Hey, it's been a fun almost five years. But this will be the last post on toole dot blogspot dot com. Thanks for reading. Thanks for writing. Thanks for being YOU! But I am done with this blog. Perhaps another one will sprout up in the future, but right now, I am putting this one to bed. In the meantime, you can try to find me at random bars. I'll be the guy in the goggles.

Peace out!

mike

I had an asthma attack the other day. I probably get two a year, if that. Anyway, I couldn't locate my inhaler, so that was a problem. I had to go to a drug store to find some Primatene Mist. It is sometimes hard to find, because kids like to buy it to get an adrenalin rush. So some places won't carry it. You know, because it's more important to make sure some dumb, idiot kids don't die, as opposed to someone suffering from an asthma attack.

Anyway, the first store I went to did not have it. But before I found that out, I scanned the shelves. Next to me was an employee doing some stocking. I asked her if she had Primatene Mist. "You know (WHEEEEEEEEEZE), for asthma attacks (WHEEEEEEEEEZE)?" So she looked around at a few things and said, "No, I don't think so. But this might help." She pointed to Gas-X. I am not sure she knew what asthma was.

Anyway, I eventually found it at another store and did not die. So that was nice.

The more I see of Barack Obama, the less I think he is black. I mean, I know he's black, but he doesn't look black. I think he's more charcoal gray. I think he will be our first charcoal gray president.

Word to the wise: Don't go see No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood within three days of each other. It might hurt your brain. I mean, see both movies, but you need to see something retarded in between. Might I suggest Meet the Spartans. Just kidding. Please don't see that. For the good of your brain. Just take a week off between films.

You know how I have blogged about the nastiness of my work bathroom in the past, well today, it appeared that someone was making some sort of chicken mushroom broth in one of the stalls. I know that a lot of people at work read this, so if you are reading this, and you are thinking -- What's so bad about not flushing my shit or putting pubes on the toilet seat? -- well, you are the reason everyone else hates using the bathroom.

Although, without the people who crap up the bathroom at work, I would have nothing to talk about with lots of people. So I guess for the good of small talk, keep doing it. And yes, that is what I use as small talk. Instead of, "How was your weekend?" I like to ask, "See all those pubes?"

Labels: asthma, bastard in a basket, broth recipes, pubes

Yay, football!



Since Eli won, I was going to post the Imminent Death Syndrome Mr. Show sketch, but I can't find it. Instead, here is The Audition. It is hilarious. Enjoy.

I went to Subway today for lunch. I got a veggie sandwich, because the "meat" was looking extra slimy today. So veggies for me. Anyway, when I got to the guy at the register, he's all sucky at English, so he says to me, "Foot long wedgie?" Ha! No, thank you, sir! I'll just take my sandwich and go!

Jimmy Carter -- the man makes a good point.

If you've ever wondered, Hey, I wonder if I have any paper cuts and don't know about them, I suggest you peel an orange. Holy nuts. I wasn't wondering if I had any, but I found out pretty fast.

I have not been so into the election yet, but I guess it is time to pay attention, huh? I like Ron Paul, only because he seems like he's kind of crazy, yet smart. That's a good combo. I also like what I heard from John Edwards in the last debate, but he can't fight the Clinton/Obama machines. Again, he still has that John Ritter nice guy look about him. He also talked way too much about how he came from a family of mill workers.

Whenever I drive back to New Jersey, there is this little town we pass that I want to move to. Tania does not. I tell her that I can work at the old mill. I don't know if they have an old mill, but it's a nice thought.

Here is my most insensitive joke in a while. We were watching one of the debates recently, and the candidates got to talking about what kind of Cabinets they would have. Bill Richardson said, "If I'm elected president, I'm going to have a Cabinet of Republicans, Democrats and independents." And then I said, "And Goya beans!"

I need to get into this election more, so if you have any recommendations, I am all ears.

Qualifications:

Must believe in evolution.
Must not be Mitt Romney.

That's pretty much it. Thanks.

Too bad about the evolution/Huckabee thing. He seems like a totally normal dude, otherwise.

GET ME A WHOPPER!



I love people freaking out about Whoppers. I could watch that all day. OK, not all day. I didn't even watch the entire seven minute video. The commercials amuse me.

Speaking of commercials, this one seems to have somehow increased its airing for some reason. The only reason I find this one funny is because it says in the beginning, "Professional driver. Closed course."



Be careful, kids. Do not attempt to drive your Jeep with singing animals.

Happy new year. Another party at my apartment, another person puking in the bathroom. This time, they thought the sink would be a better place to do so than the toilet. Apparently, at some point, they realized their folly of vomiting in the sink and moved it over to the toilet. Another party goer was nice enough to clean up some of it. I won't get too into the details, but rumor has it there was a piece of sausage somewhere.

Sausage party!

Speaking of meat, here is an update on my 2008 bacon consumption.

Actual text message from a Cleveland sports fan:

i hope peyton manning dies in a drunk driving accident. and i hope the guy who hits him is dustin pedroia.

Every time I see a commercial for ER, I say, "Wait. ER is still on?" I say this every time. It's in my contract. I can't believe it is still on. Not that it's a bad show. It might be bad or maybe it's good, but I haven't watched it since Gilbert from Revenge of the Nerds died. I just feel like they already had a last episode.

Hey, since I have not much to blog about today, here are some random gmail chat lines, both about humping:

Jeff: If you really want that you should put it in your will because I'm going to be way too focused on getting a picture of myself humping your gravestone to take care of any requests.

----------------------------------------------

William: Although skirt might lead to not so dry humping.
me: skirt? dry humping? i am confused
William: Sorry. That was for someone else.
Innappropriate all the way around.
me: you freaky bastard!
William: I was threatening to dry hump someone.
Skirts don't work well for that.
Everybody knows.
me: oh. totally
yeah, i totally suck on balls
oh, sorry. that was meant for someone else
William: I will totally strike that from my memory then.
me: i floss with my own pubes
dammit! again, sorry

Things to do in the new year:

Blog less.
Eat more bacon.
Remember to notify my notifylist on the rare occasion I do blog.

Sorry, notifylist.

Way back when, I got suckered in to subscribing to Cinemax. It was one of those deals where you get it free for a few months, but then you start paying, but I was all, "I'll cancel that shit before that happens." But I never did. So every once in a while, I watch a movie on Cinemax to make up for paying for it. (According to my friend Alberto, this is Cinemax -- "Oh, is this the channel that has movies where chicks hump guys on their belly buttons?")

Yes it is.

Anyway, the other night I watched Snakes on a Plane. Great film. If you haven't seen it, it's about these snakes that are in high school and vow to lose their virginity on spring break. They make this vow while on an airplane, hence the title.

Because I have nothing to really blog about and am just blogging for the sake of blogging (kind of like watering a plant that brings you little joy), here are some of my Netflix movie reviews:

Snakes on a Plane: Packs an emotional wallop similar to Schindler's List. But instead of the little girl in the red coat, a guy gets bit on the dick by a snake.

Rabbit Proof Fence: I haven't seen this movie, but I always think that is Kiefer Sutherland on the cover. And I think it's a movie about him being a farmer who has rabbits ruining his crops. So he gets a fence.



Rumor Has It: i have not seen this movie, but it's about a grandmother, a mother, and a daughter doing kevin costner. don't rent it.

Mannequin: Roger Ebert gave this movie half a star. He had a stroke about twenty years later. Heads up. Don't give this movie half a star.

The Last Kiss: Watching this movie was like having diarrhea for an hour and 44 minutes.

Hustle & Flow: It's like they watched my life and then put it up on the big screen. Except for the drugs, the rapping, the guns, the hookers and the black people, this is exactly like my life.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith: imagine the letter "Y" in the Hollywood sign took a crap. this is what would come out.

That's all I have for you. Good day.

So yeah, in the previous post a couple of people left comments about the odd layout of my building. Well, since no one really stays in downtown Cleveland (or Cleveland at all, really), my building is just prepping everyone for the suburbs, so we have cul-de-sacs. And it's a former warehouse, so there are some odd layouts here and there.

I enjoy watching Wade Phillips coach. He looks like a guy who won some sort of contest to be a head coach. He just seems like a generally happy man. Honestly, when was the last time you saw an NFL coach this content?



It's almost enough to make me kind of root for the Cowboys. Almost. Plus, he kind of looks like Bob Newhart, which I think adds to his likability. I imagine Bob Newhart's pep talks to get the team rallied would be awesome. Just a lot of stammering and throat clearing and fake phone conversations with dead people.

I like when they show the clip of Ray Lewis trying to fire up the team before games. Like when he yells, "What time is it?!" and his teammates all yell, "Game time!" I like to yell out, "It's twelve forty five!" Or sometimes I mix it up and yell, "Quarter to one!"

I absolutely love how FOX has injury music.

Gmail chat is a fun thing. I know instant messaging has been around for a while, but somehow Gchat is more fun. And it produces some funny shit. When I have nothing to blog about, I am going to start taking lines and make posts out of them. For example:

Meg: immediately, i started compiling a list in my head of the top ten worst things to say to a retarded celebrity

Just when I start complaining about nothing interesting happening to blog about, I happen to see this guy last night.



I was walking to a party, which was one floor up from my apartment and saw Sleepy Time Bear over there. I giggled, then walked into the party. I asked if anyone else had seen the dead guy in the hallway, but no one had. So someone tried to wake him up and asked if he was OK, and he apparently mumbled that he was. So we left him there. But then someone else went out there and was able to figure out which apartment was his by using some CSI investigation type shit (his keys were in his door).

So they were able to get him in safely. I am guessing he had a wicked headache this morning, not only from the drinking, but from the fall it seems he took.

My building tends to have a lot of former frat boys who like to yell "Woo!" a lot. Apparently, he was all wooed out. This was 10:30, by the way, and there wasn't a game in town or anything. Good times, bro. Good times.

So I went home for Thanksgiving. As I was leaving the Cleve, it was raining. It stopped raining about ten minutes away. The weather was perfect for the entire weekend. During the drive back, it started sleeting pretty much as soon as we saw the Welcome to Ohio sign. Not only that, but the sign slapped me in the face with its dick! Which begs the question, why give a sign a penis? And one so large?

Oh well. That's Ohio.

One thing I am not crazy about is this Christmas celebration they have downtown. When I moved here last year, I was excited about this shit. I thought it would be comparable to the Rockefeller ice rink. But no. It is basically a place for the homeless to take shits in a more festive atmosphere.

One of my favorite things about Christmas in New York was going to Rockefeller Center after work. It's crazy to go there at night, but I was leaving work at 3:00, so it wasn't too nuts. It was just fun to watch fat kids fall and whatnot.

I also flew to and fro Jersey this past weekend for my nephew's christening. My nephew, by the way, is cuter than anything you have ever seen. My mom has even told me and my other sister that there is no way to produce a better child, so we shouldn't try (not with each other, you sick bastards). Anyway, on the flight out, the lady came by with the drink cart. She and the other flight lady happened to be black. I tell her that I would like coffee. She asks me if I want cream or sugar and I decline. So she says, "You take it black?" It took every common sense bone in my body to fight every other bone and not say, "Yes. I take it black. Like my flight attendants."

I received an email forward the other day that warned me not to flash my lights at cars driving with their headlights on, because it might be a gang member initiation and they will kill me. My fix to that little pickle is that I kill anyone who is driving with their lights off. You can't be too safe, people.

Going back to this whole Tania has killed my blog thing. I don't believe it. I think it has more to do with not living in New York. See, when I lived in New York, there were at least seven bloggable things per day during my commute. Moving to Hoboken, which was almost the same exact time Tania and I met, changed things. My commute no longer involved the subway. The subway is the key to a successful blog.

Exhibit A -- the last time I blogged about the subway was right before I went to Chicago, where Tania and I met.

Exhibit B -- I still need to have a Riding the Bus With My Sister party.

Exhibit C -- I just read this shit and was like, Damn, I used to be so funny! But no, it's New York that was funny. Not me. That guy had a beer in his pocket.

And there is more, but I will stop. Except for this one. This has to be my most favorite thing I have ever witnessed on the subway.

A co-worker let me know that this is BloMo. Or as the people call it, National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo). I like BloMo more. You are supposed to blog every day for the month of November. But since it is now November 15, I would have to make up for the last 14 days. That won't happen.

I had an idea where I would post something about every day, but that was on November 7. Things were so much easier back then. I was going to blog about chicken soup on November 1, then maybe blog about how Cleveland gets all the great trade shows and expos. Sure, Vegas gets their CES and porno shows, but Cleveland gets the Rubber Expo! Suck our rubber, Atlanta!



I can't begin to imagine the amount of condom jokes that go on in that expo. And really, can anything that has to do with just rubber be called an expo? The word carries a sense of grandeur, and rubber doesn't really cut it.

Wow... this is real.

"The Rubber Expo is held (in Cleveland) in odd-numbered years and highlights rubber and rubber-related industries. It features everything from tires, hoses and underwater face masks to the chemical companies, testing equipment and raw materials that make them possible."

I love how it also features "rubber-related" industries. I think I am going to start using that as an excuse for things at work. People will ask me what's wrong and I will say, "Eh, it's rubber-related. You wouldn't get it."

If I was participating in BloMo, I also would have blogged about how I've started to answer my phone whenever I fart in front of my girlfriend. I pretend that I now have a fart ringtone. I will fart and say, "Ooh, sorry, I have to take this." It's a great method and I can't imagine it ever getting old. I've taken farts and made them cute again. If it's a silent one and it's stinky, I tell her that my phone was on vibrate.

Speaking of my lady, I've heard a few complaints lately that she has been the Yoko Ono between my blog and I. They say my blog has not been the same over the last 2+ years, because of her. I quote a co-worker of a friend (from Australia, because I am global):

Toole has gotten too comfortable and friggin happy - everyone knows a writer needs to heartbroken and drunk to write his best. Only solution is for Toole to leave his wife....he owes it to his blog.

Well, I don't have a wife, so there's that. But I see what he means. Lozo also kind of mentioned something similar. The other problem with that email is that in order for me to be heartbroken, she would need to leave me. So for the sake of the blog, I am going to try and get some ladies pregnant. Whether or not I succeed is irrelevant. The important thing is that I tried.

So this past weekend, the lady (or as I like to call her, Yoko) and I went to Lola, the restaurant owned by your Next Iron Chef, Michael Symon. It was cool, because he was there and it was two days before the big finale, where he became the winner. He even came over and talked to us for a bit and Yoko made him laugh. The guy has a great laugh. He really does seem like the nicest guy in the world. You should all hang out with him.

The next day we went to Cracker Barrel. I got the triangle game down to two pegs.

It was the first time I have ever gone to the CrackBar without being on a road trip. It's really weird to go there when you aren't traveling, because all of the sudden you think, "Holy shit, these other people probably aren't traveling either! They are really going to the Cracker Barrel!" Anyway, it was fucking delicious. You can't go wrong with Chicken Fried Chicken. Lola was good, too. But whoever made my mashed potatoes at Cracker Barrel should have also been considered to be the Next Iron Chef.

It would be awesome to be a Cracker Barrel chef that got to go on the Iron Chef and they were all like, "The secret ingredient is... WHITE GRAVY!"

Labels: gravy, iron chef, vibrating farts

I recently volunteered at a Boys and Girls Club out here in the Cleve. It was through work, which was a very nice thing for my office to do, but the club itself was kind of unorganized. There were no real events planned while we were there. They kind of just assigned you to a room and then said, "OK, go make a difference!"

Well, I tried, but I got stuck hanging out with Coach Something Or Other. I forget his real name. Anyway, he was a nice enough guy, but didn't go out of his way to get me involved. He just started playing football with a bunch of kids while I watched from the sidelines. I tried my best to be a good volunteer. One kid got elbowed in the mouth by another kid, so I told Coach that this kid had a bloody mouth and a loose tooth. I figured there would be some sort of protocol that was followed. He said to me, "Tell him to go wash out his mouth."

Get that blood outcha mouth, kid!

So that kid eventually went back out there, and I was secretly rooting for him to knock out the other kid. But he never did. Didn't have it in him. Which I guess is good. Seemed like a nice kid.

These kids were all in the 10 - 12 age group. And in the interest of full disclosure, were also mostly black and Hispanic.

Anyway, the kid who elbowed him was not the best sport. At one point, he scored a touchdown, then ran around (while holding his dick) yelling, "Yeah, all y'all niggas ain't gonna catch me!"

So I looked at Coach, thinking he would reprimand the kid for his celebration. But he said nothing. So I grabbed the kid, pulled him aside and was like, "Look, your celebration is not appropriate. You should be saying, 'All of you African-Americans cannot catch me!'"

Kids these days.

Finally, Googling "embryonic rockabilly polka-dotted fighter pilots" has paid off. At least until NBC shuts it down.

It's been just about a month, huh? This is definitely the longest I have gone without blogging. Sorry, folks. I just don't have the fever anymore. I need more blogbell.

Back when I used to blog at work, that's when it was the shit. But then I stopped doing that, because I got promoted and couldn't really do it anymore. I also work in an office now with about 200 people or something crazy like that and a lot of them read it. So while I am flattered that a lot of people find it amusing, I can't talk shit about them.

I have thought about plenty to blog about over the last month, but just haven't done so. A lot of it had to do with baseball and how the Mets crushed my spirit once again and then how I got really into the Indians and then they let me down. And and and. Other stuff.

I never thought that Chief Wahoo was all that racist. It is just so cartoonish. But then when you see an idiot do this to their face, you think, Whoa, that is some racist shit going on right there.



Thank god all Native Americans are dead, otherwise there might have been a protest or something.

The last baseball thing I will mention is old. Some idiots in Chicago named their kid Wrigley. Their last name happens to be Fields. This is funny to me because whenever I think of Wrigley Field, the first thing that pops into my head is this awesome video.



Apparently, there is some question as to whether or not it's Wrigley, but no matter. Enough people thought it was Wrigley for a long time, so that is what I will continue to believe. It was the first thing I had heard. Same reasoning for thinking that Iraq and Saddam Hussein had something to do with 9/11.

How drunk do you have to get to treat a piss trough like a Slip 'n Slide?

Holy shit. I just Googled Slip 'n Slide and can't believe how many different kind of Slip 'n Slides there are. When I was a kid, it was pretty much a yellow piece of plastic that you got wet and then jumped on. I totally want the Triple Racer.

Anyway, what else do you want to talk about? I got a BlackBerry from work, so I am officially an asshole. There was an insert in the box that had a list of what was inside. One of the things was a "holster." It made me want to quit my job. I don't think I want to be the owner of a BlackBerry holster. Instead I think I am just going to wear it around my neck. I'll be the 21st century Flavor Flav instead of the one that they have on VH1. "You can always get in touch with me, boyyyy!"

So I've been watching 30 Rock and the American Office. Holy crap, both are so funny. Yeah, I know I am a year or two behind, but I did watch the first season of The Office, and it wasn't any good. Almost every episode was like one of the British episodes. But I kept hearing stuff about the second season, so I Netflixed it and am glad I did. Creed is the greatest. His blog is fantastic.

And 30 Rock. Holy nuts. Tracy Morgan. I was randomly laughing at work today just thinking about the line, "Nothing unusual. Russian mobs, invisible motorcycles, sex pooping."

Sometimes Google is a total tard. I just Googled "need more blogbell" to see if anyone has said that before, so Google asks me "Did you mean: 'need more blogball'".

How does that make any more sense? Just so you know, there are also zero results for need more blogball. So if anyone wants to (TM) that, it's all yours.

Peace out.

I had a dream last night that I had a piece of chicken for a pet. A piece of fried chicken. But it was a living and breathing piece of chicken. I think it was a chicken breast. Maybe a thigh. But it was totally cooked and seemed as though it had been breaded with Shake 'n Bake. It was a fine pet. No face or anything. As far as I know, it did not poop, which would make for a good pet.

I don't remember much else about the dream, but I must have been hanging out with other pet owners. Some dog owner kissed their dog and I told them it was disgusting. But no one there seemed to mention how gross or odd it was that I had a piece of cooked chicken as a pet.

I pass by this one homeless dude just about every day on my way to work. He never really asks me for money, so as far as I am concerned, he's pretty much the best homeless guy ever. Lately, there has been this campaign in downtown Cleve urging people to not give change to panhandlers. It basically says that sometimes people are lying about being homeless, so the money you give to people may be doing more harm than good and urges you to donate to charities that help the homeless.

Well, today I am walking by this homeless guy and these two people from the Cleveland Downtown Alliance are putting up this big old poster board thing right next to this guy. I felt bad because he looked pretty hurt as they were putting it up. At least wait for him to go take a shit behind Quizno's before you do that to the poor guy. Granted, if he was a homeless dude who asked me for change every day, I would have been all, "Yeah, in your face Johnny No House!" I am not trying to make a joke there. That is his actual name.

When I was in London, I amused myself (not Tania so much, though) by making up fake British terms for things. You know, because they say things all dumb and shit, like "flat" instead of "apartment" and "lift" instead of "elevator" and "prime minister" instead of "president." Anyway, I made up a few terms that I found quite brilliant. (Some little kid was on our flight going over to England and he told the flight attendant that he thought America was "quite brilliant." I wanted to smack him.)

Anyway, the only two made-up things that I can remember were hiccups were called "esophagus bumps" and a car accident is called an "auto mashy." Said with a British accent, these sound quite brilliant.

This was almost the greatest street sign in the world.



This picture was in the dining room on the ship. I was sitting there one night and thought to myself, I wish my chest was as ripped as that baby.



Seriously. Look at his forearms. Normally, I'd feel pretty confident in fighting a baby, but I'd have reservations about this one.

I was pretty psyched in France, because I saw Blue from Old School. This is not really him, but it is almost him. This poor guy thought he was in Ireland. He was trying to speak Gaelic to all the Frenchies. You're my boy, Blue.



Speaking of France, they lived up to their reputation of being intolerable assholes. Well, just one guy really. I was walking around and went into this little shop that had a bunch of baby clothes, so I was looking for stuff for my nephew. It was here that I realized that the only French I knew was "oui," "bon jour" and "ooh la la." A lady that worked there asked me a question in French and I just stared at her like an idiot. I assumed she asked me if I needed any help. I smiled and shook my head.

So I bought something and was waiting in line. There was this dude who was working there who was speaking with the lady in front of me and the lady's son. He was very friendly and was being very playful with the kid. So I get up there and he says a bunch of crazy French shit. I apologize (in English) that I don't speak French. Granted, I could have at least learned that, but I didn't really think of it. I was in Paris for about three hours, so I didn't feel the need to learn the language. I thought "ooh la la" would have gotten me through the day.

He went from the friendliest guy ever to the biggest prick. His whole face changed and he never looked me in the eye after that. When the price came up on the cash register he pointed to the numbers and then said them very slowly in English. You know, because I can't read French numbers. He swung the bag at me and said "haveagooddaybyebye."

Other than that, French people seemed to be nice. There was this tour guide lady who reminded me of my mom, if my mom was 40 and French.



For some reason, my mom has look-alikes that are tour guides. You might remember when I was in Chicago and my tour guide was my mom, if she was a Hot Pocket.

Oh, speaking of my nephew, here he is. This picture is from when he was about three weeks old. Pictured here, from left to right, me, my double chin, Oprah, Ian.

Hi there. So my sister is a singing and dancing queer on a cruise ship, which is how I got to go to a ton of different places in two weeks. My vacation started off in DC, where I went to a wedding for my old pal, Matt, who you might remember as the guy who got his head knocked open while whitewater rafting. You might also remember him as the guy who yelled "LOOK AT HIS BALLS!" That had nothing to do with my sister. My trip with her started in Southampton, England.

I have lots to tell you about my vacation, but whether or not I will actually tell you about it is up in the air. Only because I am lazy.

Maybe here are some pictures, in order of places visited.

Here we (me and me lady) are in Wales. We went on this bike trip. Some guy drove by in his tiny little car blasting some rap music. It was not very old country. It wasn't even old school. It made me feel like I was not in Wales. But then some old dude walked by later with milk and bread in a basket. I was okay with that.



Here is me and my kid sister (the singin' and dancin' queer) enjoying a beer at a pub after some biking. Unfortunately, we had to bike back after this. Everyone kind of just wanted to get drunk and not do any more biking.



Here is my lady trying her first Guinness ever. It was always one of those things she just assumed she would hate. But she was in Dublin and at the Guinness Brewery, so she had to have one. After some deliberation, she realized she liked it. That made me really happy.



There was an impromptu chugging contest between Tania and Laurie. My sister learned that you do NOT challenge Tania to any sort of chugging contest. Whether it be beer, Diet Coke or bacon grease... Tania will learn you good!



Here is a picture from the Edinburgh Military Tattoo. It's one of the coolest things I have ever seen and has nothing to do with tattoos. By the way, go to Edinburgh. Holy shit, what a city. It makes Cleveland seem like only the second best city in the world. Seriously, Edinburgh is just beautiful. It's prettier than you and has a nicer accent. You should go.



There is more to be had, but I need to go to bed. I will post more later.

Our flight from DC back to Cleveland was on the Enola Gay. Or maybe it was the Spirit of St. Louis. Either way, it was fucking tiny and it had propellers.

I am going to be on vacation for a few weeks, so instead of my general apathy and laziness, I now have an excuse for not blogging. If you live in DC, London, Wales, Scotland, Ireland or Paris, you just might run into me. Keep your eyes open. Catch you on the flip flop.

So the other night, I saw Carl "have you ever performed a sexual act at the library" Monday at a wine bar down the street. When we got there, two tables were available, but one had a reserved sign on it. I was wondering who was good enough to get that and it turns out it was Carl "you just reached out and grabbed for it and started having sex" Monday.

If you don't know him, Carl "you didn't think having sex underneath the table at the library was wrong" Monday is an investigative reporter out here in the Cleve. I figured he has to make reservations no matter where he goes, because if managers see him walking in, I would assume the natural reaction is for them to cut him off at the door and say, "No, uh uh. Get out of here."

I can't find two of my favorite Mr. Show sketches on YouTube, but if you know them, here is where I was going to post either the wishing well investigative report or the Car Wash Change Thief Action Squad. Oh well.



So I went to see Interpol last weekend and this band named Calla opened up for them.

Here is a quick list of opening bands that I have enjoyed:

The Roots, Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, PJ Harvey.

Granted, those were established bands that opened for even more established bands. But I have seen opening bands that I really enjoyed but I forgot who they were.

Here is a quick list of bands that I thought were the worst things I have ever seen:

Calla.

It wasn't that they played bad music, but their singer was just so bad. He just had this tortured hipster voice about him that ruined it for the rest of us.

Anyway, if you ever want to see Interpol, they are pretty good live, but you can probably just do the following and it's kind of like seeing them live:

1. Play all of their albums on shuffle. Loud.
2. Invite people over to sing into your ear. Be sure they are drunk (the people, not your ears).
3. Give forty dollars to TicketMaster.

That's pretty much it. Not to say I didn't enjoy the show, but they were predictable, I suppose. Some songs were really fun, but they were for the most part exactly how they sound on their albums. Which isn't a bad thing, but there was no spontaneity.

The highlight of the show was actually an idiot fan who was wearing sunglasses inside. It was really dark in there, so there was no reason for sunglasses. But right from the start, we saw him and said things like, "What a douche" and "Seriously?" Anyway, when Interpol came on, this guy was jumping around like a goon and had his arms going all over the place. It was a general admission show, so there was lots of standing. He was knocking into people and seemed to have no regard for anyone else.

During the third or fourth song, he made his way to the front without excusing himself. He just crashed up there jumping and waving his arms. Security grabbed him immediately and threw him out. What was funny was that it seemed at first, he thought he was going to be brought up on stage. He started hugging the security guard as if the guard was trying to bring him up to the stage. I think he thought he was going to get to do a duet, all Springsteen / Courtney Cox style, but they were trying to throw him out.

I think I am too old for rock and roll shows these days. I get grumpy. When people yell "Woo!" during the middle of a song for no reason, I kind of want to be like, "Shut up! Show some respect! You are at a rock and roll show, for christ sakes!" I am always looking out for the sakes of christ.

When I was at Lollapalooza in 1994 (holy god I am old), there was some guy when the Beastie Boys came on who was trying to start a mosh pit amongst people who did not want to mosh. Me being one of them. He kept knocking into people and annoying everyone around him. Finally, there was some huge black dude near us, who grabbed the guy in a way that is hard to explain on a blog. But he put one hand on the guy's chest, the other on his back, kind of picked him up and then slammed him down to the ground on his back. It was probably the most awesome thing I have ever seen. I wish that black guy would be with me at all concerts. So if someone is annoying me, I can just say, "Hey Giant Black Guy, do that thing where you almost break someone's back on the ground to that guy. I love that."

Hm. So the point of this post is that I wish I had a big black guy.

Let me tell you about the fourth stall in the bathroom at work. People enjoy it, because it is the farthest away from the door. You know, so it feels the most private. Well, lately it has become fairly disgusting.

First, someone wrote on the wall a few weeks ago. I am all for writing on walls at bars because it amuses me when I am drunk. It can be funny. But I don't want the bathroom that I use at work to turn into a bar bathroom. Bar bathrooms are tolerable because they are at bars and you are drunk. Work bathrooms are tolerable because you can hide in there from work and catch up on your text messaging and Tetris.

Anyway, someone wrote on the wall, "What country is this?" And below that is a "drawing" which is basically a very uneven decagon. Maybe about two inches by two inches. I know geography fairly well and I am pretty sure this is not a rendering of any country. It's just some hoodlum that wants to get a dialogue going on the crapper. So his question goes unanswered for a few weeks, but then the other day, an answer!

Beneath the question "What country is this?" now reads, "Yourbuttistan?"

Now, it is written as a question, as if this person is taking a guess. But if you look at it, the handwriting is exactly the same. So my conclusion is that the question asker went into the bathroom every day to see if anyone answered. After going a few weeks with no response, he decided to make it seem as if someone else is actually playing along.

After such a long wait, I was hoping for a better answer. Actually, it's not the answer that bugs me so much. It's the drawing. If it resembled a butt, I would maybe giggle at it. If maybe he drew a butt with a terrorist sticking a piece of dynamite in the butt crack, then I would laugh.

Oh well.

So that's not so bad, you say. Only one dude writing an innocuous joke. I would agree with you. But recently, maybe two weeks ago, something else started happening in everyone's favorite poop stall. I walked in there one day and the toilet seat is covered in pubes. I mean, not the random two or three that can show up on a toilet seat or on envelopes. I am talking ten pubes. Someone had to make an effort of walking into the stall, sticking their hand down their pants, then proceed to rake their nethers. Then, not place them in the toilet to flush them, but place them all around the toilet seat as if they are a chef sprinkling garnish on a plate.

I have seen this twice. Meaning more than once. This is just crazy. If you work with me, please pay attention. If anyone sits near you, then all of the sudden is like, "Oh my god, I have so many pubes! Too many, in fact!" Then they get up and go to the bathroom and then they come back and they are like, "There. Not as many pubes as before." If you hear that, I think we have our man!

We get about an email a week about how the kitchen is always a mess and people need to clean up after themselves. I am going to start my own, "hey, don't forget to flush your pubes" email.

Apparently, I work in a frat house. It's gross. But at least it's not some third world country, like Yourbuttistan. Oh, I didn't even mention all of the boogers on the wall. Yeah, boogers! Fucking everywhere.

Boogers and pubes. That would be a good cartoon for Adult Swim. Boogers and Pubes. They would fight crime, but no one would ever congratulate them because no one wants to shake hands with a pube or hug a booger.