The Kenny Chesney Diaries

by Dale Hrabi

SUNDAY, MAY 8, 2005
St. John, U.S. Virgin Islands, out on the porch.

9:00 p.m.
Barely breathing here, diary. Still can’t believe Renée said yes. Want to holler my love from every rooftop on this supersecluded island. EAT MY DUST, JACK WHITE! But I gotta shush it till tomorrow. Damn supersecret wedding. Can’t wait to hitch it proper. My hot, firm butt itches.

Midnight
Awful fidgety. Can’t sleep.

2:00 a.m.
Jerked off to simmer down. Pictured her blessed little squinty eyes rolling round in her sweetly disproportionate head as she rode me. Goddamn, I love this woman snoring here beside me.

2:41 a.m.
Still can’t sleep. Lying here staring at her gaping mouth. Makes me want to write a huge hit song with crossover potential. Working title: “When Your Chipmunk Cheeks Slacken, I Only Love You More.”

2:55 a.m.
Slacken?
Collapse.
Cavein.
Head south.
Get all saggy-waggy.
Turn into wobbly, disgusting jowls.

4:04 a.m.
I don’t deserve her purity, her amazing grace. How sweet the sound that—
Wow. Her stomach just growled. It’s like we have a psychic bond.

MONDAY, MAY 9, 2005
OUR BLESSED WEDDING DAY

11:00 a.m.
Well, I have to confess that our special day started out real crappy with our first fight.

I wanted her to wear a cowboy hat for the supersecret beach ceremony, and she said no way, unless it was designed by Carolina Herrarrerra (sp?). And I’m like, “Well, let’s get one of them Carolinas right quick,” and she’s all laughing and “You don’t even know who Carol Herruharraha is, do you? Jack White knew who Carol Harreerarrari was.” And I’m like, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

The tears were healing. When Renée held me, I could actually feel the bond growing between us like a huge hit album’s sales figures.

I felt transformed by her love and the hot scent of her prescription-only deodorant. And when she told me I absolutely couldn’t wear my specially tailored, 29-inch waist, supertight, famous-person jeans for the wedding and had to wear these loose faggy gray things that didn’t show off my package worth shit, I didn’t even care.

That’s love for you, I guess.

My toned, meaty butt still itches.

Renée keeps slapping my hand away from it.

Okay, gotta go. They’re calling us for hair and makeup and lighting tests and sound check and choreography.

7:00 p.m.
I did it, suckers! Got me a Hollywood bride!!! Everything was all beachy and relaxed and supersecret, just like we planned. We made the minister woman wear a blindfold. And we said our vows through those Vocoders like Cher, to disguise our world-famous voices. And the sniper only had to kill 14 islanders trying to take our pictures with digital cameras and this one guy with an Etch A Sketch. It was all soulful and real and solid and career-boosting.

Can’t write much now cuz Renée wants to teach me how to eat “her special way.”

I wonder what that means.

Sometime real late
Wow. I feel so full. And yet so empty. Renée is an amazing woman with one heck of a gag reflex. She got it all out real efficient, way better than me. And by all, I mean:

the rest of the wedding cake
7 bags of turkey jerky
a bunch of leftover jerk chicken
19 Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Pop-Tarts
4 Lean Cuisine lasagnas (still frozen)
3 jars of mango salsa
1 seagull carcass (I think that’s what it was)
9 Diet Sprites

At one point, we were lying there cuddling by the cool, soothing toilet, and I said, as in my huge 1999 hit inspired by Jerry Maguire, “You had me from hello.” And she said, “Funny, you had me from—” And then she dry heaved right on cue.

LOL!

I cannot tell you, Lord, how blessed I feel to be wed to someone with both a healthy appetite and a terrific comic timing. I must be the luckiest man alive.

TUESDAY, MAY 10, 2005
1:00 p.m.
I have to admit that so far today has been a bit of a...what do you call it? Disastrous auntieclimax (?). The whole morning Renée just sat at the whitewashed table, playing with her Spirograph and yapping away on her cell with her colonicist, giggling about Nicole’s stinky innards and how Bewitched is going to bomb.

I feel so alone. For the first time since we met 115 1/2 days ago, we have drifted apart emotionally and spiritually.

Makes me want to write a huge hit song with crossover appeal, and yet I can’t.

Later
I haven’t ate nothing all day. Losing muscle tone. My supertight famous-person jeans hang on me like a shroud. I’m like a dying hound looking for a porch to hide under and die. I’m like a tractor doing something sad and lonely and tractorish. And still the Country Music Association Award–worthy lyrics won’t come.

Renée is still on the phone. With Nicole. Giggling about the colonicist. And eating about a zillion Oreos. Fat bitch.

No.

Do not go there, Kenny.

Help me, Lord. Save me, Jesus, and help me fight through to the love. Help me find the truth and beauty in my sometimes fleshy, unloving Hollywood wife who only married me cuz I’m this hot, hunky rebound guy who vaguely reminds her of her Texas roots. Help me seek the—

Hey. Hold on.

Working title: “Fight Through to the Love”?