Tuesday, May 3

5:45 pm
Dressing Room

Jesus, I'm going on a diet.  Right now.

No way I can wear these pants onstage tonight.  Could barely squeeze my ass into 'em.  Told Dawn she did  a great job shopping for me on the break, some cool new stuff, but she's gotta break out the LardAss pants for the next couple weeks.

She just laughed and said "Yes, Boss," but I could tell from the look she gave me that she was thinking "Jesus, he really did pack on the pounds during the break."

The scale says I gained 7 fucking pounds.  It obviously needs to be calibrated.

The guys are gonna start calling me Fat Elvis.  I can hear it now -- in Davey's nasaly whine.  "Hey, Fat Elvis! You wanna couple-a-tree-four Sammiches?"

He'll be the one to break my balls for sure.  Can't even count on X to be on my side.  The rest of the gang's already corrupted him.  I went out for soundcheck and they were all wearing fucking Groucho Glasses.  The whole damned band.  Even the crew.  What the fuck was up with that?

Not like you could even see X-Man's under that Cousin Itt mop of his, ha ha.

That's it.  Tomorrow I'm back to running.  Gonna tell Dean to kick my ass until it shrinks.  Breakfast, lunch, and dinner are gonna be salads and protein.  And no more booze.

Well, maybe a little booze.

And Christ, look at all that gray chest hair.  Jesus, that grew in fast, and thick.  Not like you can tell, since most of it's almost white.  Fuck, I gotta wax again. (Ouch!)

This just ain't even funny no more.

I look like a fucking whale.  A gray one.