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Thursday, Feb. 07, 2002
Weetabix was kind enough to let me in on a little something. I dunno, I’m still doing a little pause for effect when I think about this.

They’ve got myself and 2 other real writers up for New Journal of the Quarter on the Diarist site.

This stuff scares me sometimes.

The mad scientist though, he seems to be taking it in stride. He even winked at me a minute ago.

Yesterday morning I donned my Carhardts for the first time this year.

Most everybody else would call them bib overalls that happen to be brown in color. I have to give them the benefit of using the manufacturer name since they do such a darn good job in making them. Double lined knees, brass buttons and snaps, pockets galore. I can throw them on over a complete set of clothes and still get an insulated sweatshirt in there before I start to look like a sausage casing. Strap on a pair of steel toed boots and you feel as though you could take on the world.

Or at least your little corner of it.

Corporate partner Stu, as is his odd custom, happened to wear exactly the same thing yesterday. We’ve been on this kick for years now, showing up at jobsites in eerily similar garb. It’s as if we have mothers who call each other the night before and preplan our apparel for the next day. The fact that we buy company shirts and hats narrows the odds, but who would guess that we would both wear the Carhardts and the sweatshirt and the hat right out of the clear blue?

It’s downright embarrassing, I tell you.

The Ductman started it all yesterday. He checked us over as we entered the building and guffawed in appreciation of a little entertainment value with his coffee.

“Uh, say fellas, which one of you is Flossie and which one is Freddy?”

Stu looked me over with a certain distaste and spoke for the benefit of our fashion critique Ductman. “Why, oh why do you do this? This was my day to wear the Carhardts. You were supposed to wear them on Friday. And look, there’s a smudge on your cap. And those shoes! Horror!”

The fact that he was using an effeminate inflection did nothing to slow the mirth. I picked right up on it and addressed the issue.

“You could have told me about this. Remember, you were the one who wanted those awful lavender colored company shirts last time we ordered. You do recall how I had to get Jorge to almost beg you not to do it. By the way, when’s the last time you shaved?”

Sensing a cat fight, the Ductman called over his helper. “Tell me there, Slim, which one do you think is the cuter of the two?”

Stu and I immediately struck full fashion poses with arms out flung and pouting faces. Which, in Carhardts, is not easy, believe you me.

The Ductman’s helper looked as though he had just become unsure of his choice of professions.

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