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And No One Can Talk To A Horse, Of Course...
Written on 2002-01-18, at 10:12 p.m.
dizboy's disturbing daily diet...

1/2 Bag Sour Cream and Cheddar Chips

1 Apple Cinnamon Powerbar

1 Pint Orange Juice

1 Footlong Sub (Ham, Roast Beef, Turkey)

1 Venti Chai Latté

John Live*

Do not adjust your sets, you are simply experiencing higher than normal levels of "gay".

*Not at all live

This morning I found myself on my hands and knees, sweaty, wet, heart pounding, and cursing quietly.

Before this turns into a "Dizboy Does Dallas" movie, allow me to explain.

At about 5:45 this morning, I woke up very warm. The reason for this was accounted to the fact that I fell asleep in my fleece robe, and had forgotten to turn the air on.

Why had I forgotten to turn the air on?

Well, perhaps it's because the weather in Central Florida lately has had all the trappings of everyone's favorite schizophrenic, Sybill.

It's been switching back and forth, literally daily, from a sunny, cloudless sky, with temperatures in the 80's, to a dark day, with windy, freezing rain.


All week.

So because of this, I'm not really sure how to set my thermostat anymore.

Apparently last night, I made the wrong choice, because I was grotesquely warm.

Shedding my robe, I walked slowly through the darkness to the kitchen, where I knew I cup of water, which I had poured after ariving home from the club, was waiting for me.

Retrieving it from the fridge, I took a long, deep drink.

Ah, cool water...you're not just a moderately priced cologne from Davidoff.

Closing the refrigerator door, cup still in hand, I turned to head back to bed when...

A hideous, white haired creature, standing about a foot and a half tall appeared, having been hiding behind the refrigerator door, ready to take me as it's unwilling virgin sacrifice.

As it's unwilling virgin sacrifice.

You can all just stuff it, ok?

Where was I?

Oh yes, in dire peril...

Fight-or-flight kicking in, I jumped back, simultaneously tossing the half-full (I'm an optimist) cup aside, and running smack into the counter where I promptly knocked over a glass candle dish.

The crash brought me to my senses for a moment, and between faint moonlight, and the glow of the cable box, I made out that my otherworldly assailant was, in fact, the wooden rocking horse that I had so proudly assembled in Mr. Davenport's shop class years ago in the ninth grade.

Naked, wet, and full of shame, I put my now superfluous adrenaline to work cleaning up the war zone I had made of my kitchen.

As I swept up the mess, I scattered the shards of glass slowly into the garbage can, a sad symbolic gesture of my now shattered self-image.

Turning on the air, and again donning my robe, I turned to look at the cause of my trauma.

"I suppose you think that was funny."

I said, the pitch and timber of my voice just-so, achieving the level of Anjelica Houton as she delivers a heart-wrenching soliloquy from her Academy Award winning film, "Prizzi's Honor".

But he did not answer.

He sat there, in all his faux equine majesty, mocking me, yarn hair falling gracefully over his left eye, beads of moisture rolling safely off the water sealant I had prided myself on so carefully applying back in my high school days.

"Well, I certainly hope that you're happy."

I felt like adding, "Because you're TEARING THIS FAMILY APART..."

Though I witheld, I didn't care to use all of my best lines in one argument.

With that, I turned on my heel, walked away, and returned to bed, wondering in the back of my mind exactly what types of medications there are available for people like myself.

Be well...


Your Host and Emcee...dizboy.

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