December 1, 2005
Today is my crazy day of frantic speeches and tight connections. I'm taking off from my house in Cave Creek at seven, heading down into the beast. I'm going to land at the Arizona Biltmore (where Glen Campbell got his most recent DUI). I'll park out back and run into the four star hotel and ask the front desk where I'm speaking.

I will give a half hour speech to all 50 of the United States Attorneys Generals on Wyatt Earp and the Law of the Old West. Jaba jaba jaba.

At 9:15 I will run from the room and mow down old ladies coming up through the lobby with their luggage, and pile into a 2001 Altima, piloted by Carole Glenn. She will floor it, and take out several palm trees, as we shoot down 24th and careen onto the 51, past the 202 transition and into the Sky Harbor Airport. Traversing all four terminals (alright, they tore down terminal one, but kept the same numbers) until we pull up at terminal four. I will tell Carole thanks and run as fast as I can to the Southwest departure display and frantically look for my flight to Vegas. I will take off my shoes and belt, unload my pockets, empty out my hat and go through the metal detector twice. I will have a wand shoved up my crack more than once, and then I'll go through security.

Totally pitted out, I will be wearing the exact same suit I will be wearing for my second speech, which will come off in two hours, assuming I make it. I will cheat and fight my way in to the line of A listing boarders, feign indignation when they look at my boarding pass and see the big "B" and then I will say something lame like, "Do you know who I think I am?!"

I will get on the plane and be forced to sit next to someone who wants to take a nap on my lap. He will be overweight. And snore. I will study my speech on his head. The plane will be late backing out of the terminal. I will do breathing exercises and flick my forefinger at the ear of the guy sleeping on my lap. I will think dirty thoughts just to get an erection in his ear.

The plane will finally get airborne and fly north, right over my house. I will look down and think to myself, "Who's going to run the dogs?" The pilot will point out interesting things out the window, like the Hualapai Indian Reservation and the Duval Mining Slag Heap and I will yell out, "Shutup and drive, dammit!!!"

The plane will land fifteen minutes late, and then taxi for 45 minutes. I will stick my knee out into the aisle so nobody behind me can claim that space when and if the door ever opens. The stewardess will ask me for the last time, "Sir, is that body under the seatback tray yours?" And I will smiile and say, "He's still napping." I will pray she can't see the blood from where she's standing. I will kick my way free, stepping over old ladies and elbowing businessmen. I will run from the tunnel to the ground transportation area, stopping only twice to play the slot machines installed on the moving walkways. I will hail a cab and tell him to step on it, and take me the back way to the Riviera Hotel. I will tell him again, louder. I will look at his cabbie license and realize he's from Serbia and speaks no English. I will make sign language and hold out money. He will smile and start driving in a happy go lucky but erratic manner. There will be no seat belts. He will be listening to NPR. We will hit every single light on Tropicana Blvd. We will pull up to the Riviera and it will be slammed with cars dropping off SASS shooters and Asians by the busload and I will jump out of the cab, throw the cabbie a wad of bills and run to the lobby. There will be a long line waiting to get up to every single checkout
window. I will panic and run down the halls toward the convention center. I will come out into the sunlight and just miss getting creamed by a busload of Nige rians. I will get to the will call window and ask if my name is on the list. The woman behind the counter will look like she doesn't know what I'm talking about and tell me to go back to the hotel. I will threaten her life. She will call security. They will escort me to the backstage area where I will finally see George Laibe and Mark Boardman and they will casually walk up to me smiling.

"Chill Boze," George will tell me. "The speech has been moved back to four. let's go to lunch."

"Why you son of a jaba jaba jaba."
—BBB