Blogging Like I've Never Blogged Before

Tuesday, April 27, 2004

Someone recently got here by searching for the answer to that age-old question: "Where can I find hookers in Schenectady, NY?"

I love when people actually ask questions. Hello, Internet? I'd like a hooker, please.

On Sunday I went to my cousin's first Holy Communion. Not actually the Communion part and it was actually my second cousin (you sure are a stickler for details. Sheesh!). Anyway, when I was communed(?), we went out to breakfast afterwards, then went to the house where family members came over, drank beers out of a cooler and ate burgers and shit like that. My cousins must be crapping money, because they practically threw a wedding for this kid.

The place it was at was a reception hall where nice weddings would be. The food was great and better than many weddings I've been to. In fact, the whole thing was pretty much a wedding, except replace the DJ with a magician. I don't even want to discuss what they did with the garter belt. So weird.

I guess if you are going to have any kind of entertainment at a Communion, it might as well be a magician because that's as close as you can get to having Jesus actually be there.

"Hey, Mister? Can you turn water into wine like Jesus did?"

"Uhhh, no. But I can pull a really long handkerchief out of me sleeve! Oh, that doesn't impress you, huh? OK. Um, well, how about a balloon in the shape of a donkey? What? No, I can't make two of every animal."

This magician made a bunch of weird balloon animals and also a ton of balloon machine guns. Maybe not necessarily machine guns, but guns of some sort. Maybe space guns. Anyway, nothing says "First Holy Communion" like "Magicians and Guns." Just the way they drew it up in the Bible.

I'm looking forward to when these kids get married, because their weddings are going to have a lot of expectations. Not only will they have to get the best wedding band in the world, but they'll also need someone that can juggle the band.

Occasionally I make a joke on this blog that I feel I need to point out was indeed a joke. And that is the one about the garter belt. There was not one at this communion. At least none that I saw.

As I was leaving the Communion, I drove by a Ponderosa restaurant and saw this family walking out with a kid still in his church get-up, so I yelled, "You poor bastard! You are so poor! Enjoy paying off your college loans, dirtbag!"

Sometimes I think Bjork is pretty hot. Then sometimes...

Here are some questions from Dave. He loves the president. Anyway, he sent me three questions that I'm not sure I can even answer, but I suppose I'll try.

What is the difference between a terrible rash and falsifying air force records in order to portray yourself as a fighter pilot?

If anyone can answer this question, let me know. I will tell you about this rash I have on my chest ever since I shaved my chest, due to my heart shit. I now know what it means to scratch an itch. Good Lord, I've never wanted to rip my skin off so bad in my life. Since I've never falsified air force records, I guess I'm halfway to answering this question.

If you could have one superpower, would you choose omnipotence because that would imply all superpowers you cheating bastard?

I suppose I would. That's a great idea. But if I had to pick something other than that, I think I'd go with the ability to assume other people's identities, like Mystique in X-Men. I guess the closest thing I can get to that is to go on that show, I Want a Famous Face. I'd like to see someone go on that show and ask to look like someone really ugly. "I'd like to look like Tom Petty, please."

If there were one kind of soda in the world, what would you do to ensure it wasn't Sierra Mist so you wouldn't have to see those monkey commercials?

I don't think I've seen those commercials. And I kind of like Sierra Mist. If there was some kind of plan in effect that would make it so there was only one soda, I wouldn't really know what to root for. Maybe root beer? That could be their slogan. Root for Root Beer!

Here are my first three questions, live via satellite from Kat, who is currently in Miami on business (doesn't that sound so professional?).

what's up with some cities not observing daylight savings time?

I don't know. I've wondered that for a while. I'm all for that. I know Arizona is like that and I think that's pretty sweet. Wait, you wrote cities? Do you mean states or are there actually only cities that do that? That would take balls. Like some little podunk place in Mississippi, if they wanted to get on the news, they could just be like, "Fuck you and your rules and your clocks. In fact, we are so nuts, we are just going to keep our clocks at 3:17 all the time. That's right, the official time of Podunk, Mississippi is, and will always be, 3:17."

what's your favoritest blog (not counting your own, you conceited bastard)?

Well, Kat, I really do like yours. Are you just trying to get a cheap plug? Is that what this is about? Clever. But one of my favorites is this guy Alfie. I don't know him, but he often makes me laugh. Here is a clever line he wrote while sitting in a computer lab:

I can see, for example, that the guy on my left is taking an online calculus quiz. I can also see that he is not equipped with a calculator, pencil, or paper. He's either an idiot or a genius.

And he usually keeps it short and sweet so it's a nice read.

& finally, if crowned Miss America, what do you plan to do to make the world a better place?

I would put an end to the Miss America pageant, and all pageants in general. I think they are a cancer on our society and not healthy for the kids. And you know how I'm all about the kids. I would also say, right after I was crowned, "Wow, I totally didn't expect this, being that I have, you know, testicles." Then I'd lift up my dress and everyone would be horrified. Not by the fact that I have testicles, but how black they are.

So thank you Kat for your intriguing questions. Let this be a lesson to the rest of you and email me, dammit.

Well, I am bored today and have nothing to blog about, so I am going to ask you to inspire me. I will steal something that's been going around in blog land. You ask me three questions and I answer them on the blog. Any three questions your little heart desires. So email me if you'd like.

You know how everyone has a story about staring at Tom Brokaw's crotch? Here's mine.

Last summer, or perhaps the one before that, I was leaving my office building at quittin' time. I made a right and headed towards my subway. You know how people have always said to not make eye contact with people in New York? I don't follow that rule. I often look directly at people. Can't help it. I like looking at faces, and occasionally, the crotch of a well-known newscaster.

This day, though, I wasn't really looking at people. I just kind of had my eyes forward, looking down a bit. I noticed someone on the left of the sidewalk walking towards me amongst the gaggle of people and saw this slovenly applied suit. The jacket of the suit had a few buttons, but only one was buttoned. The tie was crooked and extended beneath the jacket. The entire suit appeared to be crumpled. It was just a mess. It looked like it would be the wardrobe for a hobo in a hobo movie.

So, with my eyes currently fixated on the bottom of the tie, which was just above the crotch, I looked up, expecting to see a grey bearded old hobo, perhaps with a fishing cap on, and a couple of teeth missing. Instead I saw Tom fucking Brokaw. And he was looking right at me. I made eye contact with Tom Brokaw, and thought, "Shit. That's Tom Brokaw. He's a fucking slob."

It took me a couple of seconds to actually realize it was Tom. You know when you see a celebrity on the street, it's can be kind of a jolt. At first, you're like, Oh hey there's some guy I know from somewhere. Should I say hi?

Then you realize it's a celebrity that does not know you. So, in most cases, you don't say hi. I once walked by Bebe Neuwirth and actually gave her a nod, thinking we maybe met at a party once. But no, I only watched her on Cheers. But she was nice and smiled and I felt like a fool.

Anyway, with Tom Brokaw, we just stared at each other until we were by each other. Then I realized that the reason he was probably staring at me was because it had appeared to him that I was taking a good hard look at his famous newscaster crotch.

This is the part of the story where I do an impression of Mr. Brokaw telling people back at the office about this guy staring at his crotch. But it probably won't translate well on the blog.

In other celebrity news, I had a dream last night that I was hanging out with Sinead O'Connor and I found out she was 82 years old. She looks good for an old lady. Bald, but other than that, quite healthy.

You people in L.A. don't know what you're missing.

Tonight is a gorgeous night, temperature-wise, and it's always this first or second great night that makes me appreciate seasons.

You can not have the warmth of April without the cutting wind of February.

You can not appreciate the relief of September without the sun blisters of June.

When that first snow starts to fall in December, remember the burnt grass of August.

When that last snow falls in March, imagine the perfection of May.

And when January's 31 days of 4:30 sunsets drive you to drink, remember the 31 days in July where it never gets dark.

When it's February and November, notice the scarves and big coats and the bulky sweaters worn by the gals in the street, and kick your mind to picture the floral skirts and lack of sleeves that are rampant from Spring until Fall.

Welcome back, ladies of the sidewalk. Your skin looks nice. Have you been exfoliating?

So what I'm saying to you people in L.A. is that your perfect weather makes you forget what it's like to notice things. You shouldn't be living there. You should have only visited for two weeks. Come home now.

Along with 80 percent of New York's population, I thought I'd go to Central Park on Saturday. 'Twas a beautiful day. I was there having a catch with a couple of fellas. We were able to find a patch of land unoccupied by too many people, but it wasn't the most ideal place to have a catch with a baseball. But it did the job.

At one point, a father and his two kids decided to start kicking around a soccer ball right behind me. Great. Now I've got to catch every ball coming at me, or else I've got blood on my hands. One of the kids is this cute little two-year-old girl smiling like an idiot kicking the ball. I get a ball thrown to me, it's in the dirt and it skips by me. Now, it looks like a laser-guided baseball making it's way right towards little Sally (that's what I named her). Of course, I can't do anything. The ball is going way faster than me and stupid little Sally is just standing there kicking a ball that's almost as big as she is. I can't yell at her to tell her to move. Shouting "Hey two-year-old, heads up!" would probably not work.

So the ball zooms right behind her little legs and just misses her. She, still kicking the soccer ball and still smiling like a dumb little kid without a care in the world. She's OK.

After that, there was another ball that was overthrown and went near her. Not as close as the other one, but dangerous enough where if I was a father I would realize the danger and move to a more kid-friendly area in the park. But apparently Sally's father is stupider than she is, despite the many more years he's had on this planet. He decides to stay there. Soon after, Sally wanders right in between us having a catch, perhaps wanting to play Monkey in the Middle, smiling like a goon. Her father is not even paying attention. He finally looks over and calls her back. I wanted to pick her up and start running. I'd run with her for about ten feet, then put her down and turn to the father and say, "I'm only fucking with you, but something like that is what could happen. Keep an eye on your kids, ya dumb fuck." Except I wouldn't have used such coarse language in front of little Sally.

I really should write that child care book I mentioned the other day.

Chapter One - So you're a parent? Try to stop being such a fucking dolt.

Chaper Two - Baseballs hurt when they hit two-year-olds in the head.

There sure are a lot of stupid college girls in the news lately. There's the girl who faked her own kidnapping to get her boyfriend to pay attention to her. That's right ladies. Nothing will bring your man back faster than proving to the entire country you are a nutbag. When it all came out that she faked the whole thing, I saw some pictures of a candlelight vigil that was held for her and thought, "What a bunch of chumps." They should have changed the caption on that photo to "Hundreds of chumps gathered in front of the house of that crazy bitch who faked her own kidnapping. Look at these chumps. Some of them are crying. They probably wasted a lot of money on those candles. They should call 'em chump candles."

Then there is this girl who sent a letter to her sorority saying they had to participate in a blood drive, no matter what their health status is. Here is part of that letter:

"I dont care if you got a tattoo last week LIE. I dont care if you have a cold. Suck it up. We all do. LIE. Recent peircings (sic)? LIE. Had sex with a used syringe you found in an alley? LIE. Got busy with a chimp from Africa? LIE. Took part in last night's 'TKE Gang Bang for Breast Cancer'? LIE."

OK, some of that I made up, but it's almost the same thing. She was willing to put so many people at risk so she could win whatever they win for getting the most donors. I hope they expel her, despite her apology. She said that she "failed to consider the consequences" of her actions. Um, no Christie, I do believe you did consider them when you told your sisters to "Suck it up" and lie. I think the appropriate apology here, and the only one people will take serious is, "I'm a fucking idiot. My bad."

If I were her, I'd fake my own kidnapping, pronto.

Well, movie goers, this is the big weekend. You've waited a long time, but finally, it is here. One of your favorite writers is back on the big screen with one of the most anticipated movies of the year. Yes, folks, Connie and Carla is opening today! It's Some Like It Hot meets A Steaming Pile of Shit! Oh, Nia Vardalos, how I've missed you!

Honestly, if you want to talk about violence or things that are harmful to children in movies, I think Nia Vardalos should rank up there fairly high. You know how everyone has a funny cousin? She seems like the funny cousin. Her whole family was probably like, "Oh, she's hilarious. She should be famous." Then she got famous and they were probably like, "Oh. Hmm. How about that? She actually got famous. She was a lot funnier in the kitchen at Lucy's third birthday party."

I was scouring the internet for a picture of a Twix candy bar, which was unrelated to the blog, but for some reason, this picture came up and thought I needed to share it with you, my precious reader. Be warned, don't be drinking anything while you go to look at this. It will cause a spit-take.

I really hope this is not real.

This ain't your grandma's DVD player. Oh no wait. I suppose it's perfect for your grandmother.

LOS ANGELES (Hollywood Reporter) - Wal-Mart is selling the world's first DVD player that can seamlessly skip over violence, swearing, nudity and other potentially offensive movie content. The $79 unit features technology by ClearPlay and is manufactured by Thomson Inc. under its RCA brand.

"Hmmm. I liked Kill Bill, but I was surprised it was only five minutes long."

This is ridiculous. I understand parental controls on TVs, but come on. If you are letting your child watch a DVD, you already HAVE control over it. If your kid sneaks some porno or a horribly violent movie, that's just part of growing up. Soon they will be adding in scenes that cover up the naughtiness. Instead of kids seeing Bruce Willis shoot a guy, the scene will be replaced with a picture of Jesus sliding down a rainbow into a strawberry patch.

When I was a kid I was at my friend Albie's house (what a great name). He was the kid that I hung out with that my parents said I shouldn't hang out with. He was my bad influence. Anyway, he got a copy of The Exorcist and we decided to watch it. Somewhere between Linda Blair masturbating with the crucifix and the projectile vomiting, we realized there was a reason we weren't supposed to be watching this. I think we stopped watching it half way through and went out and rode our bikes. It was much healthier. We then went back to his house and watched some ridiculous 80s teen movie because there were two scenes with about 18 seconds of boobs. It was a great film.

My point is that kids have been exposed to lots of horrors and boobs and cursing over many eons. And no matter how hard you try, kids will find those things. One time, my friend Joe and I found a pornographic magazine that catered to men that liked fat chicks. We found it in a bush. Kids find porn. That's what we do. Just teach your kids that raping and killing are bad. I should write a book.

Previously on

-- I had some heart palpitations
-- The cardiologist found nothing
-- I looked like a suicide bomber
-- My chest was shaved

To read the beginning of this story, scroll down to yesterday, or click here.

So I took off the heart monitor, thoroughly disappointed that it wasn't going to show anything. I felt fine the entire time I had it on. I guess just going to the doctor cured me. Fifteen dollar co-pay pissed away. Just my imagination I suppose. Nothing serious.

Then at around 7:00 on Friday it hit me again. Fuck! You're a day late, dick.

One of the things that anyone I brought this up to would say, "You think it's anxiety? Maybe it's a panic attack." So I thought about that and made a note to pay attention to when it would happen. Was I at work? Was I on the subway? Was I about to putt on the 18th hole of the Masters? Basically, was there anything at all going on to trigger it? Here I was at 7:00 on Friday evening sitting on my couch watching The Simpsons. Anyone who knows me well enough knows that this is my happy place. I'm rarely more happier than I am when I watch The Simpsons. Pathetic, yes?


I basically sit there on my couch for a while willing it to go away. It's probably the worst it's ever felt. It doesn't hurt. It just pounds a lot. It feels like it's beating in reverse order at times. I have some trouble breathing. Then I'd take my pulse. One. Two. Three.... Four? Where's four?!?!! OK, there's five. We skipped four. That's how it went.

Like the times before, I just waited for it to go away. I tried to go to sleep, but that didn't happen. I decided to bite the bullet and head for the Emergency Room. It's 1:30 AM and I hop on the L train to First Avenue to Ye Olde Beth Israel Hospital. I've heard horror stories about New York ERs, so I was a bit nervous that there may actually be people that actually bit actual bullets this evening that would get priority ahead of me.

The first person I see after I check in asks me if I'm making any big decisions this week. He's going with the anxiety angle. I tell him no. He goes to the computer and, in the little box of problems, clicks ANXIETY. So now I'm getting anxious about all of these people telling me how anxious and stressed out I am.

I'm brought to a bed and the first thing I notice is how New York hospitals are similar to restaurants. In a normal restaurant in Anywhere USA, you might see a table for two. Take that same space and put it in a NY restaurant and you've got six tables for two. Same with ER beds. Quite tight. It was like I was in the military.

I'm lying there and a nurse guy comes to put some shit on my chest and take the EKG. He does it, looks at the print out kind of funny, says quizzically, "Hmmph. You know what. Why don't you try one laying down?" OK. I lay down, my heart still beats weird. He looks again, tells me he's going to bring it to the doctor and he'll come back.

A little later I see the nurse show the chart to the doctor. I can't hear them, but I can read the doctor's lips. He says, "Whose is this?" The nurse points to me and I'm just lying there staring right back. Should I wave? I felt like an idiot. The doctor had this look on his face like, "Really? That guy?" They talk a little more. There is nothing more reassuring than being connected to machines while two people talk about you outside of earshot. They disperse and the doctor walks by me and gives me a little smile and a nod. What the fuck was that? Was that a bedside manner smile? And the nod? Was that a "good luck with the heart cancer" nod? Somebody fill me in please!

I wait for a while but no one comes in to talk to me. I kill time by watching my heart monitor, noticing some weird looking lines. Then, out of nowhere, this NY emergency room finally came alive. This black guy comes in straight out of an ER subplot. He is ranting and raving about his leg. A cop comes over to calm him down and the guy goes off. "Oh what you think you gotta stop me? What you think I am? You think I'm homeless? I ain't homeless. I got me a job! I got a job. You ain't need to fight me. You wanna fight somebody, go to Iraq. Kill some of those motherfuckers, then come back for me. I got a job. I ain't homeless. I got a two bedroom!"

I got a two bedroom. I will start using that on people when they doubt me for any reason. "Mike, we need to talk about your job performance for the last month. It's down considerably compared to last year."

"Don't hassle me. I got a two bedroom!"

Anyway, after talking about how white people are terrible, Stereotypical Crazy Guy left on his crutches and provided me with the highlight of my night so far.

About an hour later, the resident doctor comes in, asks me some questions including am I stressed out or anxious. I tell him no. He then tells me, "Yes, we did catch something on the EKG. Both of them, actually."

I have never been so happy to know that there was something wrong with me. I actually started smiling, because after going to the cardiologist, I felt defeated. Like I was just a pansy. So to know that I wasn't crazy was a relief. Then there was the issue of what was wrong. This guy didn't tell me. That would be up to the main doctor who was there, who happened to be a cardiologist. So the resident leaves and comes back about a minute later. "Oh yeah. One more question I forgot to ask. You do any drugs?" I tell him that I don't. "OK, just had to ask. You don't do coke?" Uhhh. Nope. "Hmm. OK. Be right back."

It seemed like he really wanted me to be on coke.

A little while later the doctor comes in. He explains to me what I have. When people start talking seriously to me, I have this horrible habit of laughing. I guess it's an uncomfortable reaction. You know that Barenaked Ladies lyric, "I'm the kind of guy that laughs at a funeral"? That's me. So I'm biting the inside of my cheeks to stop from busting out laughing. I always have to think of the day my grandma died to stop smiling. So I kind of hold it together, and then he asks me if I do coke. NO! Whatever is wrong with me is not being caused by coke. Please go back to whatever medical journal you are looking in and find something else. I was so tempted to say, "Well, I'm really anxious about this huge coke deal I've got going down soon. Actually, can we speed this along? I have to be in Washington Square Park in about 45 minutes." Anyway, it's good to know that I've got the heart of a cokehead.

Meanwhile, there is a lady to my left who was in for something. Not sure what. She is not good at pain. They put an IV in her and she was like, "OHHH! Oh mercy. Oh Lord no. Aaaahhhhh!" I heard the nurse say to her, "You're kind of weak, huh?" She just kept moaning. There was a curtain separating us, but I was pretty sure I could tell where her head was. I wanted to punch it.

OK, so back to me not being on coke. I basically have some sort of irregular heartbeat (PVC), which is fairly common, but the fact that it was happening so frequently was not common. They monitored me for a little while longer, then told me I needed to go back to the cardiologist for some more tests. But it looks like I'm going to make it.

I was told to stay away from caffeine. OK. I guess decaf is the way to go now. Ugh. I'll deal. Stay away from excess amounts of alcohol. OK. I can do that. No O'Doul's though for me. I'll just quit for a little while. It's probably a good idea anyway. Save money and brain cells. And the best part, stay away from exercise. Doc, I'm three steps ahead of ya. "Hey Mike. Can you help me move this table?"

"Nope. Sorry. I'm a lazy fuck. Doctor's orders!"

So that's my story. It was funnier in my head. I don't feel it transferred well and I think I'm forgetting stuff. Oh well. Get off my back. I got a two bedroom!

Anyway, I'd just like to say a little something to my overly concerned parents. Thanks for the crappy heart! Way to procreate, jackasses!!!!!

I kid.

Love Mike (Oh yeah, with my new lease on life, I'm going to start ending everything with Love Mike).

For about the past two weeks, I've been having strange feelings in my bosom. Not feelings of longing or love or anything like that. I felt my actual heart doing weird shit.

The best I can explain is that I was having butterflies in my chest. After having these, I can say with confidence and conviction that I much prefer to have them in my stomach. I'd get lightheaded, have some shortness of breath, be a bit sensitive to light and sometimes feel like throwing up.

When it first happened, I chalked it up to a lack of sleep. It was a Monday and I'd worked the Sunday night before. I only got about two hours of sleep. OK, my heart is telling me it likes more sleep, I thought. I'm right there with you, heart. I love me some sleep. But then it came back the next day. And the next. Then it wouldn't happen. It'd be there the next day. Each day with varying degrees of severity. Sometimes not that much. Other times, I started to draft my Last Will and Testament.

So after about a week and a half, I decided to go see a cardiologist. I went this past Thursday and as I was sitting in the waiting room, with my heart beating completely normal, I thought to myself, I know it's not going to do it while I'm here, the doctor is going to think I'm a jackass wasting his time, and he's going to kick me out of his office and tell me to never come back.

I'm called in and I'm asked to remove my shirt as they prepare for an electrocardiogram. I lay down and this guy comes in, who I guess is a nurse, and he tells me he is going to have to "shave some parts" of me. If I knew that part of this effort to potentially save my life would involve a fella shaving my chest, I would have thought twice. So he has this dry razor and just shaves little sections of my chest.

I did not like that. Not just for the fact of having someone shave my chest, but I felt pretty helpless. All of the sudden I was feeling like an old man. Sure I've had health problems before, but this was the heart. Serious shit. I've only got one of these. I had done a lot of searches on WebMD and crap, and for the most part, it seemed like it'd end up being something not too serious, but still. When your heart starts to feel weird, it is a bit scary.

So they do the EKG. I wait a little longer. The cardiologist comes in and I tell him what is wrong. He tells me that there is nothing wrong with the EKG. My heart beats a little faster than normal, but it's no big deal. Now I look like a chump. "Well, it's like it beats real fast, but then it'll skip a beat. Or sometimes it feels like it's beating really slow. At times it almost feels like it'll beat backwards. I get lightheaded, nauseous, blah blah blah. I'm dyin' doc! Ya gotta help me!"

I pretty much gave him every symptom possible. Then he says he'd like to take an ultrasound of my heart. We do that, which was pretty cool. I had flashbacks to health class where they show you how the heart operates and all that. It was pretty cool to see my own heart. I wanted to ask the doctor, "Well, is it a boy or a girl?" But he's probably heard that many times before. Although he was kind of young, so maybe he hasn't heard it that much. He looked like a guy from a crappy sitcom. I could imagine him on something like The Single Guy, or Two Guys, a Girl and a Hoagie Shop. But no. He was checking my seemingly perfectly healthy heart.

A few more tests, still nothing wrong. It's like bringing your car into the mechanic and saying, "Well, it does this shimmy. It's not doing it now, but if you saw it, you'd know."

He decides to give me a heart monitor to wear over the next 24 hours. This involves about 9 wires stuck to my chest, all connected to this box, which is about the size of an answering machine that I have to strap to my belt. I walk out of the doctor's office with wires strapped to my chest that are hanging outside my shirt, connected to a big box that is connected to my belt. I am heading for the subway at rush hour and I look like a suicide bomber. I soon realized that people don't like when you open your shirt and yell out, "Allah is great! Death to Satan! Nah, I'm just fuckin' with ya. It's a heart monitor."

Of course I wear the thing for 24 hours and my heart is running like a fine-tuned machine. Nothing. Not one beat out of order. I realize I'm just a hypochondriac and it was probably nothing.

I also realized that the worst part about this ordeal (so far) is the whole chest shaving thing. I never thought I'd have the opportunity to say to someone, "Don't you hate when a guy shaves part of your chest?" After I took off the wires and looked at my stupid partly shaved chest, I just went ahead and shaved the whole thing. I have never been so itchy in my life. And I learned this little equation:

Electric razor + accidentally hitting nipple = Yeeeooow! Motherfucker!

Well, now that you know too much about my chest, I'll stop. I will soon publish part 2 - My trip to the ER.

Happy Easter! What a wonderful day to celebrate the day that Jesus came back and saw his shadow, indicating only two more weeks of winter.

Well, the weekend is here and all the kids are going out. I'm staying in due to me not feeling so well. So I will take this opportunity to offer you some advice when you are trying to pick up the ladies. Here are some lines you should never use:

-- You kind of remind me of one of our Founding Fathers.

That's it. That's all I got. Just don't say that and you should get laid tonight. If you don't get laid, you can't blame me. You should blame your horrid acne and your acidic personality. And what's with that shirt? You couldn't get laid at a Mother/ Daughter Prostitute Picnic. You make me sick.

Heroin must be fucking awesome. I was on the subway yesterday and saw this guy crumpled up in a ball at the end of a seat. At first I thought he was just sleeping (although way too comfortable for the subway), perhaps drunk. Then he dropped a cigarette that was dangling from his hand. He went to reach down and pick it up and all he did was kind of knock it around a bit. He couldn't even squeeze his fingers together to pick it up. He didn't even try. I thought to myself, That looks like a guy who'd be on heroin. Then I saw the trackmarks on the vein of the top of his hand. Pretty nasty.

He was kind of all dressed up, though. Not like going to work on Wall Street dressed up, but you could tell he took some time to put his wardrobe together. Even heroin addicts are concerned about their appearance. "When I'm all laid out in a heroin-induced coma on the subway, I want to look my best."

Despite the track marks and the obvious dead end this guy's life is on its way to, he still looked pretty content. Or at least comfortable. Which makes me believe that heroin must be awesome.

Not sure if you saw Condi Rice's testimony this morning, but she said there was no "silver bullet" to prevent the 9/11 attacks. She then took a sip from a can of Coors Light, said, "Aaahh. Coors Light. The Silver Bullet. It won't slow you down."

I thought that was kind of weird.

Take the quiz: "Which American City Are You?"

You are under-world power and old-world tradition. You get the job done and it's better if nobody asks how.

When I heard a co-worker this morning say that J.Lo's mother won 2 million dollars, I blurted out, without thinking, "There is no God."

I immediately thought I probably offended some people, especially considering it's Passover and Easter week and all. But I quickly eased any tension by then saying, "Hispanics. What the hell is up with them anyway? Am I right?"

What I find funny is that on two other blogs I read regularly (here and here), both questioned God's role in this. It is obviously a serious oversight by the Big Guy. He must have gotten confused because they have different last names. Also, I'm sure there are a lot of preparations going on for Easter. He was probably in a meeting with the Easter Bunny when He got the memo. "Wait, I let who win two million bucks? Oh, you gotta be shittin' me."

The thing I like about this crazy gal in Wisconsin who faked her own kidnapping, is that she said she was abducted by a white man. Sure, she's nuts, but at least she had enough sense to realize that the country doesn't need any more racial hostility, unlike Susan Smith who said her kids were kidnapped by a black man, and George Bush, who blamed that whole uranium thing on Africa.

Now that I think about it though, there probably aren't any black people in Wisconsin, so no one would ever believe that story. I think the only black people in Wisconsin play for the Packers. She wouldn't have known how to describe him. "Um, yeah, he was a black guy. You know, darker skin. Wearing a helmet and shoulder pads. Number 34, I think."

When I was out to dinner with my dad last week, I mentioned to him that my friend Kevin was recently engaged and that he asked me to be in the wedding. My dad then asked me a question that didn't make any sense, then realized he was talking about a different Kevin that was a friend of my sister's. This is weird because there is no way or reason I would ever be in this other Kevin's wedding. I said to my dad, "Kevin. Kevin French. Corvette."

"Oh! Kevin."

Kevin has been a friend of mine for approximately 11 years.

An interesting sidenote, my dad, later in the conversation, started talking about The Apprentice. I've never watched the show, but my dad started telling me all about it, then started rattling off all of the names, including one gal named Mimosa or something like that. But some random ass name. I just found it amusing that he knew about all of these people, but to remember Kevin he had to be reminded of the Corvette.

Sorry Kevin. In my dad's defense though, that car was way cooler and much more memorable than you are.

This morning, on my way to work in the rain, I saw this homeless man. He looked so sad and didn't ask me for money. He just stared at me as the rain soaked all of the clothes he owned. I couldn't tell if he wanted to ask me for money or not, but he looked ashamed. He seemed to be humiliated about his life and how it had turned out. And he just kept looking at me as I walked by, seeming to try to get me to help him without speaking, just through his eyes. He wanted my help. So I killed him.

April fools! I didn't kill a homeless man today. I didn't even see one. And if I did, no way I would keep looking at him. I hate the homeless.

If a lamb is a big, sloppy, wet downpour of rain, then yes, March came in like a lion and left like a lamb.
All material © Mike Toole; 2003 - 2006