- not like he ever was -- some one oughta put a bag over his head.
berbelang (6:26:50 PM): little do people know that he actually morphed into a sheep vagina himself...if they knew that a sheep pussy was actually doing the singing instead of his pretty mouth I think things would be different
mister burl ives (6:27:12 PM): That explains the discharges.
mister burl ives (6:27:25 PM): And the aroma of death.
mister burl ives (6:27:44 PM): Someone should introduce him to Listirine -- or the muzzle of a gun.
berbelang (6:27:52 PM): Sure does, what is this about you and Brando? Jupiter and Saturn?
mister burl ives (6:28:51 PM): Brando's a fat ass punk pretending to be Squanto.
mister burl ives (6:29:13 PM): And I sing better. He sounds like a monkey with its head trapped in a milk carton.
berbelang (6:29:40 PM): they found chicken bones and scarves owned by brando in some quaternary limestone deposits? that is intensely frightening. I would prepare for battle if I were you.
berbelang (6:30:11 PM): He is threatening to run into the sears tower and topple it!
berbelang (6:30:21 PM): Ossama Brando?
mister burl ives (6:31:19 PM): Brando has always existed. He is God's little retarded brother.
mister burl ives (6:31:41 PM): I, however, fight to free mankind from God and Brando's tryanny.
mister burl ives (6:31:50 PM): Oh, and nachos.
mister burl ives (6:31:54 PM): and booze
mister burl ives (6:31:58 PM): and women
mister burl ives (6:32:03 PM): and fame
mister burl ives (6:32:08 PM): and money
mister burl ives (6:32:54 PM): Whose side are you on?
“berbelang” signed off at 6:35:36 PM.
“berbelang” signed on at 6:35:45 PM.
berbelang (6:36:08 PM): my how I crash
mister burl ives (6:36:14 PM): Now that Tim is gone I can say what I really think.
berbelang (6:36:26 PM): I need to go out and buy smokes
mister burl ives (6:36:26 PM): Your machine still troubling you?
berbelang (6:36:31 PM): a bit
berbelang (6:36:59 PM): it was wierd...my cd started skipping and my whole system froze so I had to reboot
berbelang (6:37:21 PM): this is what i get for putting together my own cheap ass system
mister burl ives (6:37:42 PM): I could build you one out of my dead skin and hair.
berbelang (6:38:23 PM): with a 800 mhz booger processor?
mister burl ives (6:38:56 PM): and a real nice hard drive.
berbelang (6:39:09 PM): yeah baby!
mister burl ives (6:39:30 PM): And it loves to download porn -- especially with exotic animals.
berbelang (6:40:03 PM): well I am sold, wait a second, do I have to pay with my soul or something?
mister burl ives (6:40:45 PM): prick your finger and sign here. you don't need to read the contract. you can trust your best friend, burl.
berbelang (6:41:26 PM): well, ok...I am going to go buy some smokes and when I come back I will sign
mister burl ives (6:41:47 PM): puff puff and so long. I'll see you in Hell.
berbelang (6:42:10 PM): ciao

i don't dare check my e-mail anymore. my hard drive will swell up with messages sent by mr sparkplug -- especially now that he has given up on brian keith. lost and confused, he keeps asking me ridiculous questions like "why do you do in your spare time?" and "who do you look up to?" worse yet, everytime I try to go downstairs, Burl Ives glares at me like he's going to rip my head off or throw an empty nachos tray at me. by now, unable to leave, i'm sure i've lost my job. strange though how no one has called to find out what happened to me. as far as they know i could be dead -- maybe they care? how bone crushingly depressing -- as terrifying as laying in bed listening to burl ives swill booze and tear into tortilla chips, the tv shaking the walls. what happened to don?

dear diary:

bored with nothing on tv, I called tim today to see how he's doing after our little ordeal in Hawaii. fuck if i know why i gave him a jingle -- but, hell, nothing else was going on. dom was out again looking for kiki; soupy is still in the hospital (the doctors say he's had relapse); and that mandible jones fuck never comes out of his room. I think he may be afraid of me -- or at least intimitaded by my starpower. yeah, anyway -- I dialed up maples and secretly recorded it. here's the transcript. after reading it, you'll think I'm a saint for dealing with that schmuck.

Burl Ives
Talking To A Dummy
Mon Oct 1 17:09:41 2001


mister burl ives (4:39:02 PM): you sonofabitch -- you owe me 50 bucks. pay up or I'm taking it out by clobbering you.

mister burl ives (4:41:13 PM): shit -- you must looking at porn or something. know of any good sites with nudie pictures of the gabors? they turn my crank, if ya know what I mean, jerk.

berbelang (4:43:11 PM): fuck you ives, I am in the midst of celebrating my transformation into a mole-rat. You wouldn't believe the perks.

mister burl ives (4:43:48 PM): what perks -- like obeying your wife like a mindless hairless slave rat? sheesh, what a bum.

mister burl ives (4:43:57 PM): and I don't mean your ass.

mister burl ives (4:44:41 PM): Want some D-Con? It'd be good for you -- but better for me.

berbelang (4:44:46 PM): The perks that include lust for cheese as if it were heroin and yet cheese is legal..You wouldn't understand!

berbelang (4:45:16 PM): Mere fat ghost of a human...you have no idea!

mister burl ives (4:45:44 PM): fuck -- heroin's cheap now that the Tally Ho Ban have flooded the market, ruining my street business.

mister burl ives (4:46:03 PM): want some smack for a dollar an ounce?

berbelang (4:46:25 PM): Human junkies living in filth no longer interests me you chubby satan...All I need for is cheese!

mister burl ives (4:46:33 PM): or would you rather I just smacked you alongside the head? What'll it be corky?
mister burl ives (4:46:58 PM): Yeah, Jimmy says you're good at cutting the cheese, methane leak.

berbelang (4:47:08 PM): I would advise against that, I am having the doctor genetically alter me.

mister burl ives (4:47:46 PM): What? He gave you a brain? Good luck operating it.

berbelang (4:48:40 PM): He is also giving me wings...your owls should beware

mister burl ives (4:48:46 PM): your wife should set out some traps. snap crackle tim's head pops off.

berbelang (4:49:22 PM): she is a mole rat now as well. Her devotion to me is only compromised by her insane lust for cheese

mister burl ives (4:49:48 PM): that's just plain sad. i thought you said she was smart.

mister burl ives (4:50:12 PM): well, I better call the exterminator in St. Charles.

berbelang (4:50:17 PM): smarter than a fat dead balladeer anyway

mister burl ives (4:50:31 PM): Watch it! I'm a star.

berbelang (4:50:47 PM): No, you are more like a black hole

mister burl ives (4:50:49 PM): And, I've been going to Jenny Craig.

mister burl ives (4:51:07 PM): The only black hole is your mouth, meathead.

berbelang (4:51:14 PM): gravity collapses in on the terrible weight of Burl Ives

berbelang (4:51:39 PM): you been hanging out with bunker again?

mister burl ives (4:52:02 PM): You trying to provoke me, Maples? I gotta a switchblade. Carrol O'Connor has been training me to use it.

berbelang (4:52:14 PM): getting a little from edith when he runs to the liquor store?

berbelang (4:52:43 PM): sad thing to go from a gabor to edith..you must be desperate

mister burl ives (4:53:07 PM): hey! I'd never mess with the wife of someone I like. Fuck you - -Magda's on my lap right now.

magda gabor (4:53:24 PM): allo, tim. burl has said so
much about you.

mister burl ives (4:54:15 PM): go get me a drink and some nachos -- yer blocking the screen, broad.

mister burl ives (4:56:00 PM): yeah, runaway -- coward!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Bid Daddy reigns supreme.

berbelang (4:56:00 PM): see how you are? Mole rats have no time for relationship squabbling...we just spend our time thinking of cheese and how great it is...It is a simple life...a utopia of cheese...would you like to join us and live in cheesy bliss?

mister burl ives (4:56:48 PM): Unlike you, my personality isnt predisposed to being a RAT, if you know what I mean. Maybe I should let loose a cat in your home.

berbelang (4:57:23 PM): Never! You would'nt do that would you?

mister burl ives (4:57:35 PM): I'd like to watch it play with you for a while. maybe I could keep your head as a souvinier.

mister burl ives (4:57:43 PM): here kitty.

berbelang (4:57:56 PM): (my heart is racing)

mister burl ives (4:58:34 PM): aw, calm down, sissy boy. I wouldnt do it -- Jimmy would get all upset -- god knows why. Naples is such a maudlin drunk.

mister burl ives (4:59:02 PM): Fucker lost 1g last night at the casino. put it all on black 13, even though Omar told him not to.

berbelang (4:59:30 PM): whew...I will turn back into a human...The casino's won't let me in looking like this

berbelang (5:00:08 PM): too much cheese....my belly! my head! I need rest!

mister burl ives (5:00:45 PM): head hurt? should i punch you in the stomach to distract you?

berbelang (5:01:30 PM): I fear I might vomit cheese on you if you do that. I would strongly reccomend against it.

mister burl ives (5:02:10 PM): I don't care -- as long as you dont get any on me. You going to the poker game tonight? Charo's going to dance naked for us.

mister burl ives (5:03:04 PM): hey, someone just emailed me some jpegs of Zsa Zsa and a burro -- what the fuck is it doing to her? FUCKING COLE!

berbelang (5:03:22 PM): Of course, as soon as this fucking headache goes away. I must lay down for now
Burl. I must have strength to play against the poker wizardry of Omar

berbelang (5:03:31 PM): Cole sent it as a favor

mister burl ives (5:04:15 PM): well you rest -- I hate picking on weak sisters like you -- no challenge at all -- like slap boxing with don knotts.

berbelang (5:05:01 PM): You remember how excited you got down in Tiajauna? You know how excited you get by the gabors, He just put peanut butter in your chocolate, that's all.

berbelang (5:05:36 PM): later Burl, try to keep your mittens out of the puddin.

mister burl ives (5:05:48 PM): kiss my ass, maples.

mister burl ives (5:05:56 PM): smooch.

mr sparkplug keeps sending me e-mails about brian keith and I can't figure out how he got my address. i wish he would leave me alone, because to be honest, Brian Keith is a terrible one note actor. I can't think of one thing he has been in that was even remotely good. i don't know what to do, though. everytime I try to filter out his e-mail address he changes it, breaking through my internet defenses. Today I received this message from the obsessed idiot: "jones: why aren't you around anymore? everyone is gone. i get lonely and sometimes I think brian keith will never call me." Even worse, I heard noises down stairs and when I peeked at the living room from above I saw a grumpy grey haired and bearded fat man watching TV and eating nachos. I hope he didn't notice me because I think, going by Dom's descriptions, it might be Burl Ives, and he's supposed to be a real bastard. I hope he leaves soon. He scares me.

dear diary:

yeah, so Nabors let me go a few days a go saying that he wasn't in the mood to fuck with me anymore in light of recent events. sighing, he said he'd been called back to active duty. Before he left he tossed my wallet, a plane ticket one way to Anacortes and a cashier's check for $1,000,000 down -- he even admitted he had drugged mac to be his accomplice. He handed me a small glass vial filled with the antidote. As for Tim -- I had a hell of a time trying to find him after I had turned him into a naked mole rate using the spell I had memorized from the grimoire. When I had cast it, he had become so small the control collar fell off, but he was so confused he scampered away before I could catch him. Luckily, an idea struck me on the head. I headed to the kitchen and I found him eating pie like the pie-eater he is. So I picked him up and put him in a small titanium cage and then headed out to the airport in one of Nabor's porsches, which I had hotwired and then stole. The plane flight was OK, though it was hell to get through security. Eventually I ended up having to check Tim with the rest of my luggage, which was fine. I was growing annoyed anyway listening to him try to gnaw his way out of his cage. Served the little rodent right for irritating Big Daddy. Once through security I remembered I had never given mac the antidote, but it was too late. Like I hell I was going to go through security again. Hopefully someone would find the Gainsevaudvillian and take real good care of him. When I finally got home, no one was there to meet me at the airport so I had to take a cab. I decided it would be best if I stopped at the bank first and deposited my check. Once back at my mansion I discovered that no one was home. Soupy was still in the hospital and Dom had left a note saying Kiki had disappeared and he was out looking for her. It also mentioned that his friend Mandible Jones was staying in one of the guest rooms. He had had no alternative what with the mortgage payment being due. I was unconcerned. I'd kick his ass out later. Right now all I wanted to do was make some nachos, kick back with a PBR and watch Sanford & Son on TV.

I've gained at least 100 pounds sitting in front of the TV watching CNN. Worse yet, now I can't pry myself out of my easy chair. I'm screwed. Even Kiki has left me, off hunting in the neighborhood. She became quite agitated last night since I haven't been able to get up to feed her rabbits. Hissing, she tried to take a chunk out of my foot. Luckily I was able to beat her away with a rolled up copy of Variety. I don't think I'll ever see her again and that makes me sad. I'd rather Burl disappeared forever than my beloved Komodo dragon. If that isn't bad enough, since Burl is still gone, he hasn't been able to make his mortgage payment. I think the bank his going to repossess his mansion -- two guys in suits were sniffing around this morning. If I only I could have gotten up to chance those jerks away.

Dom

. . . Kiki and I got into a fight today. I had bought a box of Twinkies at the grocery store and then the second I turned my back she ripped into it, devouring everything. She tried to deny doing the deed, but I could tell by the creme filling smeared on her face. I screamed till my face was red. I was looking forward to enjoying them while watching the Food Channel on cable. All I had thought about all day was relaxing with my Hostess products while watching meals prepared on the set. Why would Kiki do that to me? I'm nothing but good to her -- I take her for walks, feed her and play with her every fucking day -- and this is the way she treats me? I have the right mind to dump her off at the Human Society -- that would teach her a thing about a thing or two. She better shape up before Burl gets back, wherever the fuck he is. He won't put up with her sticking her snout in his nachos. He might just dispatch her with extreme force -- and that would make me sad because I love my Kiki so. Who would I play frisbee with in the park? Who would I tell all my secrets to when I'm feeling down? Soupy and Burl just laugh and tell me to move my lard ass because I'm blocking the TV. Fuck them. I should start looking for a new place to live. I don't think I can handle it when they come back, Soupy telling his annoyingly terrible bad jokes and Burl trying to boss everyone around. And I'll just let him do it, seething inside. Maybe I should drop by the pawn shop and check out the guns . . .

Is it my imagination or does the new night nurse like me? She even recognized me -- the first person here who has. Later, she dropped by and asked me for my autograph, which I promised to give her as soon as my arms and hands are out of their casts. She was really understanding. She even stayed a little a while watching Emergency! with me. I love that show. I remember when Jack Webb was first planning it. He was so excited. I think deep down he knew this would be his masterpiece. If you can hear me, Jack -- Emergency! is your Sistine Chapel -- your monument will last for all eternity. Talking to the nurse seemed so natural. She let me know that she's dealt with a lot of the same situations that Dixie has on the TV show. Once, she informed me, a lady came in strapped down. She had gone crazy while listening to Al Jolson records in her room and drinking Windex. Wow! It's really neat that the nurse feels comfortable enough to confide that to me. I've never stopped to think how rough of a job it must be. Every day must be like when we would shoot a bunch of $25,000 Pyramid episodes back to back in one day. I'd always be so tired when the day ended and I got home. The common person doesn't realize how difficult it is listing off things so the contestant can guess the category. Someone of them are so dumb. I mean, once I said "Persian, Manx, Siamese . . ." and he didn't have a clue. I almost leaped from seat to strangle him, but luckily Nipsey Russel jumped in between us, calming us down with a poem.

Love,
Soupy

sadness drips from my perforated heart -- the machine grew angry, gobbling up Act I of my play, Beer Cans Speak In Tongues. How will I recover from this loss? When Dom gave me the password to Burl's blog I thought this would be my chance to share myself with the world -- to tell the world of what I ate for lunch, how many times I went to the bathroom, if I took a nap (and the frequency) -- but it has mortally wounded me, destroying my vision and its materialized form. I shall try to recapture the flavor, but I fear it is pointless -- the Moment has been lost and now you will laugh at me -- laugh and laugh like the viscious hyenas you are. I can feel you tearing at my flesh as I type this. STOP GIGGLING AT ME! Here, I open myself up -- respect that. Don't talk behind my back, wondering what sort of freak I am because . . . because . . . I had intercourse with a . . . I was opening up to you -- sharing my feelings. I was lonely. It was my first year in college and my 15 year old girlfriend was still in college. I missed her terribly and I was shy having to share a small dorm room with a stranger. All that held me together besides prayer was my giant teddy bear, which she had given me before I packed my bags and got on that bus that took me to college. That teddy bear was my only friend -- but NO! My room-mate insisted on laughing at me and humiliating me in public. He even brought his friends by to show them what a sideshow freak he thought I was -- if only he hadn't come in that one day unannounced. If only he had not come in with his friends, discovering me making love to the teddy bear, a hole cut in -- its too terrible for me to go on -- my ears are burning already. I CAN HEAR YOU SNICKERING! You don't think I didn't feel awful doing what I did to the stuffed animal? I was so confused. Haven't you ever been messed up in the head? This was a bad idea. I hope Burl doesn't discover that I put this on his blog. Dom says Burl is probably dead, but bad things always happen to me. I am always discovered. They were right. I guess I am a loser. Go ahead. Chuckle all you want. Feel better? How about when I snap? Huh?

dear diary:

. . . 3:00am, Nabors slapped me on the back and left. My eyes felt bloodshot and itchy. I fantasized about putting Nabors head on a pike. My stomach howled, angry at being unfed. As if on cue, the door to my room opened and Tim entered carry a tray containing a Hungry Man Salisbury Steak TV Dinner and a can of Fresca – I guess the days of good food was over – Nabors was playing hardball again. Suddenly a switched flipped inside my head – I shook off the Emergency! induced stupor that Nabors had induced to weaken my resolve. Before Tim could put down the tray and leave, I quickly blurted out the words I remembered from the grimoire that Jack Cole had shown me in the Gold Club. THIS HAD TO WORK – HAD TO HAD TO HAD TO. Instantaneously, Tim was surrounded by a cloud of pungent smoke. I couldn’t see him until minutes later when the air cleared. I mightily swore. I had fucked it up. Only his head had changed, transformed into that of an ostritch – not the effect I was aiming for at all (and not the animal, either). What was that other spell I memorized? I had to recall it before Tim left the room and they discovered by his new head that I was trying to escape. In a fit of desperation, I screamed out another clump of words, pay attention to the accompanying hand gestures. Suddenly, Tim was engulfed in a bright red blast of light. I feel back on the bed. Tim dropped the tray. I blacked out again . . .

dear diary:

. . . make it stop -- this new found comfort inside a locked and guarded room isn't worth it. This evening Nabors visited me, sitting down and forcing me to watch re-runs of Emergency! with him. I could have survived one episode, but this was some sort of nightmarish never ending maraton celebrating the exploits of Roy and Johnny. Each hour alternated between minutes of moral exposition and squarer than tim jokes. I tried to change the channel. I tried to grab the remote control Each attempt, though, was foiled when Nabors pull out a big shiny pistol and aim it at my hand, his finger twitching on the trigger. "Sure, Jim -- I'd love to watch more Emergency!. I had never realized how deadly drugs could be until that kid leaped out of the hospital window." Sick bastard. I know Nabors made me watch to just piss me off -- I could see the twinge of a smile at the corners of his ragged, wound-like lips. During one commercial break I decided to ask him about Don Ho. I didn't expect an answer, but I had to ask if what I had seen and then heard equalled Don's demise. A twinkle in his eyes, Nabors replied, "Don and I didn't see eye to eye. He didn't appreciate some of my grander Ideas. He would share certain information me. It disturbs me when someone won't share. Are we not all brothers and sisters in God's family? Perhaps I did him a favor speeding him along to his destination. His ukelele play really hasn't been up to snuff for years, and I've always preferred Tiny Tim anyway."

i hate this hospital, all my limbs broken or fractured by fat assed superstars. the man in the bed next to me is all bandaged. he never lets me have the remote control, insisting that he is worse off than me and, thus, deserves watch anything he wants. Fucking prick -- if I could get up I'd do to him what I dream of doing to Burl and Dom every single moment I'm here eating tapioca and grey meat. the doctor came by yesterday and said it would be another month before he could take the casts off. Until then I would have to stay staring out the window into the parking lot and sometimes past that to the street where cars whiz by blasting shitty music out of their tinny stereos. Last night I dreamed about:

BURL! THANK GOD I FOUND YOUR BLOG! SOUPY AND I HAVE BEEN WORRIED SICK SINCE YOU DISAPPEARED. I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT DO WHEN I GOT BACK TO THE MANSION THAT NIGHT AFTER VISITING SOUPY IN THE HOSPITAL. I KNEW SOMETHING WAS WRONG, THOUGH, AS SOON AS I GOT TO THE DOOR. KIKI BEGAN HISSING, HER HACKLES RAISED. WORRIED, I WENT BACK TO MY GREMLIN AND GRABBED MY GLOCK FROM THE GLOVE DEPARTMENT. AS SOON AS WE WENT INSIDE, I GASPED AT WHAT A MESS THE PLACE WAS -- BROKEN FURNITURE, RUDE GRAPHITTI SPRAYPAINTED ON THE WALLS (“BURL FUCKS SQUIRRELS ON A BURRO”), FOOD LITTERED OVER THE FLOORS -- FLUSTERED I FOUND YOUR ADDRESS BOOK AND TRIED TO CALL YOUR FRIEND, TIM, BUT NO ONE ANSWERED THE PHONE. I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO. SHOULD I CALL MSP? DOES HSTENCIL KNOW ANY MARTIAL ARTS? WHY WON’T MAC ANSWER HIS PHONE? ME AND KIKI ARE SCARED. GIVE US A SIGN.

DOM

dear diary:

. . . comfortable in bed watching the Dean Martin Celebrity Roast hour long ad on TV (I wish I had my credit card), an idea whispered to my earwax encrusted audiotory nerve. First, let me clarify something. Usually, I never visit Jack Cole and he never calls me up. When it comes down to it, we basically can't stand each other. He thinks I'm a fat blowhard and I think he's an oversensitive idiot. Once, however, Tim made me invite him to go long to the Gold Club with us -- I protested, but Tim has the upperhand with some shit I should have never told his brother, Jimmy Naples. Leave it to say, we had a lot of drinks. While Tim was in the bathroom relieving his bladder, I was left alone at the table with Jack Cole with a little bit. Trying to make conversation with the dimwit, I mentioned how strange it was that Tim kept being transformed into lame animals. Jack, wasted and thus talkative, chuckled. He pulled a book out of his fanny pack, showing me the title. Seems Mr. Cole had come upon this book in a St. Louis flea market -- a grimoire of spells to torture Tim's family written in the late 18th century by a mysterious fellow named Thrombonis Erupt, arch enemy of all members of Tim's family past, present and future. Laughing that Tim hadn't discovered his trick, Jack showed me a few spells, mostly ones of transformation. For some reason, I still remembered one -- and it would be perfect to attempt to free Tim from the slave collar Nabors had put around his neck. All I would have to do is wait for Tim to bring my dinner in two hours . . .

dear diary:

. . . the head trauma and drugs have finally started to recede, leaving me more clear than I've been since being abducted from my Anacortes mansion. When I woke up, I found myself locked in a luxurious bedroom -- my lord what a delight to sleep in a cozy bed again after all those dirt and conrete floors. There's even a TV -- I watched Barnaby Jones today while eating a tray of nachos Tim provided. He wasn't very talkative and that collar he's wearing is so punk-rock-passe. Maybe he's still pissed at me, but I was hoping he'd be able to help me escape. I tried everything I could to get a response at him but he just stared blankly, his eyes milky marbles of glazed inattention. I even playfully kicked him the testicles to try and get a reaction out of him -- nothing happened. He just turned around and left the room, locking the door behind him.

Nabors dropped by to check on me. Asked if I was feeling better. I nodded, trying not to let my undying hatred slip through my smile facade.

A few hours later I had a surprise visitor. He was pretending to be a doctor sent to give me a check up -- but he gave me the sign, and I acknowledged it with a wink. After he departed, Nabor's henchman, Mac, dropped by. He rudely asked me if I need a napking to wipe the nacho crumbs from my beard. At that, I lunged at him -- but he was too quick for me. He pulled out a tazer, jolting me into a foetal ball of quivering pain. Chuckling, he left me shivering on the floor.

Tim, as usual, brought my dinner -- this time super deluxe nachos. I tried again to start a converstation with him by asking him how his gum wrapper collection was doing. He didn't seem to hear a word I said, simply depositing the tray in front of me and ambling out.

Nabors showed up again that day. Asked me if a doctor had come to visit me. I pretended to not know what he was babbling about, nodding as if listening to a two year old. Mac, who had followed Nabors in, slapped me, screaming at me that he would not suffer my insolence towards his boss. To discourage me from attacking him again, he flashed the tazer at me. Nabors simply snickered at the altercation. He turned towards Mac and said, "Time for us to leave, Mac. Mr. Visser is expecting us at the Volcano Club. Good evening, Mr. Ives. I hope we can discuss a few things tomorrow."

Dear Diary:

blankety blank blank . . . thud . . . dark . . . the lump on my head throbbing . . . a scratchy burlap bag over my head, hot air choked upon while dragged . . . a bird squawking in the treetops . . . my buttocks banging against cold concrete steps leading down . . . "Where should I leave him, boss?" . . . metal doors swing open and shut without reassuring fluorescence . . . ropes tied around my ankles and wrists, sitting in a chair . . . the bag yanked from my head . . . in the center of silver room, large tanks circling around me . . . in each one floats a cloned liver, waiting to replace the one about to fail . . . will the third time be the charm? . . . the squirrel saunters in front me, checking the ropes to make sure they are tight . . . it nips my pinky on my right hand, a drop of blood messing up the tiled floor . . . echoing footstep from behind . . . an outline of a figure appears before me, moving closer . . . his face takes form, assuming an identity . . . "Are you ready to share some information with me, Burl?" . . . Jim Nabors looks like last month's leftovers, his face all creases and his skin like porridge . . . "Don't fret, Ives. I can't kill you -- can I? You're already dead, but here you are. How was this accomplished? I tire of these multiple organ transplants. I want your secret to immortality. Well, Burl?" . . . the squirrel leaps on his shoulder and whispers in his ear. Nabors nods, his fake smile buckling into a frown . . . The squirrel sneers at me, disappearing in the shadows . . . "1995. Dead. You. How did you come back? How do you still have a physical form? " . . . He calls for someone. Tim walks in, some sort of electrical collar around his neck. Nabors is displeased by his slowness, pulling a remote control from his dinner jacket pocket. He pushes a red button, shocking Tim, who convulses, almost dropping the tray he carries . . . "Don't these nachos smell delightful? I had my private chef prepare them just for you just the way you like them. What you like a taste? Now what were you going to tell me -- hmmm?" . . . sharp pain in head . . . bright lights . . . white feathery wings . . . a candy cane . . . a kennel filled with yipping labradoodles . . . Beverly?

Dear Diary:

. . . been several days since I could last write . . . weak with hunger, losing weight rapidly -- maybe 75 pounds so far . . . I sit on the floor with my back against the wall . . . Don and I watch the bugs scuttle about on the floor, dragging away pieces of our sluffed off skin . . . yesterday I hallucinated . . . everything swirly . . . can hardly keep my eyes open . . . we try to stay away by trading anecdotes . . . Don told me a story about Tom Selleck . . . I told Don about the time I was drinking with Liz Taylor at the Brown Derby and how one thing lead to another, Richard Burton smashing a bottle across the bridge of my nose . . . occasionally he strums his ukelele . . . you can barely even recognize the floral pattern on his dust encrusted shirt . . . the squirrel occasionally drops by to watch us waste away . . . he stands in the doorway, with two heavily armed guards behind him . . . his chattering filets my ears . . . Don is worse off than me, having been held captive longer . . . he freaked out -- reminded me of that party with Peter O'Toole . . . the squirrel step back and the guards moved forward, grabbing Don by the arms . . . I was too weak to do anything . . . I watched them drag him away . . . one of the guards stepped on the ukelele . . . the crunch and the splintering . . . the busted strings . . . I was no better than a pig roasting in the ground . . . the door slammed shut . . . Don screamed . . . "Remember what happened to Captain Cook, m---r f-----s!" . . . I could swear that Lionel Barrymore was sitting next to me in an easy chair. He asked me if I wanted another scotch. Sure, Lionel -- I ain't going anywhere. Have you seen John lately? . . . the rain is coming down hard -- sounds like machine gun fire on the roof -- sure is sunny outside . . . "Burl, why don't put something romantic on the stereo?" I pulled myself up from the couch and winked at Sophia. Thumbing through the records in the stereo cabinet, I pulled out Perry Como, slipping it on the record player. "Should I lower the light, too, baby?" . . . the squirrel is looking at me . . . I swear he has a glib expression on his face . . . he drops a note at my feet . . . I can't read it in the dark . . . the door closes . . . I shout, "Where's Don? Tell me, you SOBs!" . . . whomever wrote this has almost illegible handwriting . . . "Oh, hi Tim. What are you doing here?" . . . silence, birds? . . . "What leper colony?" . . . "Look, Tim -- speak up. I can't hear you. Quit fucking with me, goddammit" . . . footsteps outside . . . "What? Are you still sore about me filling out all those magazine subscriptions and sending them to your house? Ease up -- I'd had one too many and I thought it was funny -- like a joke" . . . whispering and a pause . . . "Nah, you're sore because i wouldn't take you to the Gold Club. I told you it just wouldn't work out. You'd make a scene -- just like when I invited you to go the Oscars party with me last year. Why did you have to punch Brad Pitt in the mouth?" . . . a muffled giggle . . . "Where you going, Tim?" . . . a high pitched cackle . . . the door swings open and Tim melts into a labradoodle, springing outside . . . the door swings open and a man in a ski mask enters, slamming the door shut behind him . . . the labradoodle disappears into the dark . . . the man steps closer, the moon illuminating his masked face . . . I can hear the labradoodle barking . . . the man snorts in amusement, gently kicking my right leg . . . is someone throwing Tim a frisbee? . . . "Burl, Burl, Burl -- what am I going to do with you? Hmmm? Tell me" . . . bark bark woof bark woof . . . "I think you know why you are here. Tell me what you suppose" . . . bark woof woof woof woof woof bark . . .

Dear Diary:

today they led me out, a chain attached to a collar around my neck. the sunlight burned my eyes, everything cutout shapes glaring at me. sniffing the air, i could tell i was in hawaii. i could smell the damp rot and i could hear him laughing at me. I tried to turn my head towards him but only gained a blow in the head by the one of the guard's rifle butts. A few feet ahead of me the squirrel lead the way, chittering as it scampered forward. Gradually I could hear a ukelele. The sound became louder as we approached a concrete building in which I was taken, the door locked behind me. At least now there was window and they had given me a pair of colorful floral patterned boxers to wear. Of course, the ukelele music was coming from here. Sitting on a stool, frowning, Don Ho sat strumming his instrument. I nodded at him in recognition. He tried to smile, but his mouth probably still smarted from the nasty bruise on his face. I looked around the room again, stopping when Ho's tiredly said, "When he came to the Big Island we were happy at first. We thought he would bring much good, maybe even assist in freeing our nation from the American Imperialists. We were too trusting. We were but tools for him to use to achieve his own nefarious goals. Someday I will watch him die like the dog he is." Each syllable was emphasized by a harsh downstroke on his ukelele. I couldn't respond. This was too much, the name Pyle echoing in my head. . .

Dear Diary:

Wafting through the vent up above the locked, a tendril of nachos scent curls its away down to where I lay, tickling my nose. I let out a little whimper. A tear slides down my reddened cheeks as I picture inside my head:

Dear Diary:

i dont know where i am. its dark and ive been hogtied. the air is stuffy and I hearing scratching on the door. sometimes someone plays the radio. whomever it is mostly likes talk programs, people jabbering away about their spouses and free and easy hands. i get real hungry, but no one ever brings me food. i have an iv drip in my arm and thats not very satisfying being fed directly through my veins. where's the fun in that? wheres the tactile pleasure of the grease running down my face, my beard absorbing it? i could use a beer, too. what day is it? did i miss going to the gold club with msp and tim? could i have some clothes?

Dear Diary:

When I finally reached my mansion, I found that all the doors had been locked. No lights were on inside at all, not even a glimmer. I couldn’t even hear Dom’s belabored breathing or Kiki hissing. Luckily on my way from the ferry landing to home, I had snagged a pair of boxers and a T-shirt from a clothesline -- otherwise I my belly would have been shivering like a bowlful of jelly, a legion of goosebumps spreading across my milky white skin. Luckily it was dark out so no one could notice the smurf pattern on my underwear or the Lynyrd Skynyrd decal on the T.

Obviously, if I expected to get in, I would have to break a window. So I slipped off my t-shirt and wrapped it around my right fist, hitting the window in back above the kitchen sink. The pane shattered as did my hand, throbbing and bleeding. Crawling through the window went relatively easy, leaving only a few minor cuts and scrapes on my cherubic love handles. Right away I wiped off the blood with a dish towel and then flipped on the lights. Standing in the center of the green-brown linoleum was a small ground squirrel baring its teeth. I slowly backed away, its eyes following me. When it leaped up, I could sware it was going to sink its fangs into my neck, but instead it landed on the kitchen table where it pressed play on a tape recorder that had never been there before. I covered my ears as I recognized the sound coming out of it. Jim Nabors’ laughter flooded the house as I curled up in a ball on the floor. The squirrel guarded the tape recorder so I could do nothing to make it stop. Then I blacked out again . . .

Dear diary:

Found a garbage bag and had to wear it while I walked all the way back to the ferry to Anacortes. The trouble came when I had to figure how to get aboard the ferry without paying. Sizing up the situation, I jumped in the back of a pick-up when the driver and passager were preoccupied with their tall boys, slurping away from brown paper bags. Nestled in the back, I hoped I would be mistaken for a bag of leaves or trash.

All went according to my fine tuned calculations, though I almost thought the gig was up when my stomach began growling. A security guard’s attention was piqued. He walked up to the cab of the pick-up and asked the driver if he had some sort of animal in back.. The driver became confused, his lack of understanding compounded by beer and perhaps other substances. The passenger intervened, attempting to articulate, “What the fu-- man? Why’re you hasslin us, braw? Buzz off rent-a-cop. We don’t have any goddam critter in the back, Deputy Fife.” As if to punctuate his friend’s statement, the drive suddenly pulled out sawed off shot gun from underneath seat. By that time I had already slunk away, my nostrils notifying of a snack bar with nachos in the vincinity. Not even their gunfire could distract me from this sacred moment.

Dear Diary:

Did I pass out? I woke up in Chan’s apartment and everything was gone but the bed I was sprawled out in, drool connecting my head to the damp pillow. I remember Tim calling, but nothing after that -- a BLANK of startling proportions. Disoriented and flat on my back, I rubbed my growling belly. Definitely no food here -- and what the hell? Where’s my clothes? Where’s my wallet? Where’s the phone? Who the fuck took everything? Slowly I got up, toppling over in several attempts. Stable, I walked about the empty place until I reached the kitchen. Nothing was in the fridge. After closing the door, I noticed a note hanging on it, held up by a Speed Buggy magnet. Where the fuck are my reading glasses? What happened to all of the light bulbs? Since I’m not a fucking owl or something, I stepped out naked in the hallway to read the note. An old bag passed by, shaking her head in disaproval, but I know she peaked. I can’t blame her, though -- who could resist the sight of Big Daddy in all of his glory? Luckily, I regained my attention span and read:

my beloved burl:

thank you for this last night of passion.
how I have dreamed of this moment and
you did not disappoint me -- however, I
must confess to you tomorrow I will be
flying to Hawaii to apprentice myself
to Jim Nabors. We will never see each
other again. I have sacrificed my heart
for my art. Only Mr. Nabors can help
me truly find myself as an artist. If you
are hungry, I left a can of macadamia nuts on
the top shelf of the bedroom closet.

Love,
Chan

Dear Diary:

I didn't want get up. I was finally comfortable, a steak draped over the shiner Dom had supplied with me. Still, I enjoyed the peace and quiet. Dom was out walking Kiki and Soupy would be in the hospital critical ward for at least 2 weeks (thank god he had already paid his rent). Oh yeah, the bliss of a 40oz in one hand and the other diving into steaming hot nachos fresh from the oven. Figures the phone would start ringing off the hook again. I swore if it was Tim calling again about his problems with Fifi I'd clobber the S.O.B. --that would teach that crybaby a lesson. Besides, I don't see what so goddam difficult about juggling his wife and that French tart. So, snarling I pick up the receiver and ask who the hell they are thinking they can shatter my well earned peace. It was Chan and I don't mean Carol Channing. Said she wanted me to come over for a romantic dinner -- she missed me and had realized what wusses her previous beaus had been. 'Bout time she wised up and dumped the robot by the river. Who has the time or the kleenex to listen to his rigamarole? I think I might even rather have to listen to Nabors sing than hear his voice. So I tell Chan I don't think I can, explaining about the fight. She seemed pretty concern and insisted I come over. I said, "But, baby, my car got repoed and I don't have the cab fare." She put her foot down and sent a cab for me, paying for it herself. The cab driver was OK -- some aging ex-punk loser who insisted that he had been an orignal member in Strike Under, but I didn't know what the hell he was talking about. All that shit sounds like a bunch of screaming teenagers to me -- I'd rather listen to a cement mixer -- at least then there would be a melody. Anyway, an hour later I get to Chan's apartment, and, wow! The whole nineyards: candlelight, three different kinds of nachos and a nice box of wine. When we looked into each others eyes I swear we both felt all tingly all over. One thing lead to another and like Transformers we became the beast with two backs -- or almost. Suddenly the phone started to ring, shattering the mood like a cheap beer bottle (remember when beer bottles were more solid? You could swing them like a blackjack and really screw someone up if they messed with you). I'd recognize that voice anywhere -- goddam Tim.

Dear Diary:

Pounded the pavement looking for work today. Since the death mix up in '95 I have received any royalties for my fine body and body of work. Add to that my banks accounts being closed, and its been hard scrabble in Anacortes for the last six years. If I had the cash, maybe I could get the roof fixed and kick Deluise and Sales out finally. I couldn't believe what happened when I got home. Even though I had told both of those bozos that pets weren't allowed, what do I see in the backyard sunning itself? A goddam komodo dragon -- I almost dropped the nachos I'd picked up at 7-11 on the way home from the interview at Arby's for an assistant manager position. Goddam lizard hissed at me as soon as it saw me, so I made a face at it and flipped it the bird. I swear the thing leaped right at me trying to sink its f-ing fangs into my face. Luckily, Dom came out at the moment, rubbing the sleep out his eyes. He called the komodo dragon to him and sweetly reprimanded it. Boy did I let Dom have it, reminding him that pets weren't allowed. What does fatso do? HE LAUGHED IN MY FACE. Nobody talks to Big Daddy that way -- Tim tried to once (ask him about his limp). So, I fly into him swinging. Got a good punch into his face -- the blood turned my white linen shirt into some freakin' tie-dye. What does Dom do? Sicks Kiki on me and then kidney punches me. What really pissed me off, though, is right at that moment Soupy shows up and starts cackling, "Weebles wobble -- but I thought they couldn't fall down." He had to be talking about Dom, because I'm not -- but the plural of weeble showed his hand -- that goddam jerk! At that point Dom and I look at each and nodded our heads. Soupy had brought peace to the valley. Shaking hands, Dom and I turned our attention to Soupy. I hope he'll be ok. I wish I had enough money to send him a card and flowers in the hospital.

Dear Diary:

I should have never let Soupy Sales and Dom Deluise move in. I think I would rather have lost the mansion than listen to their constant prattle. I wish a day would go by where I didn't have to intervene in one of their fights over the remote control. Besides, its my goddam TV set anyway, so I get to decided -- and that means either the Food Channel or VH-1. Night after night I watch Behind The Scenes hoping they'll get hep to the Big Daddy and do a whole show about me. I keep writing them fake letters under different names like mac, tim or higgins in hopes that they'll think that I have a huge fanbase desparetely desiring the full blown treatment for their beloved Burl Ives. What's a guy gotta do? And, for the last time, give me the goddam remote Soupy and Dom. While you're at it, some nachos would be good just about now, too. Hop to it. I'm tired and I don't want to have to get up and kick your ass.

Dear Diary:

My new friend says I should be tougher and be more shocking -- but I don't know. That's seems pretty played out if you ask me. How many industrial albums with medical textbook pictures for covers do you really need to see? How exciting is hardcore porn anyway? Pretty boring, if you ask me -- I'd rather admire myself in a full length mirror -- am I really this handsome? Also, I don't think I quite understand what he means by being "shocking." Maybe he's right. Maybe I am stupid. I wish I could be as smart as him. How can I get rid of the silly idea that "being shocking" just to be shocking is as boring as talking about a record you want without actually talking about the music on it? I mean, sure, he may be right that My Bloody Valentine is boring, but he undermines his credibility when he then goes on say I'm boring. That's not true. I'm never boring. I can't remember boring myself once. Quite a few people have told me I'm really fascinating, and I have to say I agree whole heartedly. Maybe my friend is a shut-in or something. I should send him a care package or make him a get well card out of construction paper and glitter. If I did, I think it would look something like this:

Dear Diary:

Ensconced in my easy chair, I wish I could get up to make nachos in the microwave. I have everything I need and I don't mind that the chips may be a little stale. I keep forgetting to close the bag -- when will I learn? I suppose I can just sit here and imagine the plate:

Dear Diary:

Dear Diary

Tim doesn't know that while he was honeymooning I hired people to break into his house and set up hidden cameras everywhere. If I can't get another job, then I plan to sell tapes of him doing what he call "the randy proboscis monkey." Most the video, though, is him playing with Malibu Barbie and he uses a high pitched voice when he pretends she's talking to Skipper or Ken. One night he got complete upset that none of them had genetalia and he threw a temper tantrum, throwing all of the dolls into a large bonfire he had built in the backyard. I wonder how much I can get with these tapes . . .

Dear Diary:

Alone eating nachos
Too tired to touch myself
and not a Madonna
in a bustiere --

I can't believe I fucked up my interview by saying 7-11 had better nachos. What was I thinking? I've never had trouble with bending the truth before -- but then again nachos are a very serious thing -- not something to take lightly.

Also, I'm having lots of fun with my new friend, though he can be rather over sensitive at times -- but its cute like a riled up kitten playing with a dangling string. He says the funniest things -- I haven't laughed this much since Real People was on ABC.

Dear Diary:

I need to buy a goddam steak to put over my backeye. I can't believe that msp punched me -- that boy can't hold a couple of fifths like he used to -- and he should watch his mouth, calling me a fat sonofabith with no manners. I'm not going to take that from anyone anymore. It's not my fault that the Gabor Sisters wouldn't give him the time of the day -- Zsa Zsa, Eva and Magda were all over me, blowing in my ears and patting my tummy. msp just sat there jealous pouring down the jet fuel and making snide remarks at my expense -- good thing the Gabors are ladies and turned the other cheek to his mean spirited comments. I wish msp had done the same when I made fun of his clothing, asked him why he still dressed like Don Johnson on Miami Vice. Some guys just can't take a joke. Next time I'm taking Tim to the Gold Club instead of that sourpuss, msp. Hopefully Tim doesn't hit as hard. I don't know what I'm going to do with this blackeye -- I have a fucking job interview today, too -- I need some cash after that asshole Ronno fired me because he was jealous of how good a job I was doing. I live in a world of ingrates who do not appreciate my Genius.

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