I remember when...

Dear Diary:
I miss the good old days. Smoking pot, selling millions of albums, having hordes of underage girls throwing their panties at me. The only thing being thrown at me now are plus-sized granny panties and my estranged wife's prothetic fucking leg! There was a time I could spend five minutes writing a song while high out of my mind, and I'd be assured it was a hit. Good times... good bloody times. Christ... look at the time. I'd better get ready to sing "Hey Jude" for the 15 millionth time so I can cut a royalty check to the genderless child molestor that owns all the rights to my songs. Maybe if I offer him my 4 year old, I could kill two birds with one stone... "Charlie Chaplin had kids until he was 73, Paul!" You bitch, Heather. My kids should be changing my diapers! GOD DAMN IT, I WAS THE CUTE ONE!!!

Old enough to pee...

Dear Diary,
Shit. Bam keeps reminding me they're not extra kind to child molestors in prison. The fact that I am a very, very pretty man does not help me. I am getting ass-raped... it's inevitable. They're going to use me like a 13 year old girl. A soft, supple, delicate 13 year-old... I gotta watch what I write down. I can't believe they brought up in court that I peed myself... like everyone else doesn't get drunk, pee themselves a bit, and grope a few underage girls. They had boobs! That makes 'em old enough! Plus... you KNOW they wante Maybe prison will do me some good. I could get into shape! I bet if I had washboard abs, I could pick up TONS of underage poon! I'd better burn this fucking diary.