Monthly Archive for July, 2005

July 24, 2005

Published on 7/24/2005 in Dear Diarrhea. 0 Comments

In a time trap! In a tiiiiiiime trap!

Just cranking some Built To Spill and I love the shit out of that song. Especially the start of the song. Crank it and let the music set you free like it does me!

I want to be in a rock band now. I know I know… You and who’s branch of military… I think it’s possible to do and I just want to gather a great band and write songs that I completely write on my own and play after or before the show on Wednesday night. I already have my bass guitarist and the lead singer and only songwriter. I know I keep stressing the fact that I’m the only songwriter. It’s my band and my vision and I just want to get that out in the open now before there is any awkward moments during rehearsal like… like… okay! I’ll make it into a play snippet… Here we go…

INT- EAST VILLAGE REHEARSAL SPACE. DAY

Open up in a dingy rehearsal space measuring over 4,000 square feet in the heart of the East Village, New York City of course.

B-TIZ, the lead singer slash creator slash exclusive song writer, / promoter and everything else that makes the band click in high gear, sits at his slightly dusty solid oak desk writing lyrics for the next big gig… He is talking and singing to himself and writing frantically on a 8×10 piece of leather.

BOBBY: (Singing and writing) Bladder… My bladder! Bladder… My bladder! My bladder is filled with splatter… Splatter…. My splatter!…. Splatter!.. My splatter! My splatter is filled with Yaller! Yaller… It’s yaller! It’s yaller because my-

HENRY FROST, my lead guitarist walks into my office, interrupting my train of thought.

HENRY: B-Tiz!

BOBBY: Vitamin Beeeeeeee!!!!!!! Oh, my vitamin beeeeeee!!!! Bee!… A bee! Give me some vitamin Bee!… Bee!… A bee! Give me some vitamin-

(Notices Henry. He places the leather and pen on the desk)

BOBBY CONT: Oh, hello Henry. I didn’t see or hear you. What’s up?

HENRY: Get me that charge card so I can buy us some more microphones man. If you want to have the Swiss national table tennis team singing back up for you this week, you’re gonna have to buy some more mics man. Give me the charge card.

BOBBY: Ummm… Okay?

Bobby reluctantly goes into his back pocket and pulls out the Shit Stain business credit card. Shit Stain is the name of Bobby’s band by the way.

HENRY: Thanks man…

BOBBY: Ya know Henry? I just don’t know about this. We are really spending- I’m sorry; I’M spending too much money on these little surprise expenses you keep springing on me… Do we really need to buy more mics? I mean can we come up with another solution maybe? I don’t know… Maybe it would look sexier if they all shared one mic. It would be cute and fun to see fifteen of the most attractive Swedish table tennis players all packed in on one mic. Don’t ya think?

HENRY: I don’t know man… I need to think about it for a while.

Long awkward beat as Henry ponders to himself for a few long seconds.

BOBBY: Henry?… HENRY! Snap out of it. I just made the decision for us. We go for cute and cheap.

Henry agrees and is happy with Bobby’s decision causing him to give Bobby a high fiver. The smack of the hand was super loud and perfect.

BOBBY: Hey! I’m onto something here. Let’s use that high fiver noise in this song I’m writing. Add it after each time I sing, Vitamin bee!!!! Slap! Vitamin beeeeee!! Slap!!! What do ya think? Maybe two slaps after the last vitamin bee… Vitamin beee!!! Slap slap!!!

HENRY: I like it. But I don’t know how it will fly with Shamron.

BOBBY: I hate that guy! I wish he wasn’t in the band anymore. DAMNIT!!!

Henry runs and jumps over the desk and tackles Bobby down to the ground.

HENRY: I know! You have to stay calm Bobby. Shamron is not worth it! Stay cool, Bobby…

BOBBY: Get off me Henry! Geez-us!!! What are you doing?! Don’t tackle me every time I mention Shamron… Get off me, Henry! Now!

Henry slowly climbs off Bobby. Helps him up and dusts Bobby off with the leather that Bobby was writing lyrics on earlier.

BOBBY: Henry! What is wrong with you! Can’t you see I’m writing lyrics on that piece of leather! Come on, man! I want to use this for the inside cover. I plan on taking pictures of all the random things I wrote all the lyrics to the album on. You know, like the song I wrote on the light bulb and the lyrics I sketched in the sand a few weeks ago at Coney Island… Now it’s gonna be all smudged!! (Looking at leather) Ah, maaaaaan…. Look at it now. All smudged and messed up looking.

HENRY: I’m really sorry Bobby. I don’t know what got into me. I guess I just had a little flashback from last week’s meeting when you tried to stab Shamron for burping when you were tuning your tambourine.

BOBBY: Screw it. I’ll just make a side note and tell a little story about how the lyrics got smudged in the first place. Might actually help with the lore of it all… Henry?

Henry is staring at an apple.

BOBBY: Henry!

HENRY: What? What were you saying?

BOBBY: Nothing… Hey, I tell ya what. I’ll let you write a couple lines of this song if you go in and fire Shamron for me.

HENRY: Really? You’re gonna let me help out with a song?

BOBBY: Only if you fire Shamron for me. Shoot, this little ditty could use a little Henry magic. Give me something that rhymes with vitamin bee and fire Shamron and we’ll be in business, buddy.

HENRY: (To himself) Hummmm, vitamin bee? Let me think about this for a second.

BOBBY: Run along and fire Shamron real quick-like before you get too carried away with the lyrics right now. Oh, and tell Shamron to return all Shit Stain merchandise and stuff like that before he leaves. And tell him he can play the drums on the next three shows until we find his permanent replacement… Oh, Henry! Before you leave to fire him? Could you move my car into a different garage so Shamron doesn’t do anything crazy and slash my tires or anything like that… He’s gonna be a little upset.

HENRY: Will do Bobby! Oh, man… I’d do about anything to help you write a song.

BOBBY: Wonderful! Give ‘em hell Henry!

Bobby holds up a piece of cardboard and waves it around into the air.

BOBBY: I have the perfect thing for you to write on too.

HENRY: Great! I won’t let you down!… Oh, what do you want me to say to Shamron?

BOBBY: Just tell him it wasn’t working out in the chemistry department and I was never going to let him write any lyrics like I promised him when he first joined the band, and shoot… what else. Ummm, oh, tell him I hate his guts and stuff like that. But don’t forget that we need him for the next few performances so don’t get too bent out of shape… Whatever, anything you want to say is fine. Just do it, I trust you.

Henry runs off into the west wing of the massive rehearsal space to fire Shamron. Bobby continues to write lyrics onto the leather.

BOBBY: (singing) If it takes three ants… To move that bread…. If it takes three ants… To move that bread…

Bobby is interrupted by screaming and crying coming from the west wing of the rehearsal space.

BOBBY: What the hell…

Suddenly a twelve year old boy wearing a Shit Stain hat and cutoff t-shirt slams open Bobby’s office door and throws a pair of drumsticks at Bobby, hitting him in the face and chest.

SHAMRON- I hate you! How can you fire me after all I’ve done for this band! I hate you hate you hate you!!!

BOBBY: Whoaaaaa! Hold up Shamron! Nobody uses the H word around here… Calm down now…

Shamron continues to cry and vent with anger. Shamron is a very large twelve-year-old drumming prodigy that is ripped in the arm muscle department since he’d been forced to drum since the age of two.

Henry comes walking in. He is all scratched up like he tried to break up a cockfight.

HENRY: I’m ready to write some lyrics, Bobby.

SHAMRON: What?! HE gets to write lyrics and you’re firing ME?!

BOBBY: I had to barter with him. He fires you for me and I let him write a line or two in one of my songs. It’s the only way I knew how to do it. I’m sorry Shamron… Trust me, I don’t want to let him write anything… I’m sure it’s gonna be terrible.

Henry begins to cry. This makes Bobby feel terrible.

BOBBY: Oh, gosh darnit… Henry…. Stop crying, I didn’t really mean what I just said that much. You are very capable of writing lyrics maybe. You know what? Let’s just start from scratch. I tell ya, this is what happens when you have too many people making decisions in a rock band. All this crying and stabbing and stuff. Let’s go back to the original plan we had and have me do ALL of the lyrical writings and outfit designing. Shamron, you’re not fired anymore and you continue to be our drummer. Henry, I’m gonna let you write TWO lines and TWO LINES only on this song here and we will never talk about this again.

Henry stops crying. Shamron smiles and picks up his drumsticks. Bobby stands and gathers them together for a group hug.

SHAMRON: Thanks for having me back Bobby. I’ll just stick to drumming and keep my mouth shut.

BOBBY: There there, my little drummer boy. There there…

HENRY: I will take a rain check on the lyric writing this time Bobby. Maybe it would mess up your song and screw up your rhythm and all…

BOBBY: There there Henry… You’re probably right…. Shhhhhh, shut up… Shhhhhh, shut that trap of yours….

HENRY: If I come up with something that rhymes with vitamin bee, I’ll let ya know.

BOOBY: Fair enough. That sounds like a good plan…. Oh, I don’t know…. Members of the hit band… SHIT STAIN!!!! Yay!!! We’re back and even stronger than before!!!

The three of them jump and dance around like they were the happiest band in the world without a hint of internal strife.

HENRY: Oh! I’ve got the best thing to rhyme with vitamin bee!

Bobby pushes the group away form him, screams and puts his fingers in his ears.

BOBBY: LA LA LALAAAA BLAH BLAH BLAH!!! Don’t want to hear it! Don’t want to hear it!!!

Both Henry and Shamron shut up and are completely silent. Bobby smiles, gathers himself, sits back down at his desk, picks up his pen and leather. He hands Henry a small torn piece of cardboard.

BOBBY: Here. Just write it down. I can’t wait to read it…

Henry takes the paper and runs off into the massive rehearsal space like a dog hiding his favorite bone.

Shamron points to a little bit of blood coming down the side of Bobby’s cheek.

SHAMRON: You got a little… you know, a little… blood right there.

BOBBY: Oh, I know… I have the perfect place for it.

Bobby takes his hand and wipes the blood off his face and smears it on the piece of leather.

They both smile. Bobby continues to sing and write and Shamron stays there in the office shaking his head in delight. Staring at the genius at work. The genius that the others in the band like to call… B-Tiz.

THE END

July 22, 2005

Published on 7/22/2005 in Dear Diarrhea. 1 Comment

I’m about to do a little repair job on my headphones using a product called Liquid Nails, a super strong adhesive that bonds to about anything, and I plan on stinking everyone out of the coffee shop in the next few minutes. It smells really strong and the warning on the package was spot on when it says, “Warning… Harmful if inhaled or swallowed. May cause central nervous system effects, including dizziness, headache or nausea. Causes eye, skin and respiratory irritation. Use only in adequate ventilation.” And I’m all like, what is this… grand central nervous system station!? Here’s another warning that is pretty interesting, “This product contains a chemical known to the state of California to cause cancer and birth defects, or other reproductive harm.”… But only in California, so I should be fine to open up repair headquarters here in this New York City Starbucks. What a random warning. Surprised that there isn’t another warning under that one that says, “This product also contains a chemical known to the state of West Virginia to cause massive parties and unwanted births, or other reproductive mishaps.”

I’m going in! I want to see if I can get a dab of this Liquid Nails on my headphones without anyone getting sick or irritated. I’ll take a break now and tell ya what happened…

Not a good idea! Not a good idea at all… Smelled like a wet dog that just walked through a Dupont chemical testing factory. The fella beside me gave me a look and that’s when I aborted my mission. Wrapping up my sticky headphones in a ton of napkins and stuffing it on the bottom of my bag. Maybe it’s just me or the Liquid Nail is stuck in the tiny hairs in my nose, but the smell is just not going away. Nobody is sniffing into the air with a furrowed brow or anything, squirming around looking in my direction. I don’t see how they can’t smell it… It’s really strong. Oh well… I’ll be glad to leave if asked.

I love my headphones! They are the Bose super lightweight noise reduction headphones that block most of the city noises that make me anxious. Like the army of people wanting to take a minute of your time to save a rain forest or a child in need or any other foundation that sends their people out on the streets to gather money. They are EVERYWHERE now, more than ever, not in my ten years in this city have I seen more people stopping you for a minute of your time, holding out a clip board and folders waving their hand in your face to stop and chat. I’ve gotta know what they get out of it, monetary that is. I know it is a wonderful thing to do but I know they aren’t doing this for free because they believe in the cause so much. It’s like a fad now. I gave money to the rainforest people about a year ago and I felt good about it, but after I let the girl (yes she was cute and yes that is the only reason I stopped for only a minute of my day to end up flirting with her for fifteen minutes and giving her twenty dollars to help save the rainforest. Which I really wanted to do and it felt good so I guess she did a hell of a good job getting the dough out of me… Where am I going with this parenthetical? I forgot, and I also forgot what I was going to say to finish the sentence…. I’ll just end it here).

Oh! I know what I was gonna say! So I’ve had an envelope for the last year and every week I put a percentage of my Invite Them Up money in it and one day soon, when I have more than a couple of minutes to burn and I feel really bad about myself and my career, I’m gonna take my stash of money and hit each and every person that stops me, hold out a stop watch and do a survey on the average time it takes for them to give me their schpeel and how close they come to hitting the “minute of your time” mark. The winner gets all of the money in my giving envelope. Let’s go children of Africa!

I had an interesting thing that happened to me Wednesday night. There was a young lady in the audience that was wearing a shirt that said, “Bobby Tisdale Groped Me” on the front and “Yay!!” written on the back. All I can say is that it was a little shocking. Let me expain… First of all, I know this person and she called and left a message on my phone an hour before the show asking if I could save a couple seats right up front and something in the nature of, “You’ll see what I mean later.” I was in the middle of scrambling with a bunch of work to do before the show so I forgot to save any seats and kinda forgot about the whole thing, started the show and then I see her sitting right in the front row smiling really big and the whole time I don’t see what is written on her shirt. I wear glasses ya see, and I took them off right before I went on stage and couldn’t see a damn thing… Of course if I had read what it said I would’ve TOTALLY stopped what I was rambling on about at the time and would‘ve asked her to get on stage and explain herself. Which would’ve been really funny and at the same time she could explain to everyone why she made the t-shirt. I surely wanted to know why.

Yes, it is kinda funny that she took the time to make the shirt, which was made in America from American Apparel, and the iron-on was written in a wonderful font and it was evenly laid out and shit. And yes we made-out in a cab one night after a friend’s birthday party. And yes, I love random and crazy jokie jokes like that. But when I read her shirt after the show and the girl that I was just starting seeing was in the audience too, I freaked out a little. Maybe a lot… For the record, right now as of the 22nd of July, I’m dating one person and one person only. That could all change tomorrow, a week, or five years later, but for now, I am exclusively dating one person and that person happened to see the whole shirt thing and I want to never have to explain myself like that again. Awkward!!!

“Why does that girl have that written on a t-shirt? Ha ha haaaa… Good question… Ha ha haaa… Can we talk about how fun the show was? Yay!!!”

Actually it was the opposite reaction with her. She was incredibly cool about the whole thing. (I’ve decided not to use her name which has nothing to do with being secretive in any way. Someone could Google her and they would read this and you know how Google can be… right? Google Google Google…) Anyway she was all like, “Wow… Interesting. Ummm…. Good luck, maybe? I’ll be over here at the bar when you’re done talking to your stalker.”

My thing is, if you’re gonna make a t-shirt stating something, please don’t use the word “Grope” and my name in the same sentence. If you want to make a funny t-shirt that doesn’t completely FREAK me out, say something like “I Made Out With Bobby Tisdale In A Cab.” See, that is true, and I was guilty as charged. And you might even be able to sell three more of those to other people that I’ve made-out with in a cab. A HUGE difference in kissing a mouth and GROPING. Wow, what a word!!! If you are gonna use groping and my name on a t-shirt, say something like this, “Bobby Tisdale Groped My funny Bone! Yay!!! That makes sense and I’d even buy one and donate the money to the African Kids Foundation or any other foundation that stopped me in the streets for a minute of my time.

Now, on behalf of the person that made the t-shirt? I know that it was a joke and it was a good one. You got me GOOD Girl!!! Next time I’ll wear my glasses.

Party!

July 16, 2005

Published on 7/16/2005 in Dear Diarrhea. 0 Comments

I just got an urgent email from my sister wanting to know what the hell is going on with me and my diarrheas. All I can say is that I’m really sorry and busy at the same time. Yesterday was really weird for me. My buddy Chelsea and I walked around the city both in super funky funks wandering about like a couple lost souls hitting coffee shop after coffee shop for any kind of inspiration. We decided to write and shoot another Sweet Angel short film and plan on having it in the can by the end of the month. I think it will be really silly and fun to do. If you have not seen Sweet Angel yet, look at it now on my video page and see for yourself. Read the rest of this first, then pour yourself a cup of something and watch watch watch until you can’t take it anymore.

The new Harry Potter book is coming out tonight I guess, you can tell by how freaked out Barnes and Noble is acting right now. I was just in there to do my regular bathroom pit stop and my lap around the magazine area and I almost puked with all the Harry Potter crap that was thrown up all over the place; like Christmas in July. They had a stage set up with a fog machine pumping out it’s pre-show fog for what looks like a puppet show or something that is going to blow parents and kids away later tonight. I hope I get to have a puppet show when my Dear Diarrhea book comes out in the near future. I’m sending out the positive affirmations to the universe right now by talking about it. IT WILL HAPPEN! If we all think positive thoughts about my book it will happen and happen fast and hard. Making people of all race and colors laugh as they sit on the toilet reading all the silliness that I have to offer them. I want be able to go to a bunch of funerals because people died with laughter reading my book. I’ll go on ahead and buy a black suit and order some flowers.

Actually! You can help me get it done… I’m in the middle of a book proposal to give to a rather large publisher and my goal is to give them my ten best DD’s and if you are reading this and you are bored and want to email me and give me a couple of your favorite ones for me to rewrite and fix up for the proposal, shoot me a line and I will thank you in the last chapter of the book. A chapter I will call, Bobby’s Friends and other inspirational crap and how it affected my creativity… YAY!!! Only if you’re bored and want to help out that is. I would appreciate some feedback and would take it very seriously what you think are my better writings.

There is a pack of models sitting right beside me and one of them burped and they all thought it was the funniest thing to happen since sliced bread. And you know how hard they laughed at the first person that sliced a bunch of bread. Teasing him or her like, “Hey! Mr. BREAD SLICER! Nice going ya FREAK! Ha ha ha haaaaa!!!! Bread slicer! Ha ha haaaaa… What are you going to do next? Invent the HAIR DRYER?! Shit head!!! Go to hell ya freak!”

Seriously, there are five model guys and one token model-like girl and one of the guys burped and they can’t stop laughing. Almost like they want the rest of us unfortunate-looking common folk to understand that they are just like us, normal humans with gas and not afraid to show it off, Girl!!! God I want to accidentally pour my iced tea on all of them and dab them dry in a very inappropriate way… With my tongue and my elbows. Geez-us! I want to like them but I can’t right now… I want to not judge them but I can’t right now. I want to say that if given the opportunity, I would be able to have a great conversation with them and talk about interesting stuff, stuff like the war in Iraq and other worldly information but I can’t right now. It’s just not in the cards. I want to not be so weirded out that they are laughing and having fun all because of a burp… Which is always pretty funny and I will let it go now… They happen to be having a good time and I will quit raining on their parade. God bless them for enjoying life.

I don’t know if you caught it but I started off making fun of them and then in the middle of my tirade, I brought it down a notch… You know what the deal breaker was? One of the guys was making eye contact with me and then it hit me like a few pounds of bricks that I’ve seen him on the subway with me on more than one occasion. And that means one thing… You’re probably are not that super of a super model if you ride the train all the time. And this same guy probably knows that he’s seen me on the L train too and maybe saw me in a commercial or something and he is judging me the same as I was judging them. Or! He is just a friendly model type of fellow that just wants to reach out to me and say, “I want to be your friend and the only way I know how is to be really silly and burp and hope that that makes you laugh and want to hang out with us.” Well ya know what? I’m gonna stop writing this super late Diarrhea, send it to my sister slash editor slash business manager slash Dear Diarrhea poster and look these people in the chest (The girl) and hair (The guys) and laugh with them. Laugh the fuck with them like I normally would if any one of my friends farted or burped in a public place…. Plus, I want them to like me because they are beautiful…

See ya soon, NORMAL PEOPLE!!!!

July 6. 2005

Published on 7/6/2005 in Dear Diarrhea. 0 Comments

What a wonderful trip to Woodstock! Man am I ready to buy some land up there. There is the most beautiful stream where we camped that I dream about all the time. Ever since my first plunge into it a few years ago, I’ve been dreaming of owning a piece of property with a stream on it. It’s just the next thing for me to do. Oh, I went camping up at my friend Chris Maxwell’s seven-acre plot of beauty over the weekend. This was his third July 4th party for me and it always makes me feel happy and refreshed.

On Monday I paddled up stream a couple hundred yards in a float and took a nap as I slowly drifted back to my friend’s farmhouse. It was great because the current was taking me at a slow and peaceful clip of about one or two miles per hour. Maybe less. I’m not good at telling how fast a raft floats lazily down a stream. How fast does an old lady go if she has a sprained ankle and uses a walker? Cause I’d imagine that was the speed at which I floated. Which is the puuuurfect speed. You’re all like, “Why did you need to make us feel bad by using an older lady with an ankle injury as a speed gauge? Come on Bobby? We were thinking pleasant thoughts about a beautiful summer experience in a body of water and now all we can think about is the well-being of the lady with the bum ankle… Damnit! Hey, maybe next time say something like, oh, I don’t know… A TURTLE’S PACE MAYBE! Something that you might see in nature that is sweet and beautiful maybe!”… Geez! All right all ready! Calm down MR SCENARIO! Take some sort of chilling tablet and calm down for crying aloud.

So, back to the stream, it was the most therapeutic and wonderful experience as I lay on the float staring up into the trees watching the reflection from the water dance off the leaves like a scene from a well-acted movie. A movie that, I might add, stars me and a few of my friends and a handful of other actors that I will soon befriend as the movie progresses. That’s the thing that comes out of these little water therapy sessions with myself. That’s why it’s so important to make it happen and get a place up in the country with water flowing at a gingerly pace for me to have these super helpful and clarifying meditative moments. I mean, I’ll be honest, I wasn’t really thinking about starring in a movie the moment I was on the float, that came just a few moments ago as I wrote this. I wasn’t thinking about the business at all to be straight up with you. Only the sounds of the birds and the wind and the distant rapids occupied my brain. All for a magical ten to twelve minutes until I hear my friends calling out my name, wondering where I ran off to. I tuned the racket out as best as I could, but I do remember thinking to myself at that moment; I wish I didn’t have a name for a few hours. I wish that while I was in my dream state that the name “Bobby” shouted out into the country sky would not register at all with me; me the guy on the float trying to think about absolutely NOTHING. Just give that nameless guy floating down the stream fifteen more minutes without yelling out his birth name. Trust me, he’ll be much happier and refreshed if you do.

Speaking of letting go for a while. My buddy Miles and I were called to fireworks duty for the big fireworks show that was to end the night of festivities. (Sunday night on the 3rd was the night of the fireworks. The big party started Saturday and ended Monday morning. The last thing we wanted to do was have a fireworks show Monday in the morning. Even though it was technically the “4th”. I can’t stress this enough, fireworks are much brighter and effective at night as opposed to daytime. The party committee had to make a decision and they chose the night of the 3rd as the most opportune time to display some American pride.)… So Miles and I were to shoot off these screaming bottle rockets from each side of the stream as the massive show took place in the middle of this little island about fifty feet away from us. Our duty was to shoot our bottle rockets off as they reloaded their big guns so there wasn’t a lapse in the action. Both Miles and I knew that the only thing we wanted to do was to just shoot the rockets at each other like we did the night before. Maybe I should back up a bit and explain….

Saturday night, Debra, our fireworks expert, gave me and Miles a handful of bottle rockets to shoot off just for shits and giggles. We chose to take target practice at each other by taking turns sitting in the target chair, which sat about twenty yards in the middle of the yard, and shoot the rockets at one another. It was really fun because I like to hold the rockets in my hand without the guidance of a bottle thus giving me a more exciting and daring experience. I did suffer a few minor burns, one in particular to my favorite t-shirt which could’ve been avoided if I wasn’t so excited about lighting and shooting my next missile at my buddy and had stopped to look at the burning embers on my shoulder burning through my shirt and into my shin. Besides that, the battle was really quite safe for the most part. My eyes were covered with my glasses taking care of the old “You’re gonna shoot someone’s eye out with those things” type of speeches that our parents tried to instill at an early age. And our hair? That would’ve grown back if needed. No hair loss there. Not on anyone’s head that is. No, for the most part it was good clean fun. But anyway, Saturday night I had the only hit of the night and it was with a roman style candle, it hit Miles as he sat on the chair. (He was fine. Please stop worrying about it… MOM! Who is reading this and isn’t very happy that I did it) So basically, it was Bobby 1, Miles 0 and heading into the big finale Sunday night with each of us having fifty rockets.

Back to Sunday night… Here we are, playing good on our promise to actually shoot the majority of the bottle rockets into to air and not at each other and then out of the blue, I see a rocket head straight towards Miles and hit him in his lap and then explode into a mist of bright white and blue sparkles, causing him to scramble to put out his leg hair. Did I laugh? Yes, I will not lie to you. Once I knew that he wasn’t on fire, I laughed very hard and decided to walk across the stream and check him out to see what happened. It wasn’t my rocket that hit him, it came from the big show which means that they were using major fireworks, which means that Miles was very lucky that it wasn’t the kind of fireworks that exploded but instead was the kind that lit up the sky with glitter and sparkles, and lots of them. It really could’ve been pretty bad if it exploded and blew off his membership cards, if you know what I mean. (His pee-pee and testicles and whatever he might have down there which is starting to gross me out talking about it)

So I’m walking across the stream to check out what happened and then all of sudden, Miles starts up the battle again, shooting his rockets at me. One would think that after having an explosion that removed most of his leg hair one would not want to have more explosives possibly hitting him again. Not Miles… To make a long story short, he pulls out his rapid-fire bottle of about ten rockets, ignites them and fires them at me, as I stood there dead in the water. I was trying my best to dodge the screaming rockets and it was just like out of a cleverly acted film. I was laughing so hard it hurt my concentration causing one of the rockets to hit me square in the ass, and it was over. The firefight was over and ended with a tie. Miles 1 for 25, Bobby 1 for 12.

So if you’re looking at percentages, I won the battle. But if you’re looking for all out glory? Miles won hands down. Not only did it look like he was made of fire retardant material, and the key word here is retarded, he had the whole audience looking at us when his shot hit my butt. Way to go Miles! Until we meet again!

I hate to rush the story but there was just too much fun and excitement to put down right now. My charred fingers are enough of a reminder of all the fun that I had. You can always check out my fingers at my show on Wednesday nights. Should have scarring for at least another month or two…

Man, I wish I were sitting nameless on that float again. Holding my hand up in front of me, squinting my eyes so that my burnt fingers blend into the trees, and when the pain flares up, I simply cool them off by paddling up stream for another fifteen-minute nap. Thinking about nothing. Well, except for maybe a rematch with Miles.

July 4, 2005

Published on 7/4/2005 in Dear Diarrhea. 0 Comments

Happy fourth! Yay!!! Anyway, to all the people that tried to call me on the 3rd of July, I accidentally erased my messages and there were a few numbers that I needed to get but I erased them in a fit of rage. Not really a fit of rage, but a fit nonetheless. Anyway, PLEASE call me again and leave your number so I will stop obsessing about it. I will also write a much longer Diarrhea tomorrow as well.

Love everyone and once again, Happy USA Day!