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2003-01-27 - 2:04 p.m.

I have been getting Ďraveí reviews concerning the new haircut.

All American. Cute. Handsome. 12. Yes, it seems that I look 12. Prep school. The list continues. Iíve been hiding out in my cube since the 12 remark. Mainly because I have coworkers who canít take a joke. This is a new development. There was the strange unpleasantness involving a prank phone call. And now not a soul thinks Iím ever joking. The woman who said that I looked 12 was shocked when I stamped my foot and said that I didnít look 12, that it was more like 14. I left her to her confusion and Outlook toolbar program.

This afternoon, while urinating in the bathroom, a gentleman came in and passed wind. It was more like explosive decompression of his ass. Rather than be silent about it, he commented about barking spiders or some such. He shits his pants in a post lunch bathroom crowd and then makes lame jokes about it? The proper thing to do would be to ignore the flatulence, it is after all a bathroom, and just go about your business. If our roles had been reversed this is exactly what I would have done. But the guy is already a freak. He made a roll bar for his P/U out of sprinkler pipe and a rack out of PVC. His car caught fire one day due to a hastily stubbed out cigarette in the ashtray and the smoke stank of marijuana. I was trying to get out of there as fast as possible, but there was a repeat incident involving the pressure differential between his colon and the sea level air around us, bringing up crude remarks about beans and traditional Mexican cooking. I did manage to escape at that point, glad that though I may look like images found on Pete Townshends computer, at least Iím not acting like one.

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