Go here to help feed some hungry motherfuckers. Just click your favorite helmet and Campbell's will donate a can of soup. Get in the holiday spirit of giving, you selfish dick.

Quite a weird Thanksgiving. It was very noisy and annoying. It usually is noisy and loud, but it is always a fun kind of loud. This year was just a "Aaaaaahhh, get me out of here now!" kind of loud.

My cousin Dawn did nothing but yell at her two kids. These boys are approximately 1-1/2 years old and 2-1/2. Practically babies. But these little fuckers got yelled at like they knew what they were doing. She kept yelling at them about things babies tend to do. "Stop crapping yourself! Stop crying! Why are you crawling like a retard?!?!?" Maybe it wasn't that drastic, but it was close. They were definitely getting yelled at for baby-like things. And I mean yelled at. I was kind of scared. I wanted to yell at her. Tell her, "Look, babies are idiots. They are going to do some stupid shit. They are babies." These kids are never going to know what it's like to have a headache, because they will have a permanent one. It'll be like being kids that are born deaf. They don't realize their handicap.

Other than that, not much happened. Played some football with my cousins. Kicked the shit out of an eleven year old and a 15 year old. It's always the one day of the year I feel like I'm a good athlete.

I'm not sure who made the mashed potatoes, but they should be fined. It was like eating glue dipped in dust. They were terrible.

Thanksgiving is usually my favorite holiday, but not this year. I'll have to hope for a good Christmas. I love the Christmas season, but the day itself is usually a big letdown. It's like the Super Bowl Sunday of holidays. So this year I'll have to make it count. The only thing I was really thankful for this Thanksgiving was getting the hell out of my uncle's house.

Far be it from me to criticize someone else's web design, but what in all that is holy would make you pick the colors on this web site?

I know we haven't seen all of the evidence yet, but I am pretty convinced that Michael Jackson killed Laci Peterson.

I would like to be the "expert" that gets paid to predict things like this. Busy Thanksgiving travel. Wow. Going out on a limb there. I also predict a spike in the sale of Christmas trees in December.

I am spending tomorrow at my Uncle's house. Uncle Hank. Is there a better name for an uncle? I don't think so. Here is another prediction for this Thanksgiving:

There will be many racist and/or homophobic comments made by my uncle during the football games or even during dinner. I will set the over/under at 6. Place your bets. Last year he spoke of the first black character (Little Bill) to ever have a float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Later on, he mentioned a rumor about New Jersey's governor being gay, to which I replied, "Black floats, gay governors, what the hell is going on?" My uncle was the only one who didn't laugh.

We have a fairly new addition to our family who married my cousin, Dawn. She is the daughter of Uncle Hank. Last year, I was watching football with my new cousin-in-law, John, and there was a commercial on with Jerry Rice for Rice-a-Roni or something. He commented, "These blacks will endorse anything."

Whoa! Out of nowhere, John comes through with one of the most ignorant comments in the history of Thanksgiving at Uncle Hank's house, vaulting him straight to a distant second place. I don't think he said anything about the Jason Giambi commercial that followed where he talks about how much he sweats, and the product he uses to combat said sweat. It is true what they say, girls tend to marry a man like their father.

I don't want to give the idea that my extended family is the local chapter of the KKK. My uncle is a nice man, but grew up in those times. You know, those times where everyone was retarded and scared of everything and everyone. Unlike now, when we are only scared of Muslims. And Indians, just because they have terrorist skin color. Black people are kind of scary too. Hispanics make me nervous, what with their different language and all. Asians. They freak me out. Native Americans, too. They aren't scary. Just a bunch of bitter motherfuckers. Other than that, though, this truly is a melting pot.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I just visited the most hilarious doctor in the world. He is ready made to be a star in a sitcom. Actually, if you saw him in a sitcom, you might think it was too over the top.

He is an older man. I'm guessing late 60s, at least. Quite short. Probably about 5' 5". He talks without pausing. Quite the stream of consciousness. I told him I had asthma, to which he responded, "Oh, jeez, everyone's got asthma. Where'd you grow up? New Jersey. Everyone's got asthma. My daughter, my granddaughter. (He looks through my papers and picks up the phone to talk to his secretary.) Could you please tell everyone I need to have patient names on the back of all papers? I need this to happen. Tell Eva. (Back to me.) So asthma. Everyone. OK. What else? How's your stomach? A good stomach? Some people can't eat certain things. Do you exercise? Jewish people can't eat dairy. What do you take for the asthma? I've written a lot of papers on asthma. I'll show you this one I wrote about 4, 5 years ago. Maybe 7 or 8."

Once he found that paper (a miracle considering his office was a mess), I noticed on it that it was written in 1981. Twenty-two years ago.

His office really is a mess. There is shit everywhere. Piled up to the ceiling.

At one point he was looking at my back and my pale complexion sparked this conversation:

Doc: Are you Irish?

Me: Yes.

Doc: Do you go out in the sun a lot?

Me: Occasionally.

Doc: You see what's going on here with your back?

Me: Um, no. What do you mean?

Doc: Do you have a friend?

Me: What?

Doc: A friend, a roommate?

Me: Yeah....

Doc: You should have them look at your back.

Me: I'd rather you looked at it and told me what is wrong.

Doc: Just check for spots.

Me: OK.

Doc (looks at my chart): Toole, huh? That's Irish, I guess. I know an O'Toole. I saw him yesterday. I felt bad because I couldn't remember his first name. Big fella. Plays badminton?

Me (long pause): I don't think I know him.

Doc: Badminton.


We then talked again about asthma for a while. Well, he talked about it. I nodded and tried not to laugh. I wasn't laughing at him in a mean way. He is just so entertaining.

The best part was as I was leaving he called his assistant Eva, but accidentally called her Asthma. He then diagnosed me with a bad case of pencil, and prescribed me 500 milligrams of "my diploma from NYU." Of course that last part is a lie, but the Asthma/Eva thing is true.

I can't wait to go back. I'm bringing a tape recorder.

Whenever I fly back to New York from somewhere else, there is always something that happens almost immediately that enforces the fact that I am in New York. Last night, I walked out of the airport to get a cab and some guy was sitting in a cab, but there was no driver. I have no idea what was going on, but he was yelling at the person in charge of assigning people to cabs. The porter, I guess. The guy in the cab yelled, "I am two minutes away from calling the TLC. Someone better get in this cab and drive!"

He is going to call TLC?! I got excited, thinking that maybe the crew from Trading Spaces would show up, except it would be Trading Taxis, where cab drivers get new steering wheel covers and air fresheners. Turns out TLC stands for the Taxi and Limousine Commission. I was bummed. I don't know what this argument was all about, but there was one pissed off guy, his pissed off girlfriend and a few confused cab drivers yelling at each other. It's always nice to get back here and witness crap like that. It just makes me laugh. If tourists see that, you know they'd be freaked out right off the bat.

Something like this is always a nice reminder that you live in New York. Like that time when I got back from Colorado where I got stabbed in the neck at the baggage claim.

In case you are wondering why I seem so much cooler and three hours earlier, it's because I just got back from LA. I brought you all back a souvenir -- Hollywood magic!

I saw so many stars! Russell Crowe, Tom Cruise, the entire cast of King of Queens. Granted, they were all on billboards, but it's different in LA. Since the stars all live there, they all stand on the billboards to promote their movies and shows and they wave and throw glitter from above. The city is covered in glitter!

Truth is, I did see this guy at a restaurant. I wouldn't have known who he was, but he was pointed out to me. I would have just thought he was some regular idiot trying to look famous. There are a lot of people out there that look like they should be famous, but they aren't. They are just trying. I kept seeing people thinking, That guy might be from Survivor. Or a boy band. Or perhaps a sitcom on the WB. Or Shipmates.

Funny thing is, as you stare at some people wondering if they are famous, they stare back at you because they are wondering the same thing.

I never really know what to say when people ask me what I did on vacation. It was more exciting to talk about when you were a kid and there were amusement parks to rave about and other little thrills. Now I'm just like, "Um, well. I didn't shave." But I did have fun, I just never know what to talk about. It's mostly "you had to be there" kind of stuff.

I did fly Jet Blue, which was exciting. Direct TV on the plane. That's awesome.

My favorite thing to do now on airplanes is to go take a crap, and while taking that crap, I yell out "I'm taking a crap at 600 miles per hour!!!! This is the fastest speed at which I have ever crapped!!!"

That's a lie. At least the yelling part. But I do think about it and giggle. I like to imagine what it would look like if I wasn't enclosed in the bathroom on a plane. How funny would it be of you were just sitting in your front porch when all of the sudden, some guy goes flying by you on a toilet. "Did you see that? What was... ? Was that someone taking a crap at 600 miles an hour?"

So there you have it. If any of you thought, "I bet Mike will have some great stories about LA," you were obviously wrong. Oh wait! We did happen to drive by a theatre where they were premiering Eddie Murphy's new piece of shit, The Haunted Mansion. I saw Tracy Morgan being interviewed. I'm not sure if he is in the movie, but he was there. I have a feeling that Eddie Murphy's piece of shit will be out of the theatre faster than 600 miles per hour.

I'm off to California. I am going to try to get groped by Arnold and molested by Michael.

Speaking of Michael, the Fox 5 News introduction to that story went like this last night:

Police searched the Neverland Ranch today. The land of ferris wheels and monkeys ... something something something.

I forget what they said after that because I was laughing too hard. Ferris wheels and monkeys. When I open an amusement park, I will name it Ferris Wheels and Monkeys. Maybe I'll just name my kids that. "This is my daughter, Ferris Wheels and that shy little fella over there is my son Monkeys. Come here Monkeys and say hello to your Uncle Richard."

This past November 1st, I was in a restaurant. While in that restaurant, I noticed many things. One of those things was a Christmas song playing in the restaurant. This was November 1st. November fucking 1. 11/01/2003. Or if you are European, 01/11/2003.

I love Christmas music. It makes me want to frolic. But only in December, or at least very late November. This is entirely too early for Christmas music.

There is a radio station in New York that is playing Christmas music 24 hours a day right now. Most stations don't do that until Christmas Eve. This station, as of late, seems to change its format every two minutes. This is the station that was responsible for the Opie and Anthony thing where people had sex in St. Patrick's Cathedral. I'm guessing they feel guilty about that, so to make it up to Jesus, it's nothing but Christmas music. This is like someone singing Happy Birthday to you for two months straight.

This is out of control. It's a time like this where we need the Grinch to steal Christmas, or at least borrow it for a while, then return it to us the day after Thanksgiving.

Until it is colder and December, I will be that Grinch.

I am going to Los Angeles this Thursday, as part of my World Tour. In preparation, I am listening to nothing but the Chili Peppers and watching The O.C. I'm also trying to get more beautiful so I can fit in. And I will bring with me a slew of Arnold jokes, because I am sure there haven't been that many.

I have no plans on what to do, so if you have any suggestions, my ears are open. I would like to go on The Price is Right. It won't be the same now that Rod Roddy is dead. That's a sad thing. I always imagined he was a pedophile. He's got that look. Then when I read his obituary, I saw that he lived alone and was never married, so he totally fits the profile. You know that pedophile profile. Single older overweight white game show announcer. They're all a bunch of perverts.

If I do go on the show, I will have to wear a clever t-shirt, because you need to stand out for them to pick you. Maybe I'll wear a shirt that says, "RIP Rod Roddy" or "I had myself spayed AND neutered" or "I have a feeling Rod Roddy was a pedophile." That should get me up to the Showcase Showdown.

I would hate to get up there to the bidding part but end up being one of those "contestants not appearing on stage" people, where all they get is a parting gift like a Swiffer or a bucket of Pine-Sol. I would need to get up there and shake Bob Barker's hand. I would also like to win a dining room set. I would be the fanciest kid in Brooklyn with my brand new chandelier with a retail value of 799 dollars. I'm just kidding. I don't want that. I'd really like a pinball machine or jukebox. That'd be sweet. I love when college kids go on there and win a grandfather clock or a giant Buick. That clock will look great next to a vomiting sorority girl.

So I just ran a spell check on this, and apparently pedophile is not a word (at least according to Blogger). One of the suggestions they gave me is "bedfellow." I think I now know what I will put on my t-shirt. "I think Rod Roddy was a bedfellow with small boys."

I just ran another spell check, and according to Blogger, "Blogger" is not a word. One of the suggestions is "Bulgaria." I guess I will change the title of my site to "Bulgariaing Like I've Never Bulgariaed Before."

In case you were wondering if Entertainment Weekly had any dignity left, they have officially pulled down Hollywood's pants and gone to town with this little quote from the review of Russell Crowe's "Master and Commander":

"...masterful and commanding."

Are you fucking kidding me?

They also said "Elf" was "Elftastic!" And for "Love Actually," they said "You'll actually love it!"

Those are lies by me, but I wouldn't doubt it if they did.

Anyway, despite all of the good reviews for Master and Commander, I still have no interest in seeing it. Same goes for that Tom Cruise movie where he runs around with a bunch of Asian people. Not that I've got anything against Asian people. I love them. I work with about 462 Asian people. It's that Tom Cruise I can't stand. Ever since he broke up with Nicole Kidman for Penelope Cruz, I just can't support his career. He obviously doesn't know how to make good decisions. Penelope Cruz looks like Mrs. Potato Head. I think she was hot a few years ago, but now her face looks all sideways. Her mouth is where her ear should be and her nose is not far behind.

I know what you are saying. Who am I to criticize anyone? Well, it's cool, because I'm fucking perfect.

Fire in the hole!

So dude, like, you had to be there. My building was like, totally on fire. Ohmigod. It was like, we had to evacuate, and I like, had to walk down, like, 32 flights of stairs. It was like, sooo smoky. Ohmigod.

Yes, this restaurant on the first floor of my building had a pretty serious fire. We had to evacuate via the steps. Lots of steps. For the kind of emergency that it was, people were relatively calm. Some were a little too calm. While I wasn't ready to run down 32 flights of steps, I was kind of in a rush. This guy in front of me, however, was more interested in looking up at one of his co-workers on the stairs above him. He waved to her about ten times on the way down. He'd stop to get her attention. Asshole! There is a fire. Get out. Stop, drop and roll your ass!

There were some mixed reports on the way down the stairs on where the fire actually was. There are two restaurants that could have been where the fire originated: Martini's or Rosie O'Grady's. On the way down, I'm guessing on about the 25th floor, some lady on her cell phone heard some people debating where it may have started. She blurts out, "It was Rosie O'Grady's! I confirmed it. It's Rosie's! Yeah, I just confirmed it!"

She actually said that. She "confirmed" it. Thank God for that woman. It was essential that someone had the presence of mind to confirm which restaurant was going to burn to the ground.

Once we got to the lower floors, you could smell the smoke. It wasn't overbearing at all. It was sort of like sitting next to a campfire. But if you asked the guy behind me, he was in the middle of a blazing inferno. He called his wife or girlfriend or maybe his mother to alert her to the situation.

"Yeah. There's a fire. It's craaaazy. There's all this smoke. COUGHCOUGHAKLJFHL:DIHFKBIBECIU EABCOUGGHGHGHGCOUUGGGHGHGHGH!!!!"

I've met people with lung cancer, emphysema and whooping cough who coughed less than this guy. He was totally trying to get some action when he got home.

"Hey baby. I almost died today. Let's do it. And when I say 'it', I mean sex!"

So I finally got to the bottom of the building after the most annoying evacuation ever. It was there that I heard that it was Martini's, not Rosie O'Grady's that had the fire. But wait! I know someone that confirmed it! It can't be! IT WAS CONFIRMED BY A LADY ON A CELL PHONE! Lady needs to check her sources.

Crisis averted. I'm back at work today. It was scary for a moment or two yesterday, but no one really freaked out, which was nice. I got nervous when I realized that three hours earlier I deleted some gay chain letter email thing which warned me that if I didn't forward it to ten people, I'd probably get raped by a monkey or hit by a double decker bus, possibly driven by a convicted rapist monkey. I was tempted to scream out while I was walking down the stairs, "IT'S ALL MY FAULT! I DELETED A CHAIN LETTER! I'M SO SORRY! WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!"

Looking back, I totally should have done that. For me though, the chain letter brought good luck. I got to leave work early! Send me your chain letters, folks! I'm going to delete the shit out of them.

I walked by the restaurant later on last night and saw some of the employees from Martini's looking around the restaurant. There seemed to be mostly water damage, but I don't know what the kitchen may have looked like. They looked sad, kind of like they might not have a job for a while. Stupid fire. I hate fire. As Frankenstein would say, "Fire bad!"


- Dara Kushner/INF-Goff

He's a witch! Burn him!

Here is a list of men and women whose families probably didn't realize this Veterans Day would mean anything to them.

Eighteen years old is too young to be a veteran. Maybe if it was for a noble cause. Sure, you can believe the liberation angle. That's a fun one. But it is painfully obvious this war was based on lies. Soldiers and innocent Iraqi civilians are dying for oil and revenge. That's all it is. If it truly is because we were so concerned about the human rights violations of the Iraqi regime, then somewhere on our list of who to liberate next should be the people of China and Saudi Arabia. Something tells me that won't happen.

My friend Rick, who has dubbed me Liberal Larry, doesn't like when I talk about politics, so here is a joke I just made up.

What did the fire tell his doctor after he slept with a hooker?

It pees when I burn.

People often get to my site by searching for advice. I feel bad that when they get here, there is little advice to be had. For example, in the past few days, people have gotten here by searching the following:

my man humps like a dog

how to politely tell a woman your sorry for cheating on her

In case these people return, I will give them some advice.

Dear Dog Hump Victim,

I'm guessing that your boyfriend is just trying to hump you to get his rocks off. There is no love. He doesn't slow down to caress you, kiss you in the right places when those places need to be kissed. Instead, he's all about busting that nut. I think you should talk to him. Open communication in a relationship is important, especially when it comes to intimacy. Tell him that you are not just an object for his own personal satisfaction. Don't be afraid to let him know what you like. No matter what your father has told you, you are not a sperm bank.

Or perhaps he just always tries to bang you from behind, he gets off, then craps on the carpet, then you smack him in the nose with a newspaper. If that's the case, then you are both beyond help.


Dear Man Who Wants to Politely Tell a Woman That You Cheated,

Try this one.

"Darling. You know that I love you. In the night, when you are not with me, I often long for you. To be close to you. I want to hold you in my arms forever. I sometimes (as silly as this sounds) have held on to my pillow, imagining that it's you, breathing quietly into my chest. I pretend I'm watching you sleep. I miss you. Oftentimes, this pillow isn't very satisfying. Which is why last Wednesday, I slept with your sister. She was so much better than the pillow. Please forgive me."

After your girlfriend or wife freaks out on you and hopefully breaks up with you, please take time to learn this lesson:

If you are sorry about something, it's "You're sorry." Not "Your sorry."

Let me use it in a sentence.

Your sorry ass should tell your girlfriend that you're sorry about cheating.

For some reason, I just started thinking about farting in church. It's funny. I'm sure I've done it. Not like, "Hey Jesus, check this one out!", but more like I had to let one go and there it went. My mother's very good friend had three sons who we would occasionally go to church with, and they got a kick out of farting in church as much as possible. They loved it because the vibration and the noise would be amplified by the wooden pews. They'd giggle like crazy. I remember thinking, Man, these guys aren't scared of anything. Jesus would be so pissed -- no wait, mad. Can't say 'pissed' because I'm in church and that is somewhat of a bad word. Jesus can read my thoughts. He wouldn't like me saying 'pissed'. But he can't be thrilled about them farting, so maybe I'll get off easy.

I was envious of the freedom they seemed to have. To me, as a child, freedom meant being able to rip one in church, without fear of eternal damnation.

As you can probably tell by some things I've said occasionally, I no longer fear the wrath of God. I have a feeling He is way cooler than my church made Him out to be. A big part of the reason I stopped going to church was that it just made me feel like shit. My mother would always tell me that church was supposed to make you feel good about yourself, it was sort of a cleansing for the week. Somewhere along the line my church started recruiting these bitter old priests. Everyone knows these guys, not necessarily as priests, but you know them. Everyone had an old man in their family, whether it was a grandpa, or a random uncle of your mom's, that was just grumpy as hell. A real dick. He'd just sit in a chair and not say or do anything fun. As a kid, you get used to old people falling over themselves to say how cute you are or pull a quarter from behind your ear. So when you get one of these guys (a Grump-pa), it's always kind of shocking. I had one, I forget his name, who was just a bastard. He was my mother's uncle and no one liked this guy. At his funeral, there wasn't a tear to be found. It was more like, "Hey, what are you gonna do?" Everyone shrugged, said a prayer, then caught up with family members and told them they'd see 'em at the next wedding or funeral.

Anyway, all of the priests at my church were like that. Old, grumpy, pissed off, hateful, spiteful -- just plain old mean. When I was very young, in my First Holy Communion days, we had cool priests. They would talk to us about football, they were funny, they were nice, they'd jerk me off after CCD. Zing! Honestly, though, they were good people. The priest who was at my Communion was one of the nicest guys I've ever met. Father John. I was heartbroken when he left our church. He came back once to visit and it was like Jesus had returned. A few years later, he died of cancer. That began my dislike for church. Then they brought in the old guys. The bad guys. Everything priests should not be.

There was one who would just get up there and mumble and grumble about how we are all eventually going to die of AIDS or some shit. He wasn't a good speaker. It was this boring death speech every week about how awful the world is. It was occasionally hard to understand what he was saying, but he made sure to enunciate the good words. You'd be like, "Where is he going with this? What was that sentence?" Then he'd drop in something about the evils of temptation and the path to hell that the kids of America were currently on. Thanks, father! Way to kick off my week! I'd go home and watch football and start thinking about ways in which the sport is evil and me cheering for the 49ers was somehow going to send me to Satan.

There was another priest who was downright frightening. Big, loud, mad as hell, and he wasn't going to take it anymore. Father Keating. He would kind of talk quietly, then all of the sudden, just go BOOM on some key words. In case you were sleeping, he made sure to yell the word "DAMNATION!" to wake your heathen ass up.

I have a special place in my heart for this priest. Father Keating once came in to the restaurant where I was a busboy. Steak & Ale was the restaurant. He was there very late one night for dinner by himself. That made me kind of sad to see him eating all alone. People eating by themselves in sit-down full service restaurants is always somewhat sad. Maybe I was wrong about the old guy, I thought. Granted he did nothing other than come in for dinner by himself, but I thought maybe there was a nice guy behind the big bad priest act. Well, he's not really alone, I guess. He's got Jesus on his side. But still, it was a pathetic picture.

It was late in the evening and he was last guest in the restaurant. I was cleaning off some tables on one side of the room, and all the way on the other side, quite far from me, was Papa Keating eating his salmon. As I was placing a plate in to my busboy tub, I heard "WAITER!!!" This echoed in to the cockles of my being. It boomed and rattled around my head and body for a moment. I was stunned. What could he want from me? What did I do? Did he recognize me from church and noticed that I wasn't paying attention last Sunday? I'm not even a waiter. I'm just a busboy!

I nervously approached the priest, never being this close to him before without him giving me The Body of Christ. Oh man, this is nerve racking. He's so large. The booth he is sitting in looks completely full, even though it's just him. He still seems taller than me, even though he's sitting down. Come on Mike, put your balls on and just talk to him. It's probably nothing. Why are you so scared of this guy? He's just a priest. He can't be bad. Priests are not mean people. Just ask him what he needs. Gulp.

"Hi Father (good start -- he'll know that you go to church). Can I help you?"

He starts talking to me in exactly the same tone he would if he was standing on the altar. Quiet at first, just building to an explosion. I know it's coming.

"I asked the girl for tartar sauce. She still has not brought me tartar sauce. Can you go and get me some TARTAR SAUCE!?!?!"

Shaking and sweating and wanting to run I say, "Yeah, sure, no problem."

I run back to the kitchen. "Jaime, the priest needs tartar sauce."

Jaime, his waitress, "the girl", looks more nervous than I. She really is shaking. She looks like she's about to cry.

"I know. I know he does. We don't have any. It was eighty sixed."

"Shit."

She was apparently freaking out in the kitchen for about five minutes trying to figure out what to do, how to tell the priest that there was no tartar sauce. Then I came in.

"Can you please go tell him?"

"What?!!?! No way! I'm just a busboy."

"Please please please. He's going to kill me. He already hates me."

"He isn't very fond of me either. I just told him that getting him tartar sauce was 'no problem'. This is, however, a fucking problem."

"Please?"

I think I probably did go tell him, being the pushover that I am. Over I was pushed. But I must have blocked it out. I have a vague memory of telling him, then getting a lecture about how important tartar sauce is to him, but it's not a clear memory.

Lucky for me, my repressed memory concerning a priest is about tartar sauce, and has nothing to do with fondling.

I once read an article in the New York Times about revolving doors. It was one of those articles where if you saw it in a newspaper in the middle of Podunk, South Dakota, you would scoff at it and say, "These people have nothing better to do! What a bunch of losers!" But in the New York Times, it's like, "Wow! Revolving doors! I never thought about them and how much I don't appreciate them. What a misunderstood art form they truly are!"

Anyway, one of the quotes in the article was from a guy who must dedicate his life to revolving doors or something, but he said, "The great thing about revolving doors is that they are always open and closed at the same time."

This blew my fucking mind.

It was like I was stoned when I heard this, but I wasn't. It seems like something that would be fun to hear when you're stoned, because who knows where that thought could take you. But I was stone cold sober on a Saturday morning trying to wrap my brain around how something could be open and closed at the same time. I know it's simple. It makes total sense. But for some reason, I just kept thinking about it. It's bugging the shit out of me, because the office building I work in has a revolving door, so I go through it at least four times a day. And now that quote always snakes its way through my head when I walk through those damn doors.

I think the New York Times editors must get their ideas by taking some reporters out onto Broadway, taking a Superball, then throwing that Superball to watch where it bounces, and whatever it hits, that is someone's assignment for the day.

"OK, here goes (editor throws ball). Alright, Alberto, give me an article on sidewalks. Jackie, you've got revolving doors. Dan, those tourist double decker buses. Actually we just did one of those, so don't do that. But give me something with buses, I really don't care what. Bus drivers, maybe. And finally, Kevin, your article should be about sewers, and things that fall down those sewers. If you happen to find that ball while doing your research, I'd appreciate it. Actually, Kat, you didn't get a story, did you? Good. Get me a new Superball. After that, give me a 500 word article on Superballs."

Someone got my site by searching "Fox 5 Problem Solvers Suck." I am so fucking excited! I love this person. Not real love, but fake cyber love.

Anyway, this person must have seen last night's Problem Solvers segment. They broadcasted the fact that you can park cars really close to cruise ships that are in port on the West Side of Manhattan. Then they talked to a guy who was a bomb expert or a homeland defense advisor or a security guard at Kinko's, who said, "If I was a terrorist, all I'd have to do is park cars filled with bombs really close to all of these ships and detonate them."

Apparently the problem that the solvers wanted to solve was, "Hey! Not enough cruise ships are blowing up. Let's exploit their security weaknesses for all the terrorists of the world to see! Also, there isn't enough in tonight's broadcast that will scare old ladies."

Thank you Problem Solvers. Thank you.

There is a deli that I frequent for lunch which always gives a small bag of potato chips with the purchase of a sandwich. They are usually those Deli chips in the purple bag. Today, they gave Dipsy Doodles. I am so excited. This is the greatest day of my life.

Here is a picture of me finishing the marathon yesterday.