Blogging Like I've Never Blogged Before

Wednesday, March 31, 2004

"My hand, combined with the hand of John Kerry will turn this nation around! Literally. Our hands are so big, we can change the rotation of the earth."

There's a fella I work with who urinates in an odd fasion. If you walk into the bathroom as he is relieving himself, his head is always turned to the right (away from the entrance) and slightly looking up. His arms seem to be at his sides. It's somewhat statuesque. Kind of like the Brawny paper towel guy (before he had his Queer Eye makeover).

It's such a weird pose for a pee. He almost looks scared of his penis. His hands are at his sides, apparently not guiding his penis, and the way his head is turned, it looks like he went, "Oh the horror! I will not look at such a thing!"

With me, I'm completely different. When other guys walk in, I'm like, "Dude, check out my penis. It's peeing. Yeah, drank a lot of coffee and water today, so you know. Lots of visits to the ol' fishin' hole, right? Hey, where you going?"

Ariel Sharon, anticipating he'll be forced out, auditions for his own sitcom called "Uncle Ari", in which he tries to be fun and hip with the kids.

"West side, boy! No wait, I mean, West Bank, goy!"

Jason Patric, "star" of The Alamo got busted for public drunkeness.

"Remember the Alamo! Oh man, I love you guys. This is the best. We should do this every year. Hey! Make that a promise, OK? Every year we'll come back here and yell out 'Remember the Alamo!' OK, guys? This is the best night I've ever had. Hey, who wants Tex-Mex?"

I once saw Jason Patric at St. Patrick's (no relation) Cathedral for Christmas Eve midnight mass. I was standing in the back like a chump and he got to go sit up front, I'm guessing because of his celebrity status. Motherfucker. Even in church, Hollywood gets VIP seating. I'd hate to get to Heaven, be in line waiting for a good cloud, then have St. Peter be like, "Could you please step aside, sir? Jennifer Garner is trying to get by."

Someone got to my site today by searching "do girls typically like it in the ass".

The best part about this search, is the use of the word "typically".

Hey ladies!

So a couple of fine upstanding young women blew themselves up in Uzbekistan today, so far killing at least 19 people. They did it in a market near a shop called "Children's World". OK, they are horrible people, nothing new to say there. But my question here is this: What are female suicide bombers promised? We know that dudes get a bunch of virgins and martyr status. While I'm sure these ladies get the same martyr status, do they get 40 guy virgins? Are they are going to get to whatever after-life they get to and have 40 nerdy high school boys with boners eagerly awaiting their arrival? Or do they get something else? A bunch of hunks, perhaps? At least a calendar with some sexy firemen?

If anyone knows the answer to this, please let me know. And it is great to finally see that equal rights for women are taking steps forward in the middle east. At least in bomb form.

I went out with my dad for dinner tonight. He told me a story I had heard a few times before, but I didn't stop him, because it's one of the best stories I've ever heard. So here goes.

My dad is a retired New Jersey state trooper. This story has to do with two of his former colleagues, one named Rasmussen and the other, Glass. One night, Rasmussen and Glass get called to a bus that has stopped on the side of the Garden State Parkway, due to an incredibly drunk passenger. They get there and the bus driver explains to them that this guy is belligerent and was groping a woman next to him on the bus and wouldn't stop. And, oh yes, he's blind.

So Officer Glass, who is the tough nosed cop gets on the bus and tells the blind man he is going to be arrested. The blind man says, "How do I know you're a cop? Let me feel your badge." So Glass lets the blind man feel his chest, while guarding his weapons. The blind man puts his hand on the badge, can feel the bullet proof vest and gets up to the tie. As soon as he appears to be done, he punches Glass right in the face.

So they tackle him and put him in handcuffs. Any doubts as to whether or not they are cops are now gone. Rasmussen says to Glass, "Well now we got him on assaulting a police officer." Glass says, "Are you kidding? No way are we charging him with that. You will not get me to fill out a report or end up in court to say I got punched by a blind man."

Fair enough, but they still had him for assaulting the woman. He is so drunk they decide to take him to the hospital. He is handcuffed to a bed and the nurse takes his blood. Rasmussen, who was apparently the prankster of the bunch comes up with an idea. If they aren't going to charge him with assaulting an officer, they should at least do something. So he walks into the room and puts on a stereotypical Indian accent. Think Apu. He says, "Hello, I am Dr. Sanjay and I am here for the operation. I see that the nurse has just given you the sedative, so this should not be long and you won't feel a thing."

The blind man asks, "What procedure? What are you talking about?"

"Please do not worry. You will be awake, but it will be virtually painless when we remove your leg."

Now, of course, he is flipping the fuck out. Rasmussen as the doctor says, "With the pain killer, this will only feel like a key going back and forth across the back of your leg." So he takes out his keys and starts rubbing it across the back of the guy's leg. The guy is going nuts and yelling his head off. The nurse looks in the room and Rasmussen just puts his finger to his lips, the universal sign for, It's OK. We're just fucking with this blind drunk guy a bit.

Because the guy also was a complete asshole when the nurse drew blood from him, she doesn't care what they are doing to him. Now Rasmussen says, "OK, looking at your chart, it looks as though I cut off the wrong leg. Not a big deal, I will just now cut off the correct one."

The blind man's father comes to pick him up a little bit later and is telling the cops that this is apparently turning into a weekly occurrence where he either has to pick him up from the hospital or jail. He goes in to talk to his son and comes back out and says, "He's drunker than normal. He's so drunk he thinks the doctors cut off his legs."

There's the story. My dad tells it very well. I think it's probably better in person, rather than blog form.

Anyway, I know that it may not be the most ethical thing, and yes, it is wrong to torture blind people, but come on. That shit is fucking funny.

Sometimes when I think of someone that I haven't seen in a while, but still keep in touch with, the image that pops into my head is their email address, rather than their face.

Someone got to my site by searching "is advil bad for an unborn child".

Now I'm no doctor, but I don't think you should be giving any over-the-counter medicine directly to your fetus. First, they may choke on the pill. Second, how will you get it to them? I imagine that might be messy. Also, does your unborn child have a headache? How do you know it needs an Advil? And do you know that just one Aleve lasts all day?

So in conclusion, my advice to you is to... um. Well, let's see. I don't know. If you have all these questions, maybe you shouldn't have gotten pregnant in the first place. Sheesh. What a tramp.

Remember that time I launched a full-scale war against a country based on lies and a personal vendetta? That was hilarious!

"Those weapons of mass destruction have to be here somewhere," Bush joshed as he narrated a slide show of him looking behind furniture, as if hunting for them.

"Nope, no weapons over there. Maybe under here," Bush joked Wednesday at the annual dinner of Washington radio and TV correspondents, an event where Presidents typically poke fun at the press and themselves.

Oh, stop it, Mr. President! You are killing me! I mean soldiers. There are lots of soldiers that were killed. But still, that joke was just gangbusters. And apparently some family members of soldiers don't share our similar senses of humor. They just don't get it and are probably still all sad because their sons and daughters died. But whatever. The important thing is that you got 'em rollin' in the aisles.

"Heh heh heh. Me no have no brain!"

So now, according to Netflix, I've gone from a gay man to a 12-year-old girl. Guess I'll be going to see The Prince and Me on April 2.

Good times, bro. Good times.

I apologize in advance for this joke, except of course, if you are a boy in the seventh grade.

Q: Where do carpenters go to get hookers?

A: The Ho Depot.

Here is a story about why you shouldn't be mean to people.

When I was in college, I had a class which was taught by a Chinese fella. It was the first class he ever taught on his own. With apologies to my parents, who were kind enough to pay my way through college, I don't even remember what the subject of this class was. I think it was some sort of history.

Anyway, our teacher was not incredibly fluent in English. One of the nicest people I've ever met, but just not comfortable with the language. When he would give a lecture, you could see him translating words in his head. Not literally see it, because that would have freaked me out, but you could tell the words came out through a very difficult process.

There were about 18 people in this class. I sat in a section where two other guys always were. One was a nice guy that I'd usually talk to before class about nothing, and another guy who would occasionally join in. That guy was basically a meathead. He appeared pretty dense, and never tried to do anything to dissuade people away from that appearance. If I had to associate him with a sound, it would be "Doof." When I picture him talking, that's what I imagine coming out.

"Hey dude. What'd you do this weekend?"

"Doof doof doof doof. And then I pretty much doofed the rest of the doof."

Also in this class, there was a girl. A girl that was older than the lot of us, and seemed to be one of those people that no one under the age of 22 liked in college. You know, those people. The ones that wanted to learn. Damn them!

What this meant was that she'd ask a ton of questions. Of course, there is nothing inherently wrong with that, but she would constantly interrupt the teacher. A teacher who wasn't the best at speaking English and who would get derailed quite easily when interrupted. So it was annoying. Not only was it annoying because it would extend class and would mess up our teacher's flow, but for the most part her questions were quite stupid. They were usually questions she seemed to ask just to hear herself talk and make other people think she was smart.

Everyone in the class despised her. The Doof guy would make incredibly audible grunts and moans as soon as she'd raise her hand, then start to talk without any provocation. At one point, I specifically remember him saying very loudly, "Aw shit, come on."

About two-thirds of the way through the semester, I walked into class like any other day and noticed she wasn't there. Unusual because she was always there, with her notes ready and preparing her routine of "Mess up the Chinese guy with questions." I was psyched that she was going to be absent. This will be a nice class, I thought. I sat down and the guy behind me, the guy other than the Doof guy said to me, "Dude, you know that chick? She died."

God damn. I felt like shit. I never even spoke to her or anything, but I just felt bad for being so excited that she wasn't in class that day. She had been in a car accident driving home from school the day before. Then I started to feel really bad because I never imagined her having a life outside this history class. I thought to myself, "She was in a car? That's, like, what real people do." So I put a life around this annoying person, and damn, do I feel terrible.

Class started and the teacher said a few words about her, even acknowledging the fact that she could sometimes be a burden to the class because of her constant interruptions. Then he started to tell us a little more about her and her life, and it was just heartbreaking.

At this point, Doof hasn't gotten to class yet. He was late. So he walks in after the announcement, as the teacher is now in his lecture, he sits down in front of me and says, "Sweet. She's not here, huh?"

The other guy said, "Dude, she died."

"Shut the fuck up."

"Serious, she died."

"What? You're kidding."

He looked at me with this horrid look in his eyes. I just nodded. He turned around and didn't move for the rest of the period.

Forty or so minutes later, the class was over, we walked out and Doof said something that would stick with me forever.

He sighed and said, "Damn, I hated her, but I didn't want her to fuckin' die."

And that is why you shouldn't be mean to people. Because people die. And you will feel bad. When they die. But not when they are absent from class. Only when they die. People.

Yesterday, I saw a cloud shaped like a boner. But it soon turned into a duck.

I will try to make that into a haiku.

Driving in my car,
A boner flew above me.
Then became a duck.

A recent post by Lisa got me thinking about ducks.

Back in college, two of my bestest friends in the whole wide world, Rick and Rich came to visit. Havoc was wreaked. At one point over the weekend, we were walking by a lake on the way to my apartment and there were a bunch of ducks. There was this mother duck who was walking by with all of her little ducklings not far behind. For some reason, Rich thought it'd be a good idea to step towards the duck in an attempt to scare it. I guess he just wanted to see what would happen. Well, for whatever reason, that set off a horrific chain reaction.

The mother flew only a few feet away, but must have quacked in an odd way, because just seconds later, a bunch of other ducks started chasing her. I am assuming these were male ducks, because there were about six of them that started to gang rape her. In front of her ducklings.

In defense of Rich, he didn't know that there were ducklings. He wouldn't have done that if he knew she had babies following her.

The best part was while the mother was being attacked, some dude in the dorm to the left of us yelled out, "You asshole!"

I just imagine there are a few adolescent ducks somewhere in south Jersey now, still traumatized by seeing their mom get gang raped. They are probably falling in with the wrong crowd, smoking cigarettes, maybe they turned gay. They are the asshole ducks that jump over all of the other ducks when you throw bread in the water. Or maybe (here comes the worst joke ever on this blog) they are quackheads. HA! Get it? Quackheads?! Instead of crackheads? See what I did there? Quack rhymes with crack. Ducks quack. They don't smoke crack. But if they did, perhaps they'd be quackheads. That's how I came up with that joke. It's awesome, right?

Anyway, who knew ducks could be so complicated?

I was watching VH1's 100 Most Shocking Moments in Rock 'n Roll yesterday. VH1 is the random channel I am getting for free this month. Anyway, I started watching at around 38, and I stuck it out until the end. Just as they said, "And up next, we have the final two", my TV went to all static. Every channel. I knew that John Lennon would be number one, but I wasn't sure about number 2. Turns out it was when Michael Jackson got busted in '93 with pedophile charges. That's crap. I thought it'd be the plane crash that killed Buddy Holly. Come on! It had the Big Bopper on it!

Anyway, what I found most interesting about the whole show was they had some pictures of Kurt Cobain after he killed himself. It was when the cops were there investigating and there was a photo through a doorway where you could see him lying there, from the waist down. What struck me was that he still had his sneakers on. If I was going to do that, I'd definitely take off my shoes. I'd be all about a comfortable suicide. I've got these awesome socks that I bought from Eddie Bauer that were on sale for half price, and man, they'd be so good walking into the afterlife. Assuming the floor is hardwood, I could do that run and slide for a few feet. How fun.

I didn't understand a lot of the VH1 choices about the most shocking moments. Michael Jackson's hair going on fire was really high up there. First, that wasn't all that shocking. It was more on the hilarious side. Shocking means I would say, "Oh my word!" Which I didn't. Second, these were supposed to be shocking moments in Rock and Roll. He was filming a Pepsi commercial where he agreed to change the lyrics to Billie Jean so they would relate to Pepsi. That is so not Rock and Roll. Eleven kids dying at a Who concert? That's Rock and Roll. Being sued by some idiot parents because their idiot kids killed themselves while listening to your music? Rock and Roll. Dying on a toilet? Rock and Roll. Having a spark fly from a pyrotechnic and light up your head? Rock and Roll. Unless of course you are filming a commercial.

So, in conclusion. Kids dying = Rock and Roll. Hair burning during a commercial = Not Rock and/or Roll. Leaving your sneakers on during suicide = undetermined.

If you are an overweight mom, I don't think you need any other motivation to lose those extra pounds than this story right here. Good Lord.

Happy St. Patrick's Day! Don't eat the green snow. Or the snow with chunks of vomit. In fact, your best bet might be the yellow snow.

Someone got to my site today by searching "wrigley and comiskey picture difference girl boobs".

If someone in the Chicago area can help explain this, it'd be greatly appreciated. I imagine it's some kid who just wanted to compare the differences in the two Chicago baseball stadiums, and at the end of the search, he was just like, "...and let's see if we can't find some boobs while we're out there." He's probably some bored high school kid that is supposed to be doing research on his home state of Illinois, but like any high school boy, he'd like to take a gander at some boobs while he is writing his paper.

"OK, let's search 'great chicago fire'. Hmmm, lots of results. Let's narrow that down to 'great chicago fire hot chick boobs'. Oh yeah. Here we go. I'm definitely getting a B on this paper."

Kids. What a bunch of research hungry perverts.

I played basketball again last night, and much to my chagrin, I still suck. (If need be, go here for part one of my Eternal Suckiness).

I think I may have somehow gotten worse. I have discovered there are three types of players.

Type A: People who suck (me) that are just playing for the exercise.

Type B: People who are good that are just playing for the exercise.

Type C: People who, regardless of their abilities, take it way too fucking seriously.

Most of the people that do play are people that I work with, and we are playing for nothing. But there are some that are invited by others. So obviously, the competitive meter shouldn't be set on high. Well, actually no. High is fine. It shouldn't be on EXTREME!!!!

At the start of our second game last night, there was a new guy who came in, and it turned out I'd be covering him. He was bigger than me, not necessarily taller, but bigger. Obviously stronger, but I thought I'd be fine against him.

What you couldn't tell by his body type was his mental capacity. This dude was fucking insane. He kept making grunting noises and was sweating profusely within 18 seconds. And he never stopped running. He was either on batteries or coke. Coke that ran on batteries. And the noises he made were hilarious. He sounded like a dog doing an impression of Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman.

"Grrr. Raff. Hughghflb. Hoo-Ah! Rrrr. Yah!"

But my favorite was after he scored a basket, he would actually say, "Yee-ha!" Then he'd run to the other end of the court with both of his arms in the air with his fingers pointing up. He was number 1. I'm not sure who still says Yee-ha past the age of whatever the age is when you stop wanting to be a cowboy, but apparently this guy still has some dreams of being the first cowboy basketball player.

There was another guy who is a really good player, but takes it a bit too hard. At one point the ball was going out of bounds and we were both going for it. We were also on the same team, but I was ahead of him, so I didn't know who was behind me. He says "Same" which to me means we are on the same team, but to him meant, "You should stop right now, although you are closer to the ball and only a foot behind it, then I will jump for it and save it from going out of bounds and hit it back to you." But I didn't know that. Dude flips and punches a table. It's one of those old high school cafeteria tables that fold up and stand vertically. Well, the table collapses and almost everyone looks at him and realizes he's taking this too far. Except for Cowboy who I think said, "Yee-ha!" and then fired his fake guns into the air.

I don't like losing, obviously. No one does. But when you are playing in a high school gym with a bunch of guys that, for the most part, don't really give a shit, you should keep your table punching in check. It's like my dad always said, "Michael. No one likes a table puncher. Except for cowboys. Now be a good boy and go make daddy a Martini, extra olives."

Here's me in December when it snows: This is awesome! I love winter. God bless America! It's a winter wonderland! I'm a kid again!

Here's me in March when it snows: Seriously? Are you kidding me? It was fifty degrees yesterday. This is bullshit. I hope a bus hits me.

I began my morning off with an apple. Nice start. Then I had some Sun Chips from the vending machine. OK, not that great, but not terrible. For lunch I had McDonald's followed by a Twix.

I'm not weight conscious, but I've noticed the lack of nutrition in my diet. I shouldn't pull a muscle when I tie my shoe, which is obviously also related to my lack of exercise. Maybe I have a tapeworm, because I think I should be on the portly side. I don't eat well, I drink too much, and I exercise rarely.

I should have noticed this earlier. A couple of years ago, I pulled a muscle while throwing up due to a hangover. My body might as well have been saying, "Hello, Mr. Asshole? This is your wake up call."

If anyone would like to volunteer to be my nutritionist, please let me know.

Welcome to World War III. I think the bombing in Madrid makes it official. But it's still a weird one. The war. Established countries struggling to fight people working out of caves that use the Anarchist Cookbook as a war plan.

And with the change of parties in Spain, you can now say the terrorists won that battle. So a couple of strategically placed bombs, we have now learned, can change the course of national politics. That blows. If this didn't happen, and that many people came out to vote simply because they didn't support their government for supporting ours, then that's fine. But for there to be such a dramatic change in course based on the bombings, that's scary. You can't really blame the Spanish people though. They saw September 11th, were horrified, but hey, as far as they know, it's not really their problem. It wasn't until their government joined up with us that they became a more appealing target.

Al Qaeda bombings in Spain before the Iraq war: 0
Since: 1

It's easy to say, "Sept. 11 was an attack on the world, on democracy as a whole! Everyone must join us!" Yes, that's true, but I wouldn't blame a country's leaders for not wanting to join a war against a country where there didn't seem to be terrorists coming out of. Not too many people protested the war in Afghanistan.

I saw an article that said since Al Qaeda claimed they did this bombing because Spain supported the Iraq war, that proves Al Qaeda is in cahoots with Iraq. What? All this proves is that they are still around and a bunch of crazy bastards looking for excuses to bomb shit.

It's going to be easier for them to bomb European countries than it is America based on logistical reasons and weaker intelligence, so that's where they'll take it. It represents almost as big a hit as it would if it were on American soil.

It's simple to blame the Spanish voters right now for being foolish and not seeing the big picture. Fuck that. The picture for them right now is 200 dead people in their capital city, because their government chose to support a war that wasn't popular to begin with. Does that make the government wrong? Not necessarily, but it does express a common view among most humans that is, "Hey. I like peace, and when war is avoidable, let's avoid it."

Once again, I don't want to talk about war, so why am I? Damn. And once again, terrorists are assholes.

Ever since I gave Hedwig and the Angry Inch four stars on Netflix, it is recommending every gay movie on the planet. Netflix thinks I'm gay. I remember someone recently talking about how their Tivo thinks they are gay. I kind of yell back at Netflix. "No, Netflix! I am not gay. Didn't you see I gave Die Hard 5 stars? Bruce Willis is fabulous in that! I mean awesome! He's awesome. Not fabulous. Damn."

After September 11th, I always imagine random shit just blowing up. What happened in Spain is a frequent fear and daydream. Or daynightmare, I suppose. I'll see someone mysterious on my train and imagine him saying some prayer or some shit, then pushing a button and boom. There goes the L train.

And there was this truck that was sitting outside my apartment for a very long time. A U-Haul. I imagined it loaded with explosives. It sat across from a school. My paranoia one morning said to me, "If that thing is still here when you get home, let someone know. That's been there for an odd amount of time, and it has never moved." I got home that day and it was gone.

There was a really loud boom fairly recently outside of my office. I'm used to hearing noises like trucks barreling down Broadway making loud noises, but this was huge. Everyone looked up. I turned around and expected to see the Empire State Building crumbling. It was some stunt that was going on outside of the Dave Letterman show, but it scared the shit out of me. Maybe they were blowing up a snowboarder.

So when real stuff happens like that... sheesh. It's frightening enough to think it, but to see it. Oh well. I'd rather not talk about tragedy and war. I just can't imagine ever getting so emotional over a belief that it would seem like a good idea to blow up people on their way to work. I believe that Jim Carrey is not a very good serious actor. But I would never blow up a bus to convince you of that. I'd just watch the Truman Show with you and say, "Come on. You're telling me this isn't overrated?" But that's it.

What has two index fingers and loves blow jobs?


Note to the ladies: This is an old joke that is mostly only told around guys, and most often used with thumbs in the place of index fingers. I do not know of the oral preferences of Senator Kerry, nor did I make up this horribly misogynistic joke.

Thank you.

I went to see Big Fish after work yesterday. I've been wanting to see it for a while. There are a lot of dudes I know that have said, "I cried." OK, I'm a dude, not afraid to cry, I want to see a good movie, haven't been to the movies in a while and I've got 10 dollars and a quarter to spend. Yes, middle America. Ten dollars and twenty five cents. It's bullshit.

Anyway, I went by myself. I like going to the movies by myself. Some people say they would never do it. I enjoy it. You've just gotta be careful not to drop popcorn butter on your crotch. While I do like to go with other people, I don't understand the need to go with someone else, because you are supposed to be quiet during a movie, hence no talking. Some people still don't get that.

When I got in to the lobby, there were these two people who were so annoying. I'd say they'd be stereotypical annoying people at a theatre, but I'd be offending stereotypes. Someone who is a stereotype would see these people and be like, "Good Lord, I'm not that bad, am I?" So I was praying they were not going to see Big Fish. No they weren't. If they were, I would have asked for my money back right there. They were off to go ruin Monster for some fine people.

Now I am sitting in my seat and two people sit behind me. Man and woman speaking Italian. And they are talking kind of loud. Fuck. It's bad enough for people to talk, but if I can't understand them, that might even be worse. But no. They were good Italians throughout the entire movie.

Of course right as the movie is about to begin, two NYU girls sit in front of me. They sit in seats where they aren't necessarily in my way, but I can tell they have an annoying potential. I wanted to move, but I also didn't want to be that guy. That guy who moves and sighs heavily even if people talk during the previews.

The movie starts and these girls start talking to each other. One leans her head right. The other goes left. Right. Left. Right. Left. But they are really quiet and I can't even hear them. So somehow it wasn't that bad. It bugged me that they were talking to each other, but their actual voices and talking didn't really affect the movie. They were also eating soup from a Chinese restaurant and later on had a pre-popped microwave bag of popcorn that was smuggled in.

Ten dollars and twenty five cents to walk through the door. More power to 'em. Just stop crinkling the fucking bag, please. Still, though. It wasn't that loud. Not loud enough where I'd say something or move.

But then. Oh Lord, then! Then one girl looks at her phone (which was silenced, but glowing like a log of Kryptonite), and she answers it!

So here is where I should go nuts, right? I should yell up to the guy (or the computer) that is running the projector and say, "Stop the movie! This bitch just answered her phone!!!" Then everyone would throw their popcorn and Cherry Cokes and Mike & Ikes and their shoes at this girl. Right? That's the next logical step in this story.

But somehow, she's quiet. She is talking on her phone, I'm three seats away from her and I can't hear her. These are the most courteous people without etiquette I've ever seen. They are committing every taboo in a movie theatre, but somehow doing it politely.

So her phone rings (or glows) twice more - once it was for the other girl - but it still wasn't as annoying as it should have been. So then the other girl, the one closer to me, falls asleep for a while. Her pal wakes her up after about ten minutes, because she was beginning to make sleep noises. Not loud snoring noises, but just nice little noises. I almost wanted to spoon with her.

She wakes back up, in time to see the end of the film, and she starts crying! By my estimate, she has seen only about half of it, but she is invested enough to cry. Damn. Me? Not a tear to be found. Not even a little choked up. Nor was there a chill anywhere on my neck or arm.

Oh well. Next time. When the credits come on, I'll just punch myself in the nuts.

I think I realized I don't cry at movies. I never have. I remember leaving Schindler's List, expecting to cry. Everyone was saying how sad the ending is so I wanted to cry. And it was true. The movie ends, I look around and everyone is crying. I was just kind of like, "So, um. We're going to the diner, right?" I felt like I had to cry. I think I even tried to force out a tear. There was a feeling at the time of the movie, where if you didn't cry, it was the equivalent of saying, "Hitler did have some really good ideas."

Actually, the only other person who didn't look like they wanted to cry was my friend Dennis who looked at me after about ten minutes of the movie and said, "Is this whole fuckin' thing in black and white? You gotta be kidding me." He fell asleep and didn't wake up until the credits. So he was all about the diner.

I'm not good at crying I suppose. I was in a play in college where I was supposed to cry, but I couldn't. I said to the director, "How about instead of crying, I just flip the fuck out?" He concurred and that's how it went.

So there it is. I can't cry. But I can flip the fuck out.

And that is my review of Big Fish.

Here is a list of things NOT to do in order to get a good night's sleep.

1. Don't eat three tacos 30 minutes before you plan on going to bed.

That's it. Feel free to hang that up on your fridge as a friendly reminder.

Now how could you not want this guy to be president?

"My fellow Americans. Before I get to this State of the Union stuff, here's Peace Train by Cat Stevens. I also promised Senator Shelby I'd play a little Skynyrd, so bear with me. If you are strictly tuning in to hear about politics, I'd say come back in about ten, fifteen minutes. Right on. Here we go!" Later on, he'd get the whole place singing. "Now just the Republicans! OK, just the ladies this time! Hillary, I can't hear you!"

This picture also reminded me of the scene in airplane with the stewardess singing to the sick kid. "There is only one river, there is only one sea. It belongs to you. It belongs to me. There is only one people!"

Just reading Spalding Gray's obituary at and I realize I don't know much about the man. It's not that surprising that he killed himself. His mother committed suicide. I would think if your mother commits suicide, that must totally fuck you up. Because you've gotta figure that she made it long enough to decide to have you, and depending on when she killed herself, long enough to raise you, then at some point she just decided to leave you motherless. That must make you feel like shit.

With parents, if their kid kills themself, they will of course take all the blame, but you can usually point to outside sources. Maybe they got mixed up with the wrong crowd, or whatever. But after people have kids, that's pretty much it. The rest of your life is your kids. So if you decide to kill yourself after you have kids, your kids must suck.

Of course I joke. I always find it interesting how people commit suicide. Like with Spalding Gray, he jumped off the Staten Island ferry, and just presumably hung out there until he drowned. I don't think I'd want to drown. But I especially would not want to drown in the East River.

Virginia Woolf jumped in a river, but just to make extra sure she died, she put rocks in her pockets. That's commitment. I would totally put rocks in my pockets, so when they found me, some cop or detective would go, "Damn. This fucking guy put rocks in his pockets."

Happy birthday to blog.
Happy birthday to blog.
Happy birthday dear tooleblog.
Happy birthday to blog.

On a cold Sunday one year and a day ago today (stupid Leap Year), this blog was born. Yes, it's been quite a year. So many wonderful things have happened to me. For example, by not getting my hair cut since September, I have saved approximately 60 dollars, not counting tips! Who needs a 401(k) when I've got long beautiful hippie hair?!

So, what else has happened to me? Hmmm. Did I mention my hair? OK, I did. Um, the other night I had a great dream where I had to stop my Uncle Hank from destroying the world. I was all flying around and shit. It was awesome. Highlight of my year.

So if you'd like, take a gander at my first ever post.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a candle to blow out.

I am pleased to announce that on Saturday night I won a chocolate pudding eating contest. Granted I was by myself in my apartment at 3AM, and the chocolate pudding was actually whiskey, but hey, I'm a winner. And who are you to judge a winner?

Uh-oh. Martha Stewart was found guilty. There is going to be lots of rioting among middle-aged housewives. I just saw on the news an angry pack of soccer moms beating a day trader with rolling pins. This will get ugly. The suburbs are not safe tonight.

This one is for the kids:

Q: What did the wife hippopotamus say to her husband when he said she was getting fat?

A: Stop being so hippo-critical!

It's not surprising that the Bush administration used 9/11 in their ads, even though they said they would never politicize it. It's like Kerry showing the video of the soldiers that were kidnapped in Iraq. The Shoshanna gal looking all scared. Or show bodies being flown back to the states and mothers crying at funerals. Have a voiceover saying, "You know, the president says we're winning this war on terror. But look at all these dead people!"

It's fine to be all proud of your accomplishments, but to use the images of you standing on the rubble? Perhaps Kerry can show a reenactment of the CIA and FBI ignoring all of the warnings these terrorists posed.

Anyway, suck on this, Mr President.

Here is a photo of John Kerry at the Special Olympics. When in Rome...

"I like football!"

I had two conversations with my lady roommates last night that were fairly amusing. Here you go:

Mandy: My spring break starts next week.

Me: Sweet. Spring Break!!! You gonna get rowdy?

Mandy: Oh yeah.

Me: So what are you going to do?

Mandy: I'm not really sure. I'll probably go away for a couple of days with my friend from class.

Me: Where to?

Mandy: Probably a Bed and Breakfast in upstate New York.

Me: Oooh. Girls Gone Wild, Schenectady!

Conversation 2:

Paula: Hey Mike. What time do you usually take a shower in the morning?

Me: Around six (pause). Why? Did you wanna get together?

She was curious because she had to go to work early and didn't want to interfere with my morning schedule, but I turned it around on her and made her feel very uncomfortable.

That's all I got right now.

I don't know when in my life I have felt more inept: in my microeconomics class in college or when I play basketball.

I played last night. I'm horrible. Well, maybe not horrible, but I'm not what you'd call "good" or "average" or "not bad". I'm OK when I'm just shooting around, and I've won a game of HORSE here and there throughout my life, but put a defender on me and it soon becomes apparent that I don't know what to do.

I've always adapted well to sports. Baseball, fine. I spent most of my teenage years playing roller hockey. In football, I could always hold my own. In high school, I was on the "good hands" team. This had nothing to do with the appearance of my hands, but the fact that I would catch almost everything. I was always too small and weak to play regularly, though, so the only opportunity I ever got to get in a game was for an onside kick. Close game, late in the fourth quarter, kick off? "Get Toole in there!" the coach would yell. Then everyone would say, "Who?" Coach would say, "You know, small, skinny kid, big noggin. He wears number 80-something. Toole. I think that's his last name, isn't it."

Anyway, I played football this past Saturday. My hands probably can't be classified as that great anymore. I'd be on the "Eh, not so bad hands team". But I played well. Nothing to be humiliated by.

But basketball. Good Lord. I feel like a baby learning to walk, with slightly less poop in my pants and much less smiling. And no one is there to say, "Good boy!" when I get two steps. It's more like, "Come on! Damn!" Granted, I never played enough to get better, but you'd just assume I'd be a little better. I can't even hit a lay-up. Then guys start yelling things at me, like "Pick and roll!" I don't even know what that is. I've heard it a thousand times. It sounds like a country music term.

I'm a broken man today. I was already sore from football, and then after running up and down a court many times last night, I'm ready to call it a life. At one point, my body started participating its own roll call of injuries.

Left ring finger.

Here and jammed!

Right calf.

Here and cramping!

Right ankle.

Present, just let me roll over this other guy's foot first!

My right thumb was apparently tardy for class, but when I got home I picked something up and realized it was bruised. You could say I was playing like I had my thumb up my butt, so maybe that's where the injury came from.

On an unrelated note, why was Oprah sitting with all of the people from Mystic River?

"Hi. I'm Liv Tyler and I'd like to bring this Oscar telecast to a screeching halt by talking in a weird sedated type voice that's not my own, and by introducing two bland Alison Krauss songs from an equally bland movie."

Sorry. I like Alison Krauss but those songs did nothing for me, except induce a couple of yawns. The whole show was pretty yawneriffic.

I didn't even see Cold Mountain, but it looks boring. Come on. It's about a mountain. And it's cold. Isn't that it?

Billy Crystal should be funnier. Anise and I agree that he is the only man who gives a shit about Pete Rose. Not funny.

Whale Rider was robbed. I'm just saying that because that was the only movie with a best actress nominee that I saw. But I'm telling you, that kid can act. I have no interest in seeing Monster. I'm sure she does a fine job, but all I really needed to see was the poster and I was like, "Yeah, she looks like she does a pretty good job." And we all know they were basically just rewarding Charlize for her previous work that was overlooked, like Mighty Joe Young.

A few years back, there was a sketch on Mr. Show where they created an awards show specifically for people playing retarded characters and everyone won an award. Pretty actresses gaining weight or looking ugly is the new retarded.

Now, if someone really pretty can just gain some weight AND play a retard. Well, good God. Give that lady a Nobel.

Will Ferrell and Jack Black were funny. The only funnier thing was the end of the Bob Hope tribute where they showed a clip of him from a couple of years ago standing up and waving to the crowd, but it looked like it was from this year. He's alive!

I was glad to see Sean Penn win. To me, that was an IOU from Dead Man Walking. His WMD joke was weak. It was like he felt like he had to say something. Tim Robbins is great. He just seems like a nice guy. I bumped into him once at a Rangers game, soon after I saw Shawshank, and he said "Sorry, excuse me." I realized it was him and I was just like, "I abblla, doolip fleedo somefrund." I meant to say, "Sorry, my fault. Oh, wow! You were great in Shawshank. I was one of the seven people who saw it before it got nominated."

I always thought I'd act all cool when meeting a celebrity. Turns out, no. Except for Coolio. I think he was more excited to meet me.

Anyway, in conclusion, the Oscars were pretty boring. I long for the days of Janet Jackson's boob.
All material © Mike Toole; 2003 - 2006