Blogging Like I've Never Blogged Before

Thursday, June 09, 2005

Holy crap, summer is here. How do I know? Aside from the oppressive heat, there are two telltale signs. One, ladies dress a lot more sexy, and two, my back will not stop sweating until late September. Those two things go really well together. Like, I'll be walking down the street, see a pretty lady, and I'll be like, "Hey, that's a pretty skirt. Would you like to touch my back? No, seriously." Then I lean in and whisper all sexy-like, "It's as though my spine has sprung a leak."

My back sweat is out of control. It's the one thing I know that I've inherited from my dad. We look nothing alike, act nothing alike, but when it comes to back sweat, like father, like son. To paraphrase that old lady in Billy Madison, If sweating on your back was cool, I'd be Miles Davis.

OK, done with that subject.

The other night I had a dream that Trish owned a dog. She might own a dog, I'm not sure, but this dog was really unique, because instead of a coat of fur, it had a coat of butter and ketchup. It was really gross. You'd pet it and get butter and ketchup on your hands. That would be the worst shedding dog of all time. You know when you leave someone's house that has a shedding dog, then you realize your clothes are covered in dog hair because you sat on the couch? With Trish's dog, you'd be leaving the house and someone would be like, "Oh wait, you've got lots of ketchup and butter on your clothes."

I think the only positive would be when you're eating at Trish's house and instead of finding a dog hair in your food, you find some ketchup or butter. That would be acceptable.

Last night I had a dream that I had to send a Whopper to this guy from my company that works in San Francisco. We had to parcel it overnight. My sister Christina was the one making it and she didn't do a very good job, but we still sent it. I was a little nervous. I think the bun was broken.

What do these dreams mean? Help me out here, Les Phillips. Maybe I should put down the bottle.

So what else? This past weekend I was in a bar in the District of Columbia. I was on the top floor of this bar, the third or fourth floor, I forget, but all of the sudden we had to evacuate because they said there was an electrical fire downstairs. No big deal, they said, but we must leave. If there was an actual fire, I'd be blogging this from hell or heaven right now, because it took a long ass time to get downstairs.

Once we got to the ground floor and on the way out, the fire fellas had just arrived and one came running in and plowed into my friend Cori, who is a tiny little lady. Don't get me wrong, she could totally kick your ass, but a fireman running with an oxygen tank on his back is no match.

She got out, and then right as I got to the front door to leave, a fireman crossed in front of me, and he was carrying a hose. A hose to put out the fire that didn't seem to exist. Anyway, I was pretty much trapped because of the hose. It was up around my stomach and I was backed up against a wall, so I had to basically help them get the hose into the bar. I had to "feed" it along as it went by, otherwise it would have pinned me to the wall. So for like a minute, I was a fireman.


I really liked it. I think I want to be a fireman now. All you do is run into buildings that aren't on fire and knock into small girls and then try to lasso people with your hose.

So, I consider myself a hero. I will be having a parade soon. Time and place TBA.
All material © Mike Toole; 2003 - 2006