On my lunch break, I learned the following things about a fellow named Bob.

-- He doesn't mind walking a few extra blocks to get to the Hello Deli.
-- His favorite sandwich there is the "Schaffer", though he gets it without hot peppers and adds bacon.
-- He doesn't "give a shit" about the Super Bowl, but does hope that the Patriots lose.
-- He didn't get favorable numbers in his Super Bowl office pool.
-- The only TV show he is looking forward to is the new Survivor, especially because Amber will be on it. He thinks she is "fucking hot."
-- The only TV show he watches is That 70's Show, but is upset because it has been preempted by American Idol.
-- He has never watched 24, even though everyone tells him that he should.
-- He is going skiing this weekend and thinks the conditions will be excellent.

How did I learn so much about Bob in the 8 minutes it took for my sandwich to be made? Well, he was talking to another fellow that, I think, he used to work with.

Let's analyze Bob.

He seems to be active. He walks a few extra blocks just to get a sandwich and is going skiing this weekend. The sandwich, however, is not a healthy sandwich, so there is no indication of him being a healthy eater. He is a man of contradiction, claiming that he doesn't care about the Super Bowl, but he is hoping that the Patriots lose, which most people would consider "giving a shit." He also has some money riding on it with his office pool, so he will actually have two shits to give. He also doesn't mind cursing loudly in front of kids at a deli. And finally, Bob fucking loves to talk about himself to anyone who will listen.

Hey! You don't-a vote for me, I slap-a you face!

Mike Ditka is urging people to take the Levitra Challenge. Levitra is the Pepsi to Viagra's Coke. So this is like the Pepsi Challenge, only it's for soft penises, not soft drinks.

I hope they set up booths on the street like they used to do for the Pepsi Challenge and they have commercials showing that people actually chose Levitra, even though they were so sure it was Viagra.

"Yeah. I'm getting a boner. It's pretty big, but not huge, more like a half boner. Like the kind I used to get in the morning. Let me try the other one. Whoa! Holy boner! This is definitely Viagra. What? It's not? No way. You are kidding me! Oh my God, this is such a great boner, I can't believe it's not Viagra. I'm definitely switching to Levitra. Look at this thing. My wife will be thrilled."

Aaahhh, boners. Such a funny word and so reliable. I had nothing else to write about today, then along comes Mike Ditka and his Boner Contest. Thanks Mike. If they still did that sketch on SNL with the Super Fans, you could bet there'd be a sketch this weekend with, "Da Boners."

I have these shoes that I wear in the snow. Let me tell you, they are great. I can walk and run over ice with reckless abandon. As I walk to work, I see people looking at me saying, "Wow, either that guy has some great shoes on... or he just doesn't give a fuck!" And I reply back, "Little bit of both, baby. Little o' both."

Then I wink, hop over a puddle, onto a snow bank, jump over a frozen group of tourists and into work I go.

This is where the shoes go downhill. They are absolutely awful inside on a non-carpeted surface. It feels like I'm walking on ice when I'm in my kitchen more than when I'm actually walking on ice. Yesterday in the subway I was sliding all over the place. People look at me as if to say, "Wow, either that guy has some really awful shoes... or he is recovering from a spinal injury."

That's all I have to say. Good day, sir.

On the front page of CNN.com right now, under their video section is this: 'Whiplash' the cowboy monkey rides a border collie

God damn liberal media. It's all cowboy monkeys riding border collies these days.

I would like to wish my sister Laurie, a happy birthday. Here is a quick timeline of Laurie's life:

Jan. 28, 1977 -- On a cold winter day in Red Bank, NJ, a brand new baby girl soon to be named Laurie, was born unto this world.

Summer, 1982 -- Laurie plays kickball for the first time in the backyard with the rest of the kids, and runs directly to third base after kicking the ball. She is made fun of. Moments later, without warning, she runs inside the house and does not return. Thus begins a long standing tradition of Laurie running away from a game of kickball without letting anyone know of her intentions.

Jan. 28, 1986 -- The Space Shuttle Challenger blows up on Laurie's birthday. It was a snow day and I was watching Scrabble, hosted by Chuck Woolery, when Tom Brokaw interrupted with a special report. I was upset that I missed the Scrabble Sprint.

Jan. 29, 1986 -- Scarred by the Space Shuttle tragedy happening on her birthday, a nine-year-old Laurie experiments with cocaine for the first time. She is soon given the nickname Laurie "8 Ball" Toole. On Parent-Teacher night, Laurie's teacher tells our mother that Laurie is "a little too attentive."

Feb. 27, 1986 -- Laurie has her first stint in rehab, where she converts to Islam. She travels to Afghanistan to study under the Taliban, which is amazing, considering they weren't even formed yet.

September 1986 -- The Mets win the World Series. Laurie doesn't care, because she is now so doped up on opium in Afghanistan.

January 28, 1994 -- Laurie returns home and celebrates her first sober birthday in 8 years. Our mother, because she feels like she missed out on Laurie's childhood, holds a party at Chuck E. Cheese. Laurie hallucinates and eats a skeeball.

January 28, 2004 -- Ten years later, Laurie, still hallucinating apparently, thinks it's a good idea to live in Branson, Missouri. I neglect to send her a gift and feel bad about it, even though I will send it soon. I feel that, perhaps writing a blog about her will slightly make up for it, even though none of this is true (except for the parts about the drugs and the Taliban).

I am considering adding thermal underwear to my every day wear. It is cold. I can now walk to New Jersey via the Hudson River, which is completely frozen.

The reason for the thermals is that pants just don't cut it. There is something about this cold that runs right up my legs and grabs on to my testicles. Old Man Winter is a fucking pervert.

My little cousin, Joey, used to say to me, "I'm gonna kick you in the testicans." That always cracked me up. The testicans. I always picture him saying that, even though he is now a lot older and somewhere in Iraq fighting the debatable fight. I imagine he will find Osama bin Laden and say to him, "You attacked my country. Now, I am going to kick you in the testicans."

Is this for real? Go read that.

People breakdancing for the Pope? I feel like people are just fucking with him now because he's so old. "Dude, I got an idea. Let's get him breakdancers. Oh man, that'd be hilarious! He'll just sit there and nod his head and shit. Get a camera. Put his hat sideways, so he looks all gangsta."

Anyway. The Pope. Comedy gold. I'd like to thank the cavemen who came up with that guy.

Someone got to my site by searching "bat feces in doritos". Yikes! I would not like that flavor. I'll stick with guacamole, thank you.

I recently saw a preview for Scooby Doo 2. I am absolutely serious when I say this -- it made me want to throw up. There is no hyperbole in that statement. I felt sick to my stomach. How? Why? Who saw the first one? How could the actors agree to make a second one? I'm sure there was something in their contract for the first one, but my God. It's terrible.

Speaking of God, how could He let this movie happen? How??!! Are you there God? It's me, Michael. Didn't anyone bring this to your attention during a meeting or anything?

"OK, what I want to do here in the Middle East is improve relations with Syria and... oh, hold on one second. Yes? Uh-huh. They're doing what? A sequel? Seriously? No, fuck that, definitely not. Yeah, I'll take care of it. I'll kill that guy who plays Shaggy. The one from Scream. They can't do it without him."

I am also still shocked when I see the preview for Along Came Polly and I see that scene with Ben Stiller and the overflowing toilet. Come on, Ben. Remember when you were in Flirting With Disaster? There wasn't a toilet or a poop joke anywhere in that movie and it's the funniest thing you've ever been a part of. Yes, I am sure Ben Stiller will read this and he will take my advice.

If you, the reader other than Ben Stiller, have never seen Flirting With Disaster, do yourself a favor and add it to the top of your Netflix list or rent it the next time you are at the old Blockbuster. If you don't like it, feel free to send me your hate mail. Also, if you don't like it, feel free to jump off a bridge.

Did anyone see the opening of the Golden Globes last night where took footage from the red carpet and they slaughtered "Hey ya!"? I don't know how much they gave Outkast for that one, but I am convinced no amount of money would have been worth it. I don't have much else to say on that. A typical conversation, if you did happen to see that would be this:

Me: Did you watch the Golden Globes last night?

You: Yeah.

Me: Did you see the beginning when they did that Hey Ya thing?

You: Oh my God, yeah.

Me: What the fuck was that?

You: Seriously.

Me: I know.

You: Damn.

I had a dream last night that I was on "The Bachelor." I've never seen the show, so I think my view of it was a little off. I guess, technically, it was "The Bachelorette," because there was a girl who was the main lady. There were only five of us that were competing for her love, but the weird thing was that two of them were girls, which prompted me to ask the question, "Wait, is this chick bi?" Everyone looked at me like I was crazy. So I pressed on accepting the fact that I would be competing against girls, for the love of another girl. Hey, it's the 90's! I'm hip.

I remember being all nervous that she'd see my apartment, because it's such a mess, and she'd dump me right then and there. But the ABC network was kind enough to put us up in a hotel. That was another odd part, was that we weren't in a lavish house like they normally are on in reality shows, but we were in something equivalent to a Motel 6.

The girl who was The Bachelorette was really cool. I think she liked me. I was bummed because I woke up before we got to go on a date, just the two of us. We were out on a "date" with the other contestants and I heard one of the other girls say, "I definitely think she likes Mike." I was so psyched! But then I woke up. If only I slept another 13 hours, I would have found out if I'd be the winner. Oh well. There's always tonight.

I kind of want to be on a reality show now, because I had some fun on the Fake Bachelorette show I was on. Maybe I'll try out for Survivor. I probably wouldn't get that, however, because America doesn't want to see me with my shirt off. I'm not hunky enough to be on a Bachelor type show. Perhaps Average Joe. That's what I should aim for.

Captain Kangaroo died, so he has joined Mr. Rogers up in heaven. Man, there are a lot of lucky kids up there right now!

I went to see a couple of movies last night. Kill Bill and The Triplets of Belleville. Both fine movies. Some things about Kill Bill bothered me, but I won't get into that here, except I will say that sometimes Tarantino just tries too damn hard. That's all I'll say.

Afterwards, I went to McDonald's, because I was hungry and cold and it was right next door. This was on 42nd St., so it's one of those gigantic tourist trap McDonald's. The first thing that annoyed me was when I ordered my Number 6 Value Meal, the register lady asked me if I wanted that Large or Super-Size. It wasn't asked in a way like, "Would you like to upgrade that to Large or Super-Size?" It was asked like, "You've only got two choices here pal, Large or Super-Size. What'll it be?" So I got the large, and when I saw the size of the drink, I saw that it was one of those ridiculously gigantic cups. One of those drinks for people who say, "I'd like to have to urinate a lot 10 minutes after my meal." I then realized I'd been bamboozled and hornswaggled into paying more so I could get more. Damn you McDonald's and your trickery.

You might say to me, "Mike, didn't you realize that Medium is what normally comes with the Value Meals?" Then I'd say, "Well, that's what I thought, you know-it-all bitch, but I thought maybe they changed things up again." I was just assuming that they had now eliminated Medium size and added a bigger one, thinking perhaps it's now Large, Super-Size and Fat Ass American-Size. It still bothers me that Medium is the new Small. The very definition of the word is that it is in between.

OK, so the real thing that bugged me was as I was sitting there, I noticed that they had these laser type images on the wall showing commercials. Some were for Disney movies, and then there was actually a McDonald's commercial. I'm already in your fucking restaurant!!! You've got me! I'm here. Your advertising worked. What more can I give to you?

Plus, it's those annoying ass "I'm lovin' it" ads. I'm hatin' it! Get it? See what I did there? I took their slogan, then turned it around to work against them. Or how about this one... I'm lovin' it... NOT! Get it? I put the word "NOT" after the slogan, basically negating the intent of the message! HA! Take that, you gigantic corporation! You got nothing on me! And your fries sucked last night!

I apologize for the outburst.

My kid sister, Laurie, you know, the one from Branson, sent me an email regarding yesterday's post about her telling me what an awful singer and brother I am.

Frankly, I am appalled. I believe that you should not only audition for
American Brother, but I believe you would win. Never in the history of our
family do I recall saying, "Michael, you'd never make it on American
Brother. Stop kidding yourself, assface. You are a jackass and would never
make it because you are ugly and stupid."
Now, if you substitute the word "Idol" for "Brother", then yes, I did say
that.

I watched a full episode of American Idol last night for the first time in my life. I've seen bits and pieces, but could never really get through it all. These are the fun episodes, where they mostly show the ridiculous people who can't sing, but think they sound like Aretha Franklin.

For the most part, the people that are really bad I don't feel sorry for. They should know how bad they are and shouldn't be surprised when they get ripped into. Their friends or family should be good enough people to tell them that they suck. My sister has been telling me how awful I am as a singer and a brother for years. I know that I should never try to be on American Idol, or on American Brother.

But then there are the other people. There are the guys, who always seem to be a little bit portly and gay, who did musical theater in high school and want to take it to the next level. There was a fella on last night who didn't have a terrible voice, but nothing to knock your socks off. They told him he wasn't very good and you could tell by the look on his face this was the first time in his life he has ever heard that from anyone. That guy, I felt bad for. I'm sure that he did a fine job in his school's production of Pirates of Penzance, but as far as being idolized by America, he just can't cut it.

Watching these shows is so uncomfortable. There is the good kind of uncomfortable, like watching 24, because it's suspenseful and Kiefer Sutherland is always yelling at someone. So it's not a comfortable show. It makes me feel uneasy, because of the tension, but it's so great and I keep going back. With American Idol, it's just a cringe-fest. There are definitely some funny parts (and some that are so scripted -- Paula Abdul is a terrible actress), but when they show the montage of people bitching about what Simon said to them, then they show people crying... that makes me not like the show. Plus, the crying people also always seem to be fat girls. No one likes to watch fat girls cry.

I did not see the State of the Union speech last night, but I'm sure the state of this union is strong. I think the president should try to appeal to younger voters that are fleeing to the democrats. He should have just came out and said, "My fellow Americans. The state of our union is off the hook. We got it goin' on. I'm not going to stand up here and bore you for an hour while your favorite TV shows get preempted, and force you to either read a book or watch QVC. So instead of me saying stuff like 'Medicare this' and 'Terrorism that,' I'm going to give y'all something that you'll actually enjoy. Ladies and gentlemen... Outkast!!!!"

At this point, Vice President Cheney and Speaker of the House, Dennis Hastert rip off their faces, which were actually just masks, revealing Andre 3000 and Big Boi. They start off with a rousing rendition of "Hey Ya!" They will play for an hour, then close with "Bombs Over Baghdad" while a video montage of the Shock and Awe campaign plays on a big screen.

"I command you to shake it like a Polaroid picture!"

Another thing I got to do this weekend was partake in some cable television. I would like to congratulate MTV for the Real World San Diego. You have finally compiled the perfect combination of assholes!

Maybe it's a little premature, but these folks do seem to be some of the most insecure and psychotic in Real World history. Two gals are quickly becoming my favorite train wrecks.

The first is the girl with the gigantic boobs, who surprisingly works at Coyote Ugly, not the library, which is what I first thought. In one of the first episodes, she calls a stranger outside of a bar a "nigger". She tells that to her black roommate, so he is understandably not happy with her. She apologizes to him by yelling at him and pointing in his face. An interesting way to go about an apology. Later, when the black guy organizes a sitdown with the rest of the roommates to explain what racism is, we find out that she was apparently raped by a black guy. She also tried to justify using "the N word" by saying, "I've even said that word to my white friends, like, 'What's up, my nigga?'" Oh! Well, if you use it regularly among your white friends, then it's cool. If only you told that to us earlier.

The other favorite character is the punky girl who throws up in her sleep on the first night. She has a fear of really large boats. So when they find out that their job this season is working on a sailboat, she kind of freaks out. The sailboat isn't that big, but any time a bigger boat passes by, she has a panic attack. I think we find out in a later episode that she was once raped by a Carnival cruise ship.

It is interesting to watch the progression of people on this show from the first season until now. Everyone on the show now tries so hard to be cooler than cool. In the first episode, the three guys were claiming their dressers. The meathead guy (who broke up with his girlfriend of five years, right after he realized he was living with some promiscuous ladies) said, "Well, I figured we would just take whichever one was closer to your bed, so you can rock that one."

Rock a dresser? Is that possible? Thanks, bro. I will totally rock that dresser. I'm stoked to lay down my socks up in that shit.

I went skiing this weekend. Sure, the skiing was fine and it was great to see my friends, but the most important thing from the past three days is this:

I have seen the future. And the future is Guacamole flavored Doritos.

Holy shit, these are so good. I implore you to stop reading this blog right now and go get yourself a bag. If you are still reading, I'll go further. They are green. They taste real good.

That's all I've got. I can't accurately describe these. It's like describing a rainbow to a blind person. At one point over the weekend, there was a herd of deer behind the house we were staying in. We wanted to feed them. We threw them some bread. They ate that, but they were like, "Bread. Yeah, real original. That's all we ever get. Thanks for the bread." Then someone decided to throw out some trail mix to them. They didn't even touch it. Then, my friend Rob threw a couple of Guacamole Doritos. The deer strolled over to it, ate it, then looked up at us and said, "Holy shit. What are these? Is that guacamole? These are so fucking good. Oh my God. These are so much better than Cool Ranch. Oh man, what are these spices? And, am I mistaken, or is that a hint of lime?"

There are a few very happy deer in West Virginia right now with green tongues.

Echoing Lisa's sentiment, I am also disappointed about Carol Moseley Braun dropping out of the race. I like her. It'd be cool to have her as president. We'd be a cool country. Other countries would say, "Oh yeah, America. That's the uh, the country with the black chick, right?"

I like her. She's got sass. If she was in office and terrorists attacked us, it'd be nice to have a president who can say, "Oh, no you didn't."

I think she went about her campaign all wrong. First off, she didn't have a lot of supporters, so obviously she didn't have the cash. But she should have went on the platform that not only would she be the first woman president, but she'd be the first black president as well. So there is an audience she could have appealed to, which are the racist or the chauvinistic people who are always sick of hearing people complain that there is no diversity in the White House. This would kill two birds with one stone. Her slogan should have been, "Carol Moseley Braun: She's black and she's a woman. Let's just get it out of the way now."

Now that Madonna is supporting Clark, I'm definitely supporting him. Whatever Madonna says is gospel to me, so I know what I have to do.

I wish John McCain would run again on an independent ticket. He should have destroyed Bush, but it's hard to fight the Bush family. McCain is so badass. If he was in office on September 11th, he would have addressed the nation on September 12th, live from a cave in Afghanistan, holding the severed head of bin Laden.

I also like the John Edwards fellow, but he looks too young right now. He'll never win. There are rumors he'll run as Dean's VP, if Dean gets the nod. That'd be good for him. Put some hair on his chest. He also kind of looks like John Ritter, so since our nation is still in mourning about that John, it might be nice to have him in the public eye, just as long as every once in a while he does some slapstick. You know, like that hammock bit from Three's Company.

As far as entertainment value goes, Al Sharpton would be awesome to have as our president. That'd just be hilarious. If anyone in Hollywood has any sense at all, they would steal this idea: A sitcom where Al Sharpton actually gets elected, of course starring Al Sharpton.

I just had a very enjoyable dinner with my dad. My pa. The old man. The tree to my nut. The ol' block which produced this chip.

At one point he tells me that a friend of the family has died. It was really this guy's wife that was the friend of my mother's. Here was the conversation.

Dad: You know that, um, what's his name died? Connie's husband.

Me: Oh, no I didn't know that. Cancer, right?

Dad: Yeah, he was down to like 75, 80 pounds.

Me: God damn.

Dad: Yeah. He was an asshole, though.


This struck me as hilarious. I never did really know the guy, wouldn't recognize him if he punched me in the face, but by most accounts, he really was an asshole. I just love the fact that my dad worked that one in there about 7 seconds after he informed me of his death.

Perhaps there is no hell. We might all be in heaven or whatever just floating around, but your real punishment is to hear what people have to say about you after you died. You know what people had to say at the guy's funeral was all roses and sunshine, but I'm sure when they were in their cars driving from the church to the cemetery, they said what they thought of the man. That's where the truth comes out. The car ride. I've heard things about relatives that I never heard until that car ride. Many car rides from a church in Queens to a graveyard in Brooklyn. Many truths told.

One other thing of note that happened this evening I should probably save for my secret blog, or at least my own personal diary beneath my bed with the lock on it, was this -- I was talking to my dad about how I've been watching a lot of old movies, classics that everyone should see, and I mentioned that I watched "Some Like It Hot" and how funny the movie still is, and he said, "Oh yeah! My father took me to see that." My dad's dad (technically, my grandfather) died when my father was only 15, so he doesn't have a lot to say about him, so this totally caught me off guard. He hardly ever mentions the man. But when he said that, I got chills all of the sudden. Of course, I immediately thought of Haley Joel Osment telling Bruce Willis that the chills you get on the back of your neck are caused by dead people. So this was the first time I ever really had any contact with my grandfather on my dad's side. My grandpa. The older man. The root of the tree. I never had the chance to be in a car during a funeral to hear about him, but I've heard a bit. He didn't seem like a nice man. But he took my dad to see a funny movie, so this is the first time I've ever had an image of him laughing. Ain't that some shit?

My teeth have never been so cold!

Good lord, it's cold. Oh my God. It's so cold! It is freezing outside! Soooo cold. Have you been outside? It's freeeezing!

I just wanted to give everyone a heads up on what it will sound like at work today. It is cold. For some reason, I hate when people talk about the heat, but the cold I don't mind. It seems more acceptable. I'm sure if you are reading this and you live in Alaska or Canada, you are laughing at us and our weak tolerance of the cold.

Anyway, this morning, I wake up to take a nice hot shower. I turn on my shower and let the water run. And I let it run. And it runs. And it's cold. It's not even lukewarm. It's just cold. No hot water. I think my landlord is trying to get rid of us, so he turns off the hot water every once in a while. I've got to admit, his tactic is starting to work. We're not on a lease, so we don't have anything to stand behind.

I just wet my noggin so I can style my luxurious hair. I was cold. I got dressed and walked out the door. It has been cold here recently, but today was the first day I've really felt it. Holy Lord. It hurt. My innards just seized. My hair actually froze because it was still wet.

Then I'm on the train, and I get to Union Square, where I have to transfer to another train. On my way to that next train, I walked by a steaming pile of shit. Human shit. I damn near vomited. Just writing about it is making me want to dry heave. Ugh. Things could have been a lot worse if I threw up next to that shit. That would have been a disgusting site for everyone walking by. Damn homeless people. I'm just assuming it was a homeless guy, but who knows? Maybe it was a stock broker who just couldn't wait. That's actually a more enjoyable visual. Not that anyone pooping on the subway is an enjoyable visual, but at least it's funnier if it's someone on his way to work for TD Waterhouse.

They should include that in traffic and transit reports. "... so you should definitely avoid the Holland Tunnel and head up to the Lincoln. All trains are running on or close to schedule. Oh, and just a heads up, if you are going to be on the subways this morning, there is a huge pile of crap on the N/R side of the platform at Union Square, so if you are headed up that way, be careful. This report brought to you by Immodium. Where will you be when your diarrhea comes back? More traffic and transit in ten minutes, keep it right here on 1010 WINS."

For dinner this evening, I had a can of string beans.

My dear, sweet double A batteries. You've treated me splendidly over these last two months. Oh, how long you lasted! Much longer than many other batteries I've had. What was it about you that prolonged your life? Was it the sub-zero temperatures? Did they add minutes to your time spent in my Walkman? I know my mother used to keep batteries in the freezer. Or maybe it was the refrigerator. I used to make fun of her for it. I'd say, "Mom, what's for dinner? Batteries, again?" She'd say that the cold elongated their lives. What did I know? Perhaps she was right.

Or maybe you just really liked the music I was playing. I noticed you decided to quit your fight right after my favorite Interpol song. It was like you knew! We've listened to a lot together. I hope I didn't bore you with a lack of variety. I tried, but sometimes it was too early in the morning to think clearly and I just listened to what was already in there.

Remember when we almost got hit by that car? What a close one! Or how about that time I was really late for work and we ran down the subway stairs, just making it into the train on time. I know what you would say to that. "Which time? You're always late!" You know me too well, dear batteries. Too well.

I can only hope that these batteries I recently bought from that Mexican man on the train provide me with half of the listening enjoyment you gave me. I also hope you weren't offended when I bought those. I could tell your time was near, and I needed backup, just in case you passed on at the beginning of my commute. I should have known you'd wait until the end.

Goodbye, batteries. I will miss you. Perhaps you will be recycled and come back to me! Or maybe you will come back in a vibrator. In that case, say hello to my mother!

Inappropriate!

I hate when a football player goes out of bounds, runs into a photographer, knocks the photographer to the ground, then the player just gets up and runs back to the field. Help the photographer back to his feet, you dick. Or at least have the sense to do something controversial and kick him in the nuts.

I was just walking by a co-worker who was singing the song "Laid", by James. Not belting it out karaoke style, but loud enough for people to hear. So I slowed myself down just enough to hear if she'd actually sing the line, "But she only comes when she's on top." Sure enough she did (sing the line... not the sexual act).

I learned a few months ago in my "Sensitivity in the Workplace" training, that this is inappropriate for the workplace, and not very sensitive. It makes me feel uncomfortable. I also learned I should not try to "Jew people down."

I just saw myself in the mirror. Today, with the way I am dressed and my hair not being cut for a while, I look like I should be in a ski lodge in 1974, drinking a cup of hot cocoa.

I was going through old emails today and I found this one describing a dream I had:

I also had a dream that my dad was the president and I saved him from an assassination attempt. At the end of the dream, Earth got invaded by this giant cartoon alien. It was wacked.

I don't remember this dream at all, but how cool of a dream is that? I guess, in the end, I was a failure, being that Earth eventually got invaded. Perhaps my dad was the failure because he was the president, and it seemed like there was a lot of turmoil during his term. he probably yelled at the enitre country for leaving their bikes in the driveway. Or perhaps his refusal to get a hearing aid finally frustrated one of his aids, and they decided to take him out.

This often happens where I write to someone about a dream, then when I read it again, I think, Not only do I not remember that dream, I don't even remember writing that email. This happens to me fairly often. My memory is not very ... um, what's the word? Good. It's not good.

I've been having more and more dreams about work. That's annoying. I'm here enough. Get out of my dreams and into my car! I still have dreams about school. Nightmares, really. The kind where you forgot to go to class all semester, then all of the sudden you have to go and take a final or something. I hate those. I've occasionally had "The Actor's Nightmare", where you are on stage, but don't know any lines, or have the slightest idea what's going on.

I had a dream the other night where I was interviewing Andy Kaufman, but he was older, yet still dead. He was talking about how the cancer killed him and how people thought he was joking about it. He looked good. He put on some weight. He seemed happy.

I dream a little too much about death and destruction. I really need to hang out with more puppies.

When I was in college, I could never sleep at night. There were many many nights of staying up and staring at nothing, or watching episodes of the Simpsons over and over again. But once the daytime hit, I'd be all about sleeping. There was this one night before my birthday, when I was up all night writing a paper. I finished it just before class and handed it in, which was the normal way for me to operate in college. Procrastination.

So after my class, I went back to my apartment and fell asleep. It was now my birthday and I had to rest up for the festivities of the evening. I think I was in a play that night. Anyway, in my sleep, I had a dream where my mother died. So I am very sad in the dream. Then I hear, in the dream, someone calling my name. I keep hearing it and then I wake up and I realize it was my roommate, Jim, trying to wake me up, because I have a phone call. So now I wake up, thinking my mom is dead. Here was the conversation:

Jim: Mike.

Me (thinking I am now motherless): Wha? Huh?

Jim (handing me the phone): Phone. It's your mom.

Me: What?! Hello?

Mom: Happy birthday!

Me: Holy shit. I just had a dream you died.

Mom: OoooK. I'm alive! Happy birthday!


It was a nice birthday to have my mom not be dead. Those are the best birthdays!

Here I am again with nothing to say. I have been told that I can't top the baby post, so I shouldn't try anymore. I'm done. Go out on top, is what the people are telling me to do. So this is it. My last blog.

I'm sure that's a lie. I will post more. I'm stumped right now. I have thought about leaving the blog behind recently. Not because I don't have anything more to say, but because blogging has sort of taken over my life.

What do you mean, Mike?

Glad you asked. I'll tell you. No matter where I am, walking down the street, walking into my apartment, sitting at work, everywhere, I think, "Can I blog about this?"

Most of the time, things are not blog-worthy. Therefore I don't write about my daily doings. I don't think people care about my personal life (relationship-wise), so I don't talk about it. Plus, if I say something bad about someone, I wouldn't want them to read it on here. That would be mean.

So I end up writing about things like the fact that I was just in the Hello Deli (with Rupert, of Late Show with David Letterman fame) and there was this crazy guy in there talking to people. He started talking to a pregnant lady and commented on her "swollen belly." He then concluded, since she was preggers, that she likes to have sex. He then proceeded to tell her that he'd be "the best she'd ever have." She ignores him long enough, basically laughing at him, he then leaves. Rupert tells us that this guy was the original trumpet player for Earth, Wind and Fire. This is true, because it was confirmed by Paul Shaffer.

But I really have nothing else to say on this, so it's a blog that's gone by the wayside. What annoys me is that there might have been something else going on that would have been good to blog about, but instead I was thinking about how I could turn the Earth, Wind and Fire guy into a good blog. As you can see, I have not figured it out.

It's cold outside. I am reminded of a Loudon Wainwright song called "You Don't Want to Know", which is about an incredibly cold winter, that begins, "It's colder than a witches tit." Later on in the song, there is a line that is one of my favorites of all time:

I took my dog for a walk and
he took a crap.
You won't smell it until April or May.

Why Loudon Wainwright isn't more famous than he is, remains a mystery to me. I think it is time for a Loudon revolution. Or perhaps his peak of popularity will be after he dies, just like John Ritter.

Another way the blog has taken over my life, is that the baby post came to me right before I fell asleep. I don't know what I was thinking of, but all of the sudden, an image popped into my head of me throwing a baby out as the first pitch in the World Series, and I sprung from my bed to write it down. I never write things down. But this, I knew I had to remember for the next day. Then I almost didn't post it because, like everything else I write, I usually hate it the next day. I often read this blog and think, "Oh God, this is terrible. I'm not amusing at all. If I came across this site, I would hate it." Yet it is something that can keep me up at night. Yes, the thought of me pitching a fastball baby kept me up. I was so tired, but somehow that thought got me all wired and I was up for another 3 hours thinking about ways to harm babies. Stupid blog.

See, this is exactly the kind of post that I don't think people want to read.

My friend Rick told me I should buy an ad during the Super Bowl to advertise my blog. I thought this was a great idea, but it turns out that stuff is expensive. So I have decided to instead organize a publicity stunt that will get me all over the news, which will undoubtedly make my blog more popular than ever. Since it seems that putting babies in danger is the way to go these days (dangling over a ledge, feeding a crocodile), I will get myself a baby and put it in harm's way. Here are some ideas for my new bouncing baby boy, with the emphasis on bouncing.

-- I will throw my baby out as the ceremonial first pitch at Game One of this year's World Series. The pitch will be in the dirt.

-- I will create a reality TV show where beautiful women will be tricked in to dating my baby, thinking he is a millionaire baby. The show will be called "Joe Baby."

-- I will send my baby on a research mission to Mars, armed with nothing more than a disposable camera.

-- I will hold a press conference on national television and eat my baby. Everyone will be horrified, until 24 hours later when I hold another press conference, where I crap my baby out, all in one piece.

-- I will take my baby to a rave every Saturday night, get it all messed up on ecstasy, then show a live webcast of my baby giggling and holding a glow stick for hours on end at www.MyBabyGigglingWhileHighOnEcstasy.com

-- I will bowl a 300 game with my baby. I know what you're thinking -- that I will use my baby in place of a bowling ball. Not true. He will be used as the 7 pin on every frame.


If anyone would like to give me their baby, please email me, or if you'd be interested in having my child, let me know. You will be entitled to a fraction of the potential profits.

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.

To be read with an Australian accent:

"This here is a beaut. This croc can devour a human in three seconds flat! And a baby human in less than one second. This is my newborn son. Crikey! I'm a fucking retard! But if you think I'm stupid, my wife is standing right over there, watching me!"

As I begin to watch the fourth NFL playoff game of the weekend, I request the following:

To the fans who put makeup on their face and/or dress up like idiots: Please stop. Getting on TV is not that great of a feat. I was on Romper Room when I was a kid. It wasn't that awesome.

To the directors who instruct their cameramen to show the fans who dress up like idiots: Please stop doing this. You make people who don't normally watch football turn away, because now they are under the impression that you have to be mildly retarded to enjoy football.

To defensive players that stop the opponents on a first and ten, then celebrate like you just won the Super Bowl: Nice play, but the offense has at least three more opportunities to get past you. Stop them for the rest of the day, then you can celebrate.

To everyone playing against the Green Bay Packers: Brett Favre's dead father is obviously on God's good side, and he controls these playoffs. You might as well not even try.

To the makers of the Coors Light ads: More boobs! You guys are focusing way too much on the beer these days.

To Joe Buck, Troy Aikman and Cris Collinsworth: Congratulations on becoming the smartest and most enjoyable commentators that the NFL has to offer.

To Joe Theismann and Paul Maguire: Two words - Murder-suicide. (Well, it's hyphenated, so I guess it's one word.) But you guys are the worst commentators the NFL has to offer. I would much rather watch a drunk Joe Namath try to hit on lesbian sideline reporters. ESPN would be better off to put two cats in heat in the broadcast booth, because they might actually be more pleasant to listen to.

This quote is from a story about cancelled flights:

''I am irritated,'' said Deepa Menon, 28, a law student from Washington who was supposed to be on a canceled British Airways flight. ''I am sure there are reasons but I do wish we had known what was going on earlier.''

Those pesky terrorists! Why won't they give us more of a heads up?

I love that quote, "I am sure there are reasons..." Did she just wake up from a three-year coma?

This morning I was uncharacteristically early for work. So early, in fact, I had time to stop at McDonald's for a McGriddle, which can be ordered with a hash brown and a coffee. I got my coffee black, and my hash brown golden brown. And my McGriddle? Delicious!

Anyway, as I was walking to work with my breakfast, still early, I almost got hit by a car, which would have probably made me late. Some fella was apparently running late, so he was in a rush to get somewhere and in his haste, nearly ran me down as I crossed the street. I ran a bit quicker and he swerved a bit wider, so our paths did not officially cross, though they were darn close. If he did hit me, I don't think he would have stopped. He had that "hit and run" look about him.

As I walked away with my new lease on life, I thought about how sad that would have been to see me lying there dead on Broadway, with some filthy pieces of New Year's Eve confetti still scattered about, and my McGriddle, unmolested in all its goodness, alive with flavor, next to a dead man who never got to have the last meal he would have wanted.

That would have probably been the picture in the NY Post. A shot of a couple of cops milling about, waiting for the coroner, and little pieces of cardboard on the ground indicating evidence, one next to my McGriddle, one next to my hash brown and one next to my walkman, which would have probably, by that point, been on track 11 of Think Tank by Blur. The headline would have been "McHit and McRun".

Isn't it nice to be alive? The correct answer to that question is, "Yeah, sure. Whatever."

Well, another year gone, another New Year's Day waking up naked, face-down in a puddle.

Which is more overhyped? New Year's Eve or the Super Bowl? I'm going to say New Year's, because the Super Bowl has had two good games out of the last four. It seems to be now that every other year is a good one, so this one should be fun. Go Pats!

My New Year's Eve was spent at a friend's apartment in Queens. It was a nice time, but nothing too extraordinary happened. I remember everything (or at least I think I do), so that's always a good sign.

Two years ago I was driving home on New Year's Day, intolerably hungover, and I had to pull over and vomit on the side of the New Jersey Turnpike. It was right after a toll booth so everyone was going slow enough to see me. They say however you spend your new Year's is an indication on how the rest of your year will go, so I think it is fair to say that 2002 was spent throwing up on the Turnpike.

Remind me again why I drink.

This year I resolve to be a better person. Maybe I'll volunteer somewhere to make my being here worthwhile. But for now I am going to go take an Aleve and watch a movie.

Happy New Year!

Oh! Whoever sent me the Hanson CD, thank you! But who are you??? Please let me know! Peace out!