The Daily Derenger

6/07/2002

I’m finally in a room at my mom’s. Last night I slept in my bed for the first time in over a month. It’s the same room I was in when I first moved back in October of ’99 so I feel like I’m again at square one. The boxes are piled high so I can see them as a daily reminder to get funnier and out of this place.
It’s not that bad, although it could be much better. As long as I’m on the road or locked in this purple dungeon writing these and other pieces, I should maintain my sanity. This room is in fact purple. Bright purple. It will surely not help me win over the ladies unless they are fans of Barney or Grimmis.
There is also Pepper, our dog, to keep things lively. She goes totally ape shit when someone comes to visit or simply inside from getting the mail. When my mom returns home from her morning errands, Pepper goes into another state of excitement. You’d think my mom was driving an 18-wheeler full of fresh beef jerky. Now let it thunderstorm and you’ve got yourself an entirely different dog. Pepper is paranoid of it all – thunder, lightning, rain, wind – everything having to do with a storm. She’ll crawl under the sheets or wherever you are and not move an inch. She shakes like a tag-team interview with Michael J. Fox and Mohammed Ali.
I still can’t fathom how my mom’s house has gotten to look like it has. Just imagine, if you will, taking every room in your house and making it into a junk drawer. If you’ve ever wondered where that one sock went or who has your gray U of I sweatshirt, my mom does. She has it all. And every time I throw something away, she sifts through the pile or the bag to retrieve what she claims is hers.
“It’s not yours, mom,” I try to rationalize. “It’s from the curbside near a neighborhood where you know not a single soul. Plus, there are already five bowling ball bags on the front porch. At least find a ball and some shoes to make a complete set.”
I guess she means well. But what you mean and what actually is are two different things altogether.
I wrote on her Mother’s Day card last month: ‘What do you get for a mother who has everything, but just doesn’t know where it is?’
I think that sums it up.
I’m heading on the road early today, Friday the 7th. A show tonight in Quincy, IL and then tomorrow night in Osage Beach, MO. Erin is going with me and a great weekend awaits.

6/06/2002

I saw my friend Matt and his wife Michelle’s baby the other night. He told me before I came over that I had to shower. I had never had such a request made by a grown man to me, another grown man. I’m usually pretty good about hygiene. I showered (at home) and also thoroughly washed my hands upon entering their house. Something about kids under two weeks old not having an immune system. I was as clean as a John Denver album. Matt offered me something to drink. Breast milk, formula, and water were my options. I looked for some alcohol and found a Seagram’s margarita malt-beverage cooler. Well it sure beat breast milk.

In addition to their baby boy, the DuBiel’s have two Beagles – Stewart and Bailey. They would also be the first names of Siegfried and Roy if they were Americans. Over the weekend, the pooches teamed up to kill a rabbit. They are Beagles for shitsake. Snoopy is a Beagle. Snoopy never so much as flipped off Woodstock let alone struck the damn bird. These savages nearly devoured a rabbit. I asked Matt what he did with the dogs after finding out that they had a Bugs Bunny sandwich. I mean if I was especially told to bathe after only picking my nose a few times, the wild-rabbit eating dogs must have been soaked in bleach and sent to Singapore for a month. Or to the vet overnight. Thank God for married friends with rabbits and babies and dogs, oh my!

6/05/2002

There was an 85-pound Gazelle on the front porch today. Not the kind that always gets massacred by a pride of lions, but rather the kind to get you in shape. My mom ordered this home fitness device off an infomercial. All I did was laugh. Fitness equipment in our house is like an O’Doule’s in the Kennedy’s fridge – it just doesn’t fit. My mom feels she will lose some weight using this piece of shit. And it is just that. A piece of shit put together by some mullet-havin’, spandex-wearin’ schmuck who may be in great shape, but who didn’t get that way from using a fuckin’ Gazelle! The only way someone in this house will lose weight from the Gazelle would be if they got a workout from hanging clothes on it to dry. There is currently an ab-roller and some horse-riding looking thing in the corner of the living room next to the TV. They haven’t been used since The Golden Girls were in their sexual peaks. That’s a long time you non-Lifetime watchers.

My step-dad put it together. His time with the Gazelle has come and gone. There is no way my mom will make it on this thing. Maybe if she tries it, falls off, breaks her back, gets laid up in the hospital and is made to eat the shitty food there, maybe then she’ll lose weight. But not before. My mom can’t even walk from the car to the door without cringing and wincing in pain. And she has the dexterity of summer sausage. So if you need a place to hang clothes, drop me an email.

6/04/2002

I was at the airport the other day. Over the intercom, a lady announced that “Flight 422 from beautiful Miami has just arrived.” Shouldn’t she keep her opinions to herself? I mean Miami isn’t beautiful to everyone. What do you think Gianni Verace’s family feels about Miami, the city where he was murdered in cold blood on the front steps of his mansion? I think ‘beautiful’ wouldn’t be on their list of adjectives for Miami. Maybe this airport voice should’ve told why she thought Miami was beautiful.

You see for me, Miami was very beautiful. I visited South Beach and saw miles of gorgeous women. I could have gotten my leg run over by a cement truck and still have thoughts of Miami being beautiful. Lots of titties. Tan ones, white ones, black ones, brown ones, big ones, little ones, fake ones – it’s just something about the titty. And then South Beach had the thong bikinis. Red ones, pink ones, black ones. Ones that looked great and ones that needed to be covered the fuck up! Oh how I love beautiful Miami. I guess I should apply for a job making arrival announcements at the airport. How cool would that be? “Flight 345 from beautiful Miami has pulled in to gate D7. I can remember all the titties and fine asses I saw when I was last there. If you’ve been to Miami, I’m sure you’re with me. I even had to lie on my stomach to hide my massive hard-on. Never mind that part. And here's Flight 86 from Toronto ….” I wouldn’t skip a beat. And when I was there, I surely did not!

6/03/2002

I saw a report on the influx of illegal footage shot from up the skirts of ladies. Or Irish men for that matter. Apparently, men have put cameras in bags and other hidden areas and recorded the sites and sounds under the skirts of unsuspecting women. This is a felony and in Ohio and is punishable up to 5 years in prison. Okay. I get that part; it's very demented and an extreme case of invading one's privacy. The report went on to ask, "How do you stop such acts from happening?" Easy: wear some fuckin' pants. Maybe some shorts. Ladies are lovin' those damn ugly capri things nowadays so chuck the shirts and dresses if paranoia is setting it. Then it went on to ask, "How would you feel if it was your wife, sister, mother or grandmother who had been violated this way?" Hold on a minute. If this kind of guy gets footage of my grandma's or mom's underwear, that's punishment enough. I've folded their laundry; it ain't nothin' pretty. So go ahead with the prosecutions and convictions. But I have to say that catching an unexpected glimpse of some nice panties can make my day. As long as they are on Jenni and not Jeffrey O'Malley.