I've been sitting here with this blank page in front of me that says, "Edit Your Blog" for about twenty minutes. I'm trying to think of something to say. Something clever. Something funny to start your new year off proper. But I can't think right now. I feel like there is a cloud between my eyes and my computer screen. A nice big fluffy cloud that I want to rest my noggin on.

I need a haircut.

I don't want to get one.

I haven't gotten one since September.

This might be the longest I've ever gone without one.

The barber has power.

He can ruin your day.

He can ruin your week.

If he so pleases, he can go apeshit with a razor and ruin at least the next month for you.

The next time you hear someone say, "The barber. What does he know? He's just a barber."

You can say back, "Dude, that guy has power. He's a barber."

Speaking of barbers, Pete Rose has one of the worst haircuts in the history of baseball. Speaking of Pete Rose, he admitted to gambling on baseball. Pretty anticlimactic. It has the impact of when Ellen admitted she was gay. No shit. Speaking of anticlimactic, we got pictures from Mars. It looks like a nice enough planet, but I don't hear anyone today going, "Hey! Anybody see those pictures from Mars? Awesome!" Just let me know when they get a Starbucks up there. All people talked about at work today were Matt Hasselbeck and Big Fish. I have no idea what Big Fish is about, but I still want to see it. They use that Peter Gabriel song in the commercial. Salisbury Hill. Good song, but I feel like it's in a movie once every three years. That bothers me. Speaking of things that bother me, I keep yawning. I love sleep, but I wish it was never invented. I'd be better off not having known about it. Speaking of inventions, it's the year 2004... where's my flying car? All we can come up with as far as an advancement in transportation is the Segway? I didn't wait 28 years for that bullshit. Speaking of bullshit, the headline of today's New York Post said "SPLITNEY", in reference to Britney's divorce. Number one, who gives a shit? And number two, that's the best they could come up with? Splitney? What about "Who gives a Shitney?"

Maybe I should have just trusted my instinct and not posted anything. Should I post this?

Don't do it, Mike.

Just post it. Who cares?

Yeah, it's just a stupid blog.

I wouldn't call it stupid. Pointless, maybe.

OK. Pointless. That's fair.

But occasionally funny, right?

Yeah, but not this particular post.

You're right.

Well, guys, that's what I was asking. Should I post this?

Just do it. No one gives a shit.

Yeah, but if I post something shitty, people won't come back, especially if they are a first time visitor.

Oh my God, just push the fucking button.

Do you guys think I curse too much on this?

Sometimes. It's not always necessary.

Yeah, it's like an easy way out and a cheap way to get laughs.

But it's just the way I talk. I curse a lot, and it comes out in the way I write. It's just natural.

It sometimes dumbs it down, that's all I'm saying.

I guess I get it from my dad. He cursed a lot when I was growing up. He'd always say to my mom, "Marilyn, don't bust my balls." That's not really a curse, but you know. It's crude. It's kind of funny to hear my dad say it. One time she actually did bust his balls, and instead of saying that, he just went, "YEEEEOOOOOWWWW! My balls have been successfully busted!"

Bullshit.

Yeah, that's a lie, but if you know my dad, that would be a pretty funny visual. As far as I know, his balls have never been actually busted.

Dude, this is a long post. Maybe you should stop. You're talking about your dad's balls. That's sick.

You're right. Did I ever tell you about the time my dad fed a crocodile a dead chicken while he was holding me? I was just a baby.

Dickhead, that wasn't you. It was the crocodile hunter. That just happened the other day. You posted something about it.

Oh yeah. You're right. I got confused. I was thinking about the time I was dropped on my head by some retarded guy at a town picnic. I was only two.

Serious? Your dad's retarded?

No, it wasn't my dad. He's not retarded. It was some other guy that I think was a neighbor. I'm not sure what ever happened to him. But he dropped me right on my head.

Huh.

This is usually where someone says, "That explains a lot, heh heh heh."

Yeah, I was gonna say that.

I'm glad you didn't.

Why did your parents let some retarded guy pick you up?

Good question. I really don't remember it. I was just a little kid, now with some head trauma. I think I was playing with some other kids, then that guy came over and I guess he just picked me up and dropped me. I'm sure the dads were all standing around a keg and the moms were gossiping about things, talking about dishsoap or whatever young mothers talk about. Huggies and shit like that.

Did you have to go to the hospital?

Well, I didn't go, but that doesn't necessarily mean that I didn't have to go. You know how kids can be. Resilient. I was probably back running around and pooping myself in no time.

OK, you should definitely stop now.

Really?

Well, you've already talked about your dad's balls and you've used the word "retarded" quite a bit. People don't mind it once or twice, but when it's used a lot, people get uncomfortable. They think it's mean.

I'm just saying the guy was retarded. Should I say "Special Needs"? That's gay.

Yeah, you shouldn't say "gay" either like that.

I know I know. I'm not a mean person. I just don't feel the need to censor myself. I'm sorry if anyone gets offended. I don't think it's offensive and I don't mean for it to be offensive. If you know me, you know I'm a somewhat good person. And besides, if some fucking retards get upset, so what? They can't read anyway.

OK, that's very fucking offensive.

I know. Should I delete that?

Definitely.

Maybe later. No one is probably going to read this far down anyway, especially not some retard without an attention span.

Dude, seriously.

Don't worry about it. The only retarded guy I know that reads this is Alberto Alvarez.

Who is that?

This dude I work with who is always like, "Toole, when you gonna gimme a shout out on the blog?" And I'm like, "I don't know. Do something funny."

Is he really retarded?

No. Sometimes he talks like Puff Daddy, though, so it sounds kind of retarded.

He probably was hoping for more of a complimentary shout out.

Maybe, but it's my blog, dammit. And he always makes fun of me for being a lame white guy that occasionally hacky-sacked in college. Alright. I'm going home now. I should have left work 15 minutes ago.

Peace out.