6:30 a.m. Woke up early, went to tanning salon. Focused on neck. Made sure it was good and burnt before I left.
7:45 a.m. Ate a tube of uncooked Jimmy Dean sausage for breakfast. It’s the Wheaties of the South.
8 a.m. Honed the most important part of my act: my ‘stache. Firmed, fluffed and buffed it. Who says I’m not the Burt Reynolds of stand-up?
10 a.m. Shrunk jeans until nothing could be left to the imagination. Suppressed painful memory of Wrangler model audition from 22 years ago.
11:30 a.m. Picked up shirts from cleaners. Pleased to see all collars remain blue.
12:20 p.m. Bill Engval called *ugh* to try out a few new jokes. Doesn’t he know his material, moustache are lesser than mine? Resisted the urge to shout through the receiver “Here’s your sign: You suck.”
1:40 p.m. Felt inspired, wrote two new jokes. Here goes: Dictator — a penis-shaped potato. If Herr’s and Lay’s ever combined, to form Herr Lay, they’d probably produce a dictator.
Catatonic — What dogs order at the bar. Hey barkeep, can you get me a catatonic, I’ve had a “ruff” (get it?) day.
2 p.m. Chuckled at my own cleverness. Should call myself the Country Carlin.
2:25 p.m. Ron White stopped by in a panic. Reassured him I’d will any remaining liquor in my cabinet to him when I pass away.
2:35 p.m. Febreezed the living room so it no longer smelled like a distillery.
4 p.m. Out for a few drinks with Larry the Cable Guy. Had to stop him from hog-tying the Mexican busboy and justifying by saying he’s an “asshole-o american-o.” Shut him up by reminding him of the box office receipts from “Delta Farce.”
7 p.m. Came home. Tried to guess which killed more brain cells: drinking with Larry or talking to him.
7:20 p.m. Dinner. Pot roast and Cool Ranch Doritos.
7:50 p.m. Wondered if I was actually smarter than a fifth grader. Realized it doesn’t matter, since the show’s on Fox. I bet Ryan Seacrest doesn’t have a GED.
8:20 p.m. Called network. Argued with studio execs again about changing the show’s title to “Red State Jeopardy!” Other suggestion, “Wheel of Dumbasses,” also nixed.
9:40 p.m. Wrote an anonymous, threatening letter to Rodney Carrington. Pointed out the shoddy stitching on his boots. Best line was his shoes, like his act, need polish.
11 p.m. Kissed my miniature American flag, cousin goodnight. Rolled over, went to sleep.
