Blogging Like I've Never Blogged Before

Monday, June 30, 2003

All those who thought Katharine Hepburn was already dead, raise your hands.

Why is the word "forty" not spelled "fourty"? Doesn't this make more sense? I was writing a check the other day in the amount of 40-something dollars and I accidentally spelled it like that. I was looking at the check thinking, What the hell is wrong with this? Something ain't right. Then I realized this "forty" bullshit. There should be a "u" up in that shit. I had to tear up the check, rather than just cross out the letter, because I didn't want some smart ass banker saying, "This Michael R. Toole doesn't know how to spell 'forty'! What a dumbass! I'm hanging this check on my Wall of Idiots Who Write Stupid Things on Checks!"

I also now believe "twenty" should be "twoty" (pronounced tootie), "thirty" should be "threety," and "fifty" should be "fivety." For example, when people ask how old I am, I will say "I'm twoty seven."

In case you are wondering why New York smells like damp leather today, it is incredibly humid and the Gay Pride Parade is taking place down 5th Avenue.


A good thing to do during a heat wave if you don't have air conditioning is go to the movies. (I hate calling it a heat wave when there have been only three hot days. It's the summer. It's supposed to be hot.) The theater is always nice and cool and dark. Yesterday after work I went by myself to see the Hulk and then snuck into Finding Nemo. I feel that not only is it my right to sneak into a movie after I've paid for one, it's an obligation. Ten dollars for what should be a matinee is bullplop. So I take it upon myself to get my ten bucks worth. Plus, it's so easy. Yesterday I walked right by a real live movie theater security guard who didn't bat an eye.

I made sure that when I went to see Finding Nemo it was late enough in the evening, so there wouldn't be too many kids in the theater. Not only do they make a lot of noise, but there is a lesson I learned a few years ago. I was unemployed and decided to go see Dogma, I believe. After Dogma, I happened to notice that Toy Story 2 was just beginning. Sweet! The original Toy Story was pretty funny, so this should be good. And free! Plus, I don't feel like going home and looking for a job, so this is just more entertaining procrastination. It was the middle of the week in the summer, so as I was sitting there I thought, Damn, there are a lot of little kids in here. I was sitting towards the back, far enough away from the kids where the noise should be minimal. But then I realized, You know what? I'm creepy! Here's a twenty-something white guy sitting by himself in the back row of a dark theater filled with kids. I should have just been wearing a hat that said, "PEDOPHILE." If I was a parent, I'd be a bit wary. Anyway, I stuck it out and watched the film, all the while feeling kind of uncomfortable. I think I thought about it so much that I started to become the guy I didn't want to be. I slunk down in my chair trying to hide myself, which only makes it all the more disturbing. I thought, You know, I kind of have to kidnap someone now. I've got a false reputation to uphold!

Yesterday as I was going into Finding Nemo I scoped it out first to make sure there wasn't some random camp trip or pre-school that may have been in there. It was mainly adults and only one little kid. And being that this is New York, there are always other people by themselves, so it's not as weird. (Toy Story 2 was in my hometown, which is much more suburban. In the 'burbs, only freaks go to the movies by themselves.) It was doubly important there weren't any kids in Finding Nemo, because while watching the Hulk, I was eating some popcorn (something I rarely do, but I needed dinner), and there was some butter that dripped through the bag and onto my crotch (well, onto my pants, but in the crotchal area). So now, not only would I be a guy by himself at a Disney movie, but I'd be a guy by himself at a Disney movie with a couple of odd stains in an area where stains aren't socially acceptable.

All in all though, I saw two good movies. My only complaint was the pre-film entertainment. Regal Cinemas has this thing called the 2wenty, which is a 20 minute show of some little films to keep you occupied and to get even more advertisements into the theater-going experience. One of the things was a feature that's on the Fast and the Furious DVD that was titled "Tricking Out a Hot Import Car." It shows people how to make their cars look really fucking stupid. You know, things like neon lights, fire that shoots out the tailpipe, a DVD player, a volleyball court, a dog kennel, a strip club, an aquarium, a speedboat or fuzzy dice on the mirror. One of the segments was called something like "House of Kolor" or "Kolor Koding," where they showed you how to paint your car an obnoxious color. Whatever the title was, the words were supposed to be spelled with the letter "C". Apparently, whoever was involved in the creative process for this was like, "You know what? The letter 'C' is so fucking gay. Let's man this shit up with a 'K'. Yeah, Kolor with a 'K'. When people see this, they will know not to fuk with us. Please note that when I say the word 'fuk', I'm not inkluding the letter 'C'. From this point forward, all words kontaining the letter 'C' will either be removed or replaked with a 'K'. When I get an opportunity, I will kompile a komplete list of kweer letters. I think 'Q' and 'U' will be next."

I hate when things are spelled wrong, which is why I urge you to tell me when you see a typo. Thank you.

The other day I was sitting in Central Park in a section of the park known as Sheep's Meadow. It's a part of the park that's pretty quiet and people are just laying around with a few frisbee tossers scattered about. While I was there, two guys and a little kid showed up with a kite. Of course, they set up right next to me, so now I have to sit up and pay attention to the seven year old with the kite. I have a vision of this kite crashing through my eyeball.

I'm pretty sure they were gay and speaking Italian, except for the little kid who spoke in both Italian and English and did not yet have a sexual preference. One of the guys, who we will call Tony, had a shirt on that said somthing to the effect of "God made weed and God made booze. Figure it out!" Figure out how God made these things? I don't get it. Seeing this gave me an idea for a sitcom called, "My Two Gay Italian Dads Who Like to Get High and Fly Kites." Regardless, they began taking the kite out of the package, so right there, I know that I'm going to get a kite in the head, because I'm assuming that they have never flown a kite before and this was an impulse buy. You know what they say about Italians -- they like pasta and can't fly kites for shit. "Hey-a! Let's-a go and-a fly an American kite-a in the Park-a de Central! We'll-a have a good time-a!"

The other dad (the one without the philosphical t-shirt), who we will call Tony, starts running with the kite through the park and is doing a fine job of keeping it up. The kid, who we'll call Tony Jr., takes over for him. Now the rest of the park knows they have to keep an eye out because he's not stationary, and now everyone's a target. So Tony Jr. is charging through the park running over people who are laying out, yelling, "Heads up! Heads up!" Meanwhile, High Tony is taking pictures of all this.

There is hardly a breeze so the only thing keeping up the kite is the fact that Tony Jr. is running. And being a little kid that hangs out with two high dads all the time, he's kind of lazy. So he stops frequently and the kite comes crashing down every time. Luckily so far, no one has been hit.

Now, there is a guy sitting in the middle of the park reading a book. He's by himself and is probably the Whitest and Nerdiest Person in the Park. If it weren't for him, I think I would have been the one with that title. There is probably a twenty foot radius around him of emptiness, so being that there is a lot of free space to run, Tony Jr. comes scurrying by him and the kite comes soaring down and right into the guy. The guy might have been the only one not watching the kid, instead reading his book, not paying attention and took the kite square in the face. It was pretty comical, so the entire park starts laughing. Not only does the guy have to deal with the kite hitting him and the string and the ribbons hanging from the kite that get tangled up in him, now there's the humilation factor.

I felt bad for the guy (at the same time so glad it wasn't me), but he played it off pretty well. He really can't get too mad at a cute little kid, especially when he's got these two mysterious gay high Italian dads. They are unpredictable. Tony Jr. apologizes while Tony and Tony are laughing with the crowd, rather than apologizing. You can't blame them. They're high. At that moment, I kind of wished I was high because I would have found it a lot funnier, and I probably would have been eating Pringles.

The saddest part about it was the fact that it hit this guy. It could have hit any other person in the park, and it wouldn't have been as amusing. If it hit a group of guys, they'd all get a kick out of it, if it hit a girl, everyone would go running to her to make sure she was OK. I imagined that this kid moved to New York about three weeks ago. He is 22 and from a suburb of Milwaukee, just graduated from the University of Wisconsin, and came to New York with lots of big ideas and aspirations to be a poet or a novelist. He had those black chunky glasses on that you are issued at certain coffee houses and was probably reading Hemingway. His hair was that little curly mini-fro. So of all the people in the park, the potential for hilarity was highest on this dude. This was probably the first nice day since he's been here so he thought he'd go get some sun in Central Park and do some reading.

For that guy (at least in my imagination), his time in New York so far consisted of three weeks of rain, and the one time he ventured outside where he got whaled in the head by a kid with a kite and had a couple of hundred people in Central Park laugh at him. It must have felt like a movie where everything becomes slow motion and everyone is pointing and laughing.

You know what they say about this city, it'll chew you up and spit you out, and eventually, one day, you'll get clobbered by a kite being carried by a kid who has two gay Italian dads that are high. It's a tough city man. Tough city.

If I was forced to write a bad Saturday Night Live sketch right now about weather in the Northeast, this is what it would be. It takes place in God's office. God is played by Alec Baldwin, who is hosting, and Mother Nature is played by Rachel Dratch. There is also a lot of cursing.

Mother Nature (knocking on God's door): Hey God? You got a sec?

God: Hey Big Momma! Come on in! What's going on?

MN: Well, um. I kind of screwed up.

God: Screwed up what? What's going on?

MN: Well, it's the Northeast.

God: Norhteast? Can you be more specific?

MN: Oh, sorry. The northeast in the USA.

God: OK. What happened?

MN: Well, about a month ago, I turned on the rain there. And I kind of forgot about it and it's been raining for a month.

God (Stroking his beard): Hmmm, OK. The entire Northeast?

MN: Yes. Pretty much from DC to Maine.

God: Maine?! Holy shit, I totally forgot about Maine (laughs). Oh man, I was so high when I did that. Maine. That was hilarious. It's actually a pretty funny story. I made Canada, then I had this whole extra piece that I didn't know what to do with. Actually, never mind, it's not that funny. I guess you had to be there. Maine.

MN: Hmm, I guess so. So anyway, about the rain. I basically forgot to give them Spring. What do you want me to do?

God: OK, tell you what we are going to do. We won't tell anyone about this. This is off the books. We are skipping Spring. Just go right into Summer. I'm talking 95 degrees. Shit like that. Hot, hazy and humid, the whole ball of wax. Make 'em sweat. Hopefully, no one will notice. Just make it up to them in the Fall. Give them a nice September.

MN: Oh, thank you so much.

God: Mother Nature, I've noticed this has been happening a lot lately. I know you are getting on in years. Maybe it's time to hang 'em up.

MN: No, I promise I'll do better. I'm starting to write things down more. I also bought this thing from TV, where it's supposed to help me remember things.

God: OK, fair enough. And to tell you the truth, I've been screwing up a lot lately too. That whole Middle East thing is way out of hand. I'm at a loss. Last night, I tried to start working on it again, and I was just like, "Shit! What the fuck did I do here!?" For some reason I was doing a lot of stuff with the Arctic. I don't know what I've been thinking. There's nothing going on there. But I was like, I've gotta do something with all this ice. Boredom, I guess. Meanwhile, I didn't realize these fuckers are blowing each other up left and right and doing it in my name, of all things.

MN: I guess we've all had a lot of stuff on our minds lately. OK, God, I'm going to go back to work.

God: OK. Hey, you brought that rain to Arizona like I asked, right?

MN: Shit! I'll go do that right now.

(Mother Nature leaves, then there is another knock at the door. It's Old Man Winter, who's real name is Gus, being played by Will Ferrel doing a cameo.)

Old Man Winter: Hey God. Can I talk to you?

God: Sure. What's up you old bastard?

OMW: Not much. look, I'm going to cut right to the shit. Is Mother Nature going to retire or what? She's fucking up left and right.

God: Look, I know. But my hands are tied. She doesn't want to leave.

OMW: Dude, fucking fire her.

God: Gus, you and I both know I can't do that. She's going to have to leave on her own. If I fire the only woman I've got working for me, how bad is that going to look? The liberals and chick groups will be on my ass so fast.

OMW: You fucking pussy. This is bullshit. You know I can do a much better job than her. She made it snow in April, she left the rain on for a month. A fucking month. There have been 50 degree days in June. You've gotta do something.

God: Gus, I'm sorry. She's not leaving. And come on, please don't call me a pussy. I'm God.

OMW: I'm sorry. I'm just fucking sick of this. I've been doing this Winter shit for how long now? It feels like for fucking ever. Come on, I know I can do Spring.

God: I know you can too, and I'd like to give you a shot, but it's Mother Nature's gig.

OMW: This is bullshit, dude, and you know it. I'm so sick of blowing ice and snow on people. I need a change. Honestly, if the job market was better, I'd be so outta here.

God: Look, I don't want you to quit. And I don't think you want to quit. What are you complaining about? You've got one of the easiest jobs up here.

OMW: I don't know. I just need a change. If I don't get a promotion, I think I'll just quit. I kind of want to move to San Francisco. I just need a change of scenery.

God: I'd hate to see you go. I wish I could do something but, right now, I can't.

OMW: Fuck. This is just a hard time right now in my life. I'm at a crossroads.

God: I know. Why don't you just sleep on it and talk to me tomorrow.

OMW: OK. We're still on for golf, right?

God: You better believe it. And remember the rules, if you don't hit the ball past the ladies' tee, you gotta play the rest of the hole with your dick out!

OMW: Yeah yeah yeah. You'll use any excuse for you to whip that monster out, huh?

God: Hey, I'm God and it's my penis. You'd do the same thing.

OMW: You're right. See you tomorrow.

God: Peace out.

A lot of the sexiness of mermaids would be taken away if they were actually portrayed as having real fish traits. Sure, some human traits would carry over to mermaids, like talking and rational thought. Someone should make a movie about a mermaid that shows her eating her own shit. That would take the allure out of mermaids fairly quickly. Maybe Disney can incorporate this into "The Little Mermaid 2: Ariel Gets Dysentery." The prince she falls in love with would be like, "Whoa, what'd you do that for?" She'd be like, "I'm just eating." He'd say, "Yeah, but that's your own shit." Then she'd say, "So? I'm hungry. That's what I do. I'm a fish." He'd be all wise and say, "You are only half-fish." And she'd say, "Well, I inherited the half that likes to eat my own crap. Deal with it."

Then we'd all learn an important lesson about accepting people for who they are.

I've got nothing new to write today, so here is an old email I sent out on Oct. 14, 2001 about what I thought our nation's reaction to Sept. 11 should have been. Not very timely, but whatever.

So after Osama bin Laden has threatened America and declared a holy war, I think I saw the best response back to him so far. I saw it written on the back of a van on a construction site. It said, "Osama, kiss my balls!"

Take that Osama.

Instead of saying all of the things that President Bush has been saying over and over again, I think he should incorporate that quote in his next statements...

"Make no mistake about it... Osama will kiss my balls."

"This is a different kind of war. A war in which Osama bin Laden will have to kiss my balls, and the collective balls of America."

"You are either with us or against us. And if you are against us, you will kiss my balls."

"We're gonna smoke them out of their holes, and when they get out of those holes, they will have some balls to kiss. Mine. My big hairy Texan balls will be staring Mr. bin Laden in the face, and he will be forced to kiss them."

"Those countries who support and harbor terrorists will be targeted. Targeted by my balls. Balls that they will eventually have to kiss. If they want to suck on them, that's fine too. Teabag them if you want, I don't care. As long as these countries and Osama bin Laden somehow get their lips and mouths on my sack and do whatever they want to these balls of mine, we'll be victorious. These colors don't run, Mr. bin Laden, and neither do my balls."

"America should go about their daily business. Go shopping, go to work, go to baseball games, get your balls kissed and/or sucked by Osama bin Laden. We can't be frightened by these terrorists. I am going about my normal business, which is trying to get bin Laden to kiss and/or suck my balls. And I promise you this America. He will suck my balls, and if you want, I'll get him to suck your balls too."

If President Bush says this, I think America will be just fine.

God bless America, and God bless our balls.

The following is a memo from the Mayor to the People of New York City:

Dearest Citizens of New York,

We have been made aware of the situation in the sky. We have every available resource studying the obscenely bright object hovering above us today. According to some documents we found, it was referred to in olden times as the "Sun."

We are not sure of the "Sun's" intent. As of now, there is no reason to believe it wants to inflict harm upon us. But we can't be sure. As a precaution, please adhere to these regulations:

-- Do not stare directly at it; aside from the fact that it is uncomfortable to look at, we don't know whether or not it will be aggravated by people staring at it.
-- Do not throw common NYC trash at it (e.g., beer bottles, old MetroCards, unwanted babies, homeless people, etc.)
-- Do not listen to any music that might excite the "Sun," such as "Here Comes the Sun," "Good Day Sunshine," "Sunshine On My Shoulders," "Fortunate Son," "Cats in the Cradle," or "The Thong Song."

Many people are asking, "When will our wonderful clouds filled with thunder, lightning and rain return to us?" The truth is, we don't know. Hopefully, the clouds will return in time for the weekend, so they can protect us on our trips to the beach.

In the meantime, please stay inside and listen to state-approved music, such as "I'm Only Happy When it Rains." And believe me, as soon as I can find a reason to give the sun a summons, I will. If that big fat bastard so much as sits on a crate or on the subway steps, it will be reprimanded.

Michael Bloomberg

If anyone ever says to you, "Mike Toole is a pretty cool guy," you can counter that statement with this piece of information:

I spent last night, which was Saturday, at home watching The Price is Right in primetime, Trading Spaces, and then a debate about America's role in the global scheme of things on C-SPAN 2. What did I learn? Well, Bob Barker hasn't aged in the last 20 years and he still uses that skinny little microphone with the 400 foot long cord, those people on Trading Spaces really do work pretty hard, and the jury is still out on whether America is a protector or a predator.

I also learned that C-SPAN 2 is way more fun to watch then plain old C-SPAN. I don't know enough about C-SPAN 3 to cast an opinion.

If you ever have trouble falling asleep, let me know and I'll give you my dad's phone number. Ask him about his golf game. You'll be asleep in minutes. There are not many things more boring than golf. Hearing someone talk about their day of golf is one of those things. I love the man, but sheesh. No story can be a good one when it ends with "... then I sank the putt from about 6 feet away." Perhaps if there was a gator or bear attack that interrupted the tee shot or something, it would be a good story. Especially if it was the Labatt's Blue Bear and he showed up with a cooler and three slutty drunk chicks.

My archives have been missing for a while. If you'd like to check 'em out, they are back up.

I'm kind of drunk right now. I'm watching an old Saturday Night Live on Comedy Central. Bill Pullman is hosting with New Edition as the musical guest. I bet Bill Pullman was thinking, "My newfound success will never fade!" I bet New Edition was thinking, "Guys, this is probably the last time we can all snort coke together in a dressing room. Someone get a camera."

There's now a commercial on. I'm tempted to buy "Girls Gone Wild Doggy Style." I'd like to see what happens when Snoop Dogg has the camera! The insecure girls must come out in droves for Snoop!

I can't think of anything new to write, so here's one of my favorite things to talk about.

When I was 19, I worked in Disney World on their college program. It was basically a way for them to get cheaper labor than normal, with a bunch of eager young college kids who were happy to be working in Disney World and didn't have to take classes for a semester. It was a pretty sweet deal for all parties involved.

I had a roommate named Paul. Everyone who knew Paul assumed he was Italian. He wasn't Italian, but if you had to find a sterotypical Italian, it was Paul. More Tony Danza than Tony Soprano. I forget what his nationality was, but for the sake of inaccuracy, I'll just say, Sure, he was Italian. He was from Long Island (I think) and spoke like Rodney Dangerfield. To make these anecdotes more enjoyable, when I quote Paul, it will help if you imagine Rodney Dangerfield's voice.

Paul wasn't the smartest guy in the world. He probably wouldn't be the smartest guy in a pre-school. Nice guy, yes, but his wits were slower than most. One time I was watching an episode of The Simpsons, one where Bart sells his soul (for what it's worth, I think one of the best episodes of all time). Paul walks in during the middle of the episode, watches for about a minute, then proclaims, "This is so stupid! You can't sell your soul." Suspension of disbelief with Paul was foreign.

Paul had a girlfriend back home. I stress "back home." He definitely did not have a girlfriend when I lived with him. There was a stretch of time where it seemed he had a different girl with him every night. Oftentimes, I would be sleeping, and he would bring them in the room and they'd have their fun. Oftentimes, I would wake up and be foreced to listen to the love. So they'd do their thing, fall asleep, and then Paul would always wake up at a ridiculous hour of the morning and usher them out. I guess he didn't want me or our other roommates to know how unfaithful to his lady he really was.

Except for this one time.

It was a normal night where he came in very late after a night of drinking and he brought a girl with him. I was sleeping, but of course woke up and heard them. Luckily, I was able to fall back asleep. At around 7am, Paul got up to go to work and bid adieu to his lady of the evening. Paul then decided to wake me up after she left and this was our conversation (Remember, think Dangerfield!):

Paul: Hey Mike.

Me: Uh.

Paul: Mike.

Me: Ugh. Huh, wha?

Paul (sounding very excited): Did you know I had a girl in here last night?

Me: Yeah, I gathered that.

Paul: It was awesome.

Me (uninterested and really just wanting to sleep): Hey, man good for you, that's great.

Paul: She sucked my dick.

Me: Hey, ok, that's awesome. Congratulations.

Paul: Yeah. It was like I was fucking her mouth!

Me: OK! Have a good day at work.

"It was like I was fucking her mouth." He seriously said that. To this day, I have never heard anything funnier in my life. He was absolutely serious. I wonder if the girl he was with went back and told her roommate about her night and said, "It was like I got my mouth fucked!" Somehow, I doubt it.

There was one other time where we both had the day off and I was going to get some lunch. I asked Paul if he wanted anything from Burger King, and he declined. Now, I was going out to the Burger King which was maybe a mile away, and I'm by myself so chances are I am going to hit the drive-thru and come right back home. Fifteen minutes tops. So I go get my Whopper Value Meal and head back to my apartment. I open the door and there in the living room I see Paul pulling up his pants. It took me a second to realize I had just seen his white ass. I thought, "Hmm, that's odd. Paul isn't usually naked in the living room. Perhaps he was getting changed and there was something on TV he didn't want to miss, like a sporting event, so he quickly grabbed his clothes and got changed in the living room. Yes, that's the obvious conclusion!"

Then I saw the image on the television, and unless a girl getting banged by two guys at once is some kind of competetive sport I don't know about, he was watching some porn and satisfying himself.

This was the most awkward situation I've ever been in. Paul wasn't a good enough friend where I could feel comfortable in making fun of him. If it was a friend, I would have been laughing my ass off. Instead, I had to pretend that it was no big deal and go eat my Whopper. He was very apologetic and then said something brilliant.

"Mike, I'm sorry."

"That's ok Paul."

"No really, I'm sorry."

"Paul, it's cool."

"You know, I just miss my girlfiend."

First of all, as explained earlier, he really had no problem in the missing of the girlfriend and second, a guy should never ever ever have to explain to another guy why he is masturbating. I know why you are masturbating. You are a guy, and as guys, masturbating, from what I know, is farily common. Usually though, it's pretty common to do it when there's a good chance of not getting caught. I don't know, maybe Paul liked the danger of possibly getting caught. You know, livin' on the edge. "Ok, I've got 15 minutes maximum to wack it. Let's do this!"

I probably didn't make eye contact with him for a week or so. He tried to pretend it never happened and for at least that week, he would talk to me a lot more about hockey.

Speaking of people setting themselves on fire, when I was a kid (maybe eleven years old), I had an infatuation with fire. I think it was a fairly healthy obsession. I could stare at a candle forever. I still can. I just like being hypnotized. Boys like fire. It's natural. I wanted to be a fireman. I didn't set fire to cats or anything destructive.

One time I was left home by myself. It was snowing out, cold in the house and I thought I'd pretend to be a grown-up and start a fire in our wood burning stove. Bad idea. One of the main things my mother would always say before leaving the house was, "Don't touch the fireplace." Whatever, man! I've been camping. I know how to do this.

So as a child, I know that paper and wood are both good at burning. I learned that much in Boy Scouts. I throw some logs in there and some newspaper. The newspaper burns out, and the wood? Nothing. Didn't catch. Solution? More newspaper!

So I pile in the newspaper and sure enough, one big flaming piece comes flying out onto the floor. Now, there are some bricks that the stove was on, then there was the carpet of my living room. I freak out thinking that the paper will hit the rug and go up in flames. What do I do? The smart option would have been to use the poker thing and shove it under the stove or try and get it back in the stove and let it burn itself out. But as a mildly retarded eleven year old, I pick up the burning sports section and run like hell. Brilliant!

So I run to the nearest exit with the paper held high above my head. I'm not sure exactly what I looked like, but imagine someone running with the Olympic torch, only he is a 90 pound eleven year old with a giant head and a freaked out look on his face, and he's running through an empty house, not a street lined with photographers and fans of the Olympics.

The problem with the nearest exit was that it was located in the laundry room. So now, not only am I running with burning ash flying all over the place, I'm running through the most flammable room in the house. Chemicals and cotton. I'm sure if I had a gasoline and aerosol can room, I'd have gone through that. I get to the door, open it up, and throw the paper into the snow. OK. Crisis averted. So I calm down and head back into the house, with a pretty nice burn on my hand. Nothing too bad, but the shit hurts. I run some cold water over it, then realize I've got some cleaning up to do.

I go back into the laundry room and find all the ash. Luckily, nothing was burned. I put out what was still burning in the fireplace. I triple check my torch run to glory for any remaining ash. If my mom or dad find any evidence of this, I'll be a dead man.

OK, house looks good. no evidence of this anywhere. Sweet. I'm going to get away with it. My parents get home later that evening, and the first thing my mom says is, "What's that smell? Were you making a fire?"

"Wha? No, God no. I would never disobey you dear mother! For, I merely lit a candle to soothe my senses whilst reading Goofus and Gallant!"

Sweet, she bought it! I'm in the zone! If only she knew, a mere two hours ago, I was very close to burning our humble abode to a pile of embers. An hour or so later, the entire family is home and we are eating dinner. My mother asks, "What's in your hair?"


"There's something in your hair."

"No there's not."

Little sister says, "Yes there is. It's white!"

Mom comes in for a closer inspection. "It's singed! You singed your hair! You did try to start a fire!"

Indeed I did. And it was then I learned that no matter what I do, no matter how much I try to cover it up, my mother will always find out.

So that's a lesson for you kids, moms know. They find out. Don't know how, but they find out. Well, I do know how. I was a dick that burned my hair. Even had I not done that, she would have known. Don't ask me how. She would have known.

I believe that day was the last time I wanted to be a fireman. After that, I wanted to be a monkey. I've always wanted to be a monkey.

No matter how deeply I care about something, I will never ever ever set myself on fire. I go home sick when I get a paper cut.

"Israeli archaeological experts said Wednesday an inscription on an ancient stone box suggesting it once contained the bones of Jesus' brother, James, was a forgery."

That's from a Yahoo news story. I didn't even know Jesus had a brother. James Christ? That's like being Hank Hitler. Or Doug Mussolini. Or Jeb Bush. That's got to be so disappointing.

"Hey James! You think you can turn this water here into wine?"

"Dude, that's my brother's gig."

"Oh right. Say, do you know where he is?"

"Nope, haven't seen him."

"Hmmm, can you do anything cool like that, alcohol-wise?"

"Uhm. Not really. I can juggle a little bit. Do you have any tennis balls or apples?"

"No, I don't. OK. Well, it was good seeing you James. If you see Jesus, let him know I was looking for him."

"Sure, bro. No problem."

Pardon me while I get into politics for a moment. Feel free to skip ahead if you don't really care.

Here are some quotes from relatives of Sept. 11 victims, published in an article on*:

-- "I sat and listened to the State of the Union speech [last January] when Bush mentioned 9/11 12 or 13 times," recalls Kristin Breitweiser, whose husband, Ronald, was killed when United Flight 175 slammed into Tower 1. "At the same time, we were having trouble getting funding for the independent commission."

-- "We've been fighting for nearly 21 months -- fighting the administration, the White House," says Monica Gabrielle. Her husband, Richard, an insurance broker who worked for Aon Corp. on the 103rd floor of the World Trade Center's Tower 2, died during the attacks. "As soon as we started looking for answers we were blocked, put off and ignored at every stop of the way. We were shocked. The White House is just blocking everything."

-- Also Gabrielle: "Bush has never personally met with the [9/11] families to discuss any of this, so for him to use Sept. 11 and its victims to justify his agenda, I myself am disgusted."

-- "It was upsetting to find out the White House was trying to block the independent commission's access to the joint inquiry information, when we all know the mandate that created the independent commission states clearly that the commission is to use the joint inquiry as a starting-off point," notes Breitweiser, who also voted for Bush in 2000. "So why would they be blocking access to that?"

-- "Bush begrudgingly signed [the commission] into law," complains one family advocate. "Since it was created, he's done everything to take the teeth out of it. His fingerprints and Karl Rove's are all over this."

-- Given that perspective, there's a growing sense among some 9/11 advocates that the news media have let them -- and the nation -- down. "I'm very disappointed in the press," says Breitweiser. "I think it's disgusting the independent commission is doing the most important work for this nation and it's not even reported in the New York Times or on the nightly news. I've been scheduled to go on 'Meet the Press' and 'Hardball' so many times and I'm always canceled. Frankly I'd like nothing better than to go head to head with Dick Cheney on 'Meet the Press.' Because somebody needs to ask the questions and I don't understand why nobody is."

OK, it's me again. This really makes me sick to my stomach. Here you have the most devastating event in the history of our country, yet the White House wants to put it behind them and just use it as an excuse to blow up the rest of the world. So while they hide behind waving flags and memorial after memorial, the truth is they don't want the public to know how seriously they fucked up. What other conclusion is there? The Intelligence let us down. And now most of us don't give a shit. It's been cleaned up and it's time to move on.

I love the excuse they first gave, "Hey, no one ever imagined this could ever happen. This is crazy!" Then we see FBI reports that were disregarded that had pondered the good possibility of this happening. There is also a Soul Coughing song from 1994 with the lyrics, "A man flies a plane into the Chrysler Building." So apparently it was imagined.

As the public, we should be demanding answers. Knocking down the walls of the White House asking who fucked up and what is going to be done about it. But we're not. We just want to be in our comfortable Code Yellow living rooms and watch local news that really doesn't matter. Some lady ran over her husband in a car? Some guy shot another guy? Sad, yes, but it means nothing to me. It has no bearing on how I live my day to day life. The government hiding stuff from us, that matters. But where's the outrage?

I don't know. I'm certainly not doing anything about it. I'm writing on a silly little web site that not that many people read, so I know I'm not making a difference. Where is a leader? Where is someone in the media to stand up and ask the questions that matter, like, "Mr. President, what the fuck is going on?"

By the way, this is not a Conservative vs. Liberal issue. This is about what the government keeps from us. I understand if there is something that might threaten national security, but it's painfully obvious that the administration is just trying to make themselves not look stupid (as far as not looking stupid goes, learning how to pronounce "nuclear" would be a start -- you went to Yale, for Christ's sake).

No one has forgotten about 9/11, and barring Alzheimer's, we never will. But that bewilderment that swirled in our heads and made us nauseous for the two weeks after has subsided. How did this happen and why? How did our comfortable little country get so royally fucked by 19 guys (mostly from Saudi Arabia. Not an Iraqi in the bunch.) with box cutters and a year's worth of flying lessons? We never got the answers. The solution brought forth on how to deal with this by the Bush administrations was, "Let's start a war in Iraq." (By the way, I was for the war in Afghanistan, lest you question my patriotism, because we all know your willingness to go to war is a barometer of your patriotism.)

The new Radiohead album contains the lyric, "You have not been paying attention."

'Tis true.

I apologize for going off track. From now on I will go back to writing about things like the Labatt's Bear, shit eating, and anal rape. The stuff I really care about.

* To view the article on Salon, you will have to watch a 15 second commercial to get a "Free Day Pass".

People have reached this page by searching the following:

-- I've got a flabby neck
-- Scott Peterson gay good looking
-- before and after eating doritos
-- eating sisters shit

OK. I've got a flabby neck I understand. Someone with a flabby neck was looking for some assistance on how to lose weight in their neck. I once wrote about John McCain having a flabby neck bag, so that makes sense. It would have been funny if it was actually John McCain who was doing the search.

Scott Peterson gay good looking? Not sure what those people intended to find.

I'm assuming someone was looking for why they feel like crap after eating Doritos. I'm convinced science should study this. Doritos should be banned. They are a lethal substance.

Now, eating sisters shit. What fucking sick motherfucker searches that? The reason he got to my site was because those three words are sporadically throughout my site. Apparently this guy couldn't really find what he was looking for because I was number 182 in a search that brought up about 39,300. Perhaps there is a void out there and someone needs to start up Maybe it was a dog who is web savvy and really enjoys eating his sister's poop.

I turned on Ricki Lake yesterday and the topic of her show was "I want you to sleep with me." I kind of want to go off on a tangent about how retarded our culture is becoming and how dumb we are as a country, but I won't because I won't offer any new ideas. It'll basically come off as sounding like, "Won't someone PLEASE think of the children!?" But we shouldn't be shocked when we hear something like a six year old boy saying or doing something sexual to a female classmate, then they punish the child. I don't remember the specifics but there was some kid a couple of years ago who got suspended for sexual harassment. Motherfucker please. When you can watch Ricki Lake have people begging to get fucked at 4 in the afternoon, shit's gonna happen. Yes yes, I know, where are the parents? Shouldn't they be supervising this? Come on! You were never left alone as a child, maybe once or twice?

By the way, if you are a child, you should not be reading any of this. Please go to this site and learn something.

Further evidence of our descent into idiocy:

Paradise Hotel is FOX's newest reality show. From what I can gather, beautiful people have to stay at some beautiful resort and then fuck each other. The guy doing the voice over on the Paradise Hotel commercial said, "If you don't hook up, you go home." So there is finally a game show where the ultimate goal is sex. Remember when Club MTV was considered too raunchy? Looking back, that show is like the Mickey Mouse Club. Here are some other shows currently in the pipeline that would have been unthinkable just a few years ago:

-- "Name That Infection" -- A follow-up to Paradise Hotel, this will be a game show where we look at the genitalia of the Hotel contestants and guess what diseases they have. America will get the chance to vote for their favorite disease. The winning disease will get a record deal with Columbia Records and Merck.

-- "Get Your Dick Wet!" -- From the producers of Temptation Island "comes" this show about five fraternity brothers who compete to see which one can get laid the most within two weeks. What the guys don't know, though, is that all of the women they meet work for the show. The other twist? We put holes in all of the condoms - hee hee! Whoever fathers the most children will be rewarded with their own reality show called "Suicide Watch." If a contestant doesn't impregnate any women, they will get their own sitcom about a bumbling, childless cop called "Shootin' Blanks."

-- "Will This Fit Up Your Ass?" -- Inspired by gross-out shows like Jackass and the Tom Green show, "Will This Fit Up Your Ass?" is a show where our Man on the Street walks around Los Angeles asking people, "Hey, will this fit up your ass?" Carrying random objects to stick up the asses of everyday people, we'll find out just what can fit up the average ass! If the object does fit up your ass, you win whatever that object is! And if it doesn't fit (up your ass), you'll be entered into a competition to have our very own plastic surgeon widen your ass passage! At the end of the season, a winner will be chosen at random from the people with the smallest asses (or assageways) to have their ass made larger.

-- "Ugly People Doing It" -- Tired of seeing gorgeous people on TV getting all the action? Well, their time to shine is over! This reality show features 11 ugly people getting the chance to have sex with each other. Vogue is already calling it "The funniest show of the new season! These people are so ugly. They'd never get laid in real life!"

-- "The Penis and Vagina Show" -- From the producers of Seventh Heaven, this show will feature penises going into vaginas.

Here are some alternate slogans for the Fox News Channel:

-- Fox News Channel: If nothing else, we're louder
-- Fox News Channel: All of our reporters have giant heads; both figuratively and literally
-- Fox News Channel: We're just as frightened of black people as you are
-- Fox News Channel: We report, You agree (hypnotic ghost voice then says, "Agreeeeeee")
-- Fox News Channel: We aren't biased. We do have a democrat. You know, that one guy. Hannity. No wait, Colmes, I'm not sure. The goofy looking one. He likes abortions.
-- Fox News Channel: All hail King Bush
-- Fox News Channel: Fair and Balanced; Nah, we're just fuckin' with ya

I emailed my mom the story of when I thought my apartment was getting broken into (see 06/12 posting). She emailed back saying, "I'm glad that you are safe and sound in Brooklyn and that there was no 'Deliverance' episode."

This is the first time my mother has ever referenced anal rape. Quite disturbing.

It's that time of year again. The shopping malls are packed, holiday music fills the airwaves and blasts from speakers all over the country, people are nicer to each other and children look to the sky for a glimpse of you know what. Yes, it's hard to believe, but another Flag Day is upon us! How fast a year this was!

Does the president really need to wear the American flag pin on his lapel? Has anyone ever questioned his patriotism? You are the President of the United States. I'm pretty sure no one will accuse you of being apathetic towards your country. Besides, the American flag? Come on. That is, like, so September 12th.

David Brinkley died. I am sad. Good man. He now faces an eternity of rolling over in his grave.



So in conclusion, I like to kill people.

Egypt banned the Matrix Reloaded because of religious themes. They should have banned it because of that retarded rave scene and not having a plot and for wasting my time and for taking my ten dollars and for making me not give a shit about the third one and showing all of the cool shit in the previews.

Here is some sample dialogue that I am making up from the movie:

Some Character Other Than Neo: But Neo, why are we doing this?
Neo: I don't know. Because the Oracle said so! And it's the Matrix and the public will eat this shit up with a spoon!
Some Character Other Than Neo: Good enough for me! You are the One!

Speaking of the Middle East, this Road Map to Peace is going along swimmingly! Personally, I'd use a lot less missiles and suicide bombers, but hey! I guess that's why I'm not in Washington!

It's quite rare that something interesting happens to me at 2:30 in the morning, especially when I have to work the next day and I'm asleep by 9:00. Well, last night, my slumber was interrupted by a noise. Since I was sleeping, I had no idea what woke me up, but there was something. At first it sounded like it was in my room. A few months ago, we had mice invaders, so hearing the patter of their little feet wasn't unusual. But they have been gone for quite some time.

After getting my bearings, I looked out my window, and there on the stairs of the fire escape was a person creeping their way down the steps on their tip-toes. Here is a quick impression of the inside of my head when I saw this:


While the stairs of the fire escape go by my window, the actual fire escape landing is outside of the window in my kitchen -- the next room over. I live on the second floor (just like Luka). Now I'm hoping that, for whatever bizarre middle of the night reason, it is someone from the upstairs apartment trying to get to the backyard. Or perhaps it's Spider-Man and he got lost or ran out of webs. Then I hear the window being finagled with and I finally accept the fact that someone wants in.

Ok. What do I do? What do I do? Do I turn my light on and try to scare them away, or yell outside, "I called the cops!" No, because it might be some crackhead with an itchy trigger finger. Time to call 911. I've called 911 once before in my life during an ice storm when some icy power lines caused an explosion. But there I was in no immediate danger. The electrical box thing exploded and started a tiny fire out on the street. No big deal. Here was someone trying to get into my fucking apartment, motive unknown. Calling 911 is a surreal experience. I start getting even more nervous when I start going through the whole conversation with the operator, because you really start to think about the situation. I remained pretty calm. I was thinking that if something drastic does happen here, they might play the 911 call on the local news. And those things always sound so ridiculous. It's someone screaming and the 911 operator saying, "Ma'am/Sir, I need you to calm down. What is your address?" Then the person is like, "Oh God PLEASE someone get here now!!!" And the people watching are like, "Tell her where you live, you jackass!" I didn't want to be that person.

So I explain to her what's going on and then she tells me the cops are on their way. OK. So I just wait here then? I'm sitting there on my bed looking around for a Weapon of Ass Kicking Destruction, like a baseball bat or a hockey stick. Unfortunately, all of that stuff is at my home in NJ. I've got a frisbee and a baseball. That's about it. If this guy gets in, we can have a catch.

Then I hear whispering on the fire escape. FUCK! There's two of them. Now I imagine myself getting raped by one while the other steals my DVD player (truthfully, I'm thinking about my female roommates in the other rooms, but it's better for the story if I get raped). So now I'm wondering, "Do I try and sneak through the kitchen to my roommates' bedrooms and tell them to get out of the house?" No. Just wait for the cops.

Just when I'm thinking, "Damn, these burglars suck," I hear something slide open. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit. They are getting in. Where are the Boys in Blue???

So many questions I'm asking myself. Do I go and try to defend my home? No, it's probably some fucking crackheads who just want a stereo or a DVD player to sell. It's not worth risking my life. Just let them do what they are going to do. Cops should be here any minute. But what if they do decide to wander into my roommate's room and do the unimaginable? Well, then I'll definitely have to go out and try to do something. So just wait this out and see what happens. Cops will be here. I keep hearing them trying to mess with the window. Apparently, they can't get in, and the sliding that I heard must have just been the outside screen and not the actual window, which was locked.

All of the sudden, I see two people walking back up the fire escape. What the hell? Are they giving up? Were there three of them and one finally got in? Then I hear people walking down the stairs from the third floor and a knock at the door of the first floor. The cops are here. I go out, open my apartment door, and there on the first floor is one of my roommates answering the door for the cops. Wha? She and her guy friend were locked out of the apartment, but apparently didn't feel like knocking or calling, so they figured they'd try to scare the absolute shit out of me by trying to break in on the fire escape. I'm still not sure what happened or why they didn't knock or how they got to the fire escape. I really didn't stay up to chat. I was more interested in going back to sleep and getting my heart rate down to a normal pace. My roommate apologizes profusely and says, "When you think about it now, it's really kind of funny." Yes yes. That would have been hilarious if the cops decided to blow your head off. This is all very funny.

So all in all, it was kind of a disappointment. No shootout in my kitchen, no bloodshed, no near death experience. I was thinking maybe something would have happened that would give me a new lease on life, and I'd live every day to the fullest. No such luck. I'm still going to watch too much TV and not take advantage of the wonderful world around me.

I do have to give the cops credit. They were there pretty quickly. Had this been a fire, I'd be dead because Mayor Assberg decided to shut down our firehouse to save a few bucks. To the cops dis-credit, my roommate, said, "Oh wow, you guys scared me." They replied, "Well, you scared us." Cops are not allowed to be scared. At least, don't admit it.

One thing that I am very happy about is that when I get scared, I don't shit myself.

"Thank you for hearing me." Is that a creepy commercial or is it just me?

I must be watching too much television lately because all I want to write about are commercials. I saw an ad for the Gillette Mach3Turbo razor, where this guy starts shaving and as he is shaving he starts flying. Well, not really flying, but more like hovering in front of the mirror. It's all windy and shit and he's having the shaving experience of his life. Then his hot girlfriend comes in the bathroom and is hovering next to him, and she's got this look on her face like, "I'm dating the best face shaver in the world!" Then there is a voice over that asks, "Can your razor do this?"

Um, no, mine can't. And I'm pretty sure no matter how extreme you say your razor is, there is no way it can make me levitate. And if you did invent the technology to make people fly, I'd market it as its own separate product. I've never had a conversation with any guy where he said, "Dude, today I was shaving, but it sucked, because I was thinking, 'Why the fuck can't I shave and fly at the same time?'"

I'm sick of the current "extreme" focus that dominates pop culture, like Mountain Dew and crap like that. I blame Dan Cortese and Bad Boy stickers. And now that it has invaded personal grooming, there may never be an end. Soon we will start to see commercials like "Crest Floss; It kills plaque -- and then it fucks the dead plaque's skull!" Or "Depends Undergarments: They'll totally catch the crap out of all the shit you can't control in your ass!"

I was going to write one about tampons, but even I was offended by it.

If I could pick a disease to have, it'd definitely be monkeypox, only because it's hilarious. "Mike Toole called out of work today. He has monkeypox." Sure it'd suck to have all those rashes and scabs, but come on! Monkeypox!

"Eat shit and die" is a terrible thing to say to someone. As far as mean things to say to a person, "Eat shit and die" has got to be towards the top of the list. Not only are you wishing someone to no longer exist, but you want their last act on Earth to be the eating of feces.

If you really want someone dead, I think there would be enough satisfaction in them simply dying. Do you really need to see them eat shit? Our culture is already becoming too mean spirited, so I'd like to offer the following alternatives.

Something like, "Call your mom and die." If someone is going to die, I'm pretty sure they'd like to talk to their mom beforehand, rather than eat poo. Or maybe offer them some advice to do something better that would increase their chances of getting into heaven. "Volunteer at a hospital and die."

If I only hear one person tell me, "Call your mom and die," I will have made a difference.

Funny Cide just lost. That's a bummer. It would have been cool to see a Triple Crown winner. I lost five bucks to my mom. She should be a commentator. With the horse going into the gate, she said, "He looks conceited." Maybe he needed to be knocked down a few pegs. It's good for his character.

I'm really disturbed by the Labatt's Blue ads with the talking bear that likes to have sex with women. Of course they never show him having sex, but it's implied. There's the one where he's playing baseball with a couple of dudes and he breaks someone's window, so the bear goes over to the house to apologize and of course brings a cooler full of Labatt's. When he gets there, Hot Chick opens the door and is obviously attracted to the bear. Who wouldn't be? It's a talking bear with beer. As luck would have it, Hot Chick lives with Hot Roommate. So not only is this bear getting laid, he's having a threesome!

I think we all knew that Spuds Mackenzie was getting some human ass, but it was left to the imagination. This bear is all about drinking and having sex.

Someone had to go into a meeting and say, "My idea for our spokesperson is an alcoholic Black Bear that bangs chicks. White chicks. A Big Black Bear that Bangs White Broads!"

At least the Miller Lite girls wrestling in the pool ads are blatant. You know what the goal is. With the bear, I'm just like, "Wait, what? Did that bear just go in there to start doing it with those girls? Are girls attracted to bears? I missed that survey in Cosmo about chicks digging bears." My initial reaction to the Miller Lite ad was, "I am morally outraged by this incredibly awesome commercial!"

For me Labatt's Blue will now just be the beer that bears drink when they want to have sex with ladies. I'm going to stick with Guiness.

I've got my high school reunion tomorrow. I'm not excited about it, more curious than anything else. I think I'm only going because I've gotten taller since high school. And I'm not completely bald yet.

It'll be interesting to see the people who, if they had the foresight and the creativity, would have shot up the school like The Columbine Kids. After Columbine I remember thinking there were probably 10 guys in my grade who were like, "Oh man! I totally should have done that!" On second thought, maybe it'll be better if they aren't at the reunion. A high school reunion shooting would be the worst thing for people who tell the "unpopular" kids in high school, "Don't worry. Things get so much better after high school." All you need is one guy with a gun and a really big grudge to ruin that for guidance counselors everywhere.

You know when you have that hair in the corner of your eye and you do all sorts of stuff to try and get rid of it? Like you blow on it or you try to grab it or you just take wild swipes at it. Yeah, well that may suck, but imagine having antlers. I'm talking big fucking moose antlers. They never go away.

I'm not feeling creative today, so here is the lazy man's blog:

I just crapped a hundred dollars in quarters!

The Tornado -- God's version of a Monster Truck Rally.

The road map to peace started with a Rock, Paper, Scissors competition to see who will be the first to stop bombing. Everyone picked paper. Back to square one.

All material © Mike Toole; 2003 - 2006