Blogging Like I've Never Blogged Before

Sunday, October 31, 2004

On my way to a Halloween party last night, I was on the subway, when a big retarded black guy decided to stand by me. He smelled quite bad. A guy sitting across from me, who I think was drunk, had a face on that made it seem like he was smelling a septic tank. He then blurted out, "I don't know who the fuck is releasing bodily functions, but it's nasty. Fartin' ass on the subway. Who does that?"

Fartin' ass. I couldn't help but laugh.

Today, a mother was walking with her son and they were carrying groceries. They had stopped to readjust the bags. The son then dropped a bag, only after the mother had given him too much to carry. The bag he dropped apparently contained crackers in it. She said, "Those were the crackers, assface. Those. Were. The crackers."

She called her son assface. Perhaps that was his Halloween costume, but I'm not sure. I guess he ruined his mom's Annual Halloween Cracker Extravaganza.

I would like to take this moment to talk shit about Rubie's Costume Co. I purchased a fake mustache, which was going to be my costume for last night's party. I was going to be Guy With A Mustache. Since I didn't want to wear a fake 'stache on the subway, I waited until I got to the party to apply it. It was supposed to be sticky. It was not, and I couldn't get it to stick on my upper lip. Luckily, I brought a few more accessories so it seemed like I had somewhat of a costume. I had an Oak Ridge Boys t-shirt (emblazoned with the Boys themselves, an eagle, and an American flag) sunglasses, and best of all, Doug let me borrow his Bush-Cheney '04 trucker hat. I entitled this costume, "American Asshole."

It would have been better if the mustache stuck. Thanks for ruining my Halloween, Rubie's.

Here is a photo of my costume from last year, which was cooler. I went as a character, which my friend Robbie named Johnny Fuckoff. To my side is Adam. I'm not sure of his character's name, but I'm pretty sure he dealt drugs.

Last night's party was quite a party. Lots of people. The best part was when the cops came, and the guy who answered the door, happened to be dressed as a cop. I wanted him to say, "It's cool guys. I've already got it under control. See you back at the station." But he didn't. Wussy.

Finally, here is a photo from two years ago, where myself and Bill dressed up as elderly Chinese ladies.

I've spent a good part of this Saturday scouring, the site that Cheney mistakenly cited as in the VP debate. It's good stuff. It breaks down all the lies told by both candidates, from their speeches and from their ads. I especially like the round-up of the last presidential debate.

It makes you realize that everyone in power sucks, and it's making me want to get out to the voting booth on Tuesday, take a dump in an envelope, and write "To Washington" on the front.

As South Park so subtly put it last Wednesday, it truly is a race between a Giant Douche and a Turd Sandwich.

Go Giant Douche!

I apologize for the following sports related post. Well, not really apologize, but you might get bored. But if you don't like it, then Hey, fuck you.

I just read a Red Sox fan describe their night, and it made me realize how fucking amazing it was when the Rangers won the Cup. It was ten years ago, and just reading this one piece slammed every memory that was buried in the back way up to the front.

About how you will always remember these guys. Every last one of them. Brian Noonan. Steve Larmer, who was one of the last guys interviewed the night they won... he was so drunk, holding a bottle of champagne during his interview, sporadically laughing at nothing. Fucking Nick Kypreos, the retard that he was. These are the guys.

Those moments during that last game. For the Rangers, it was different. It went seven games and was more climactic than this World Series (I suppose you could compare it to the Yankees/Red Sox series). It was down to the last faceoff with little more than one second to go. Messier pushing Pavel Bure away from the puck, Bure taking a huge two handed slash in the direction of Messier. He missed. If that was a regular season game, the Rangers would have beat the shit out of Bure. But they just won the Cup. Messier jumped. And he jumped. He jumped again. His stick flailing. The Rangers just won the Stanley Cup.

And then my favorite part. Madison Square Garden, all of the fans, even some players, who had heard people yelling "1940!" for so many years started their own chant.

Nineteen forty! Nineteen forty! Nineteen forty! Nineteen forty! Nineteen forty!

That chant never sounded so good. We took it back. Made it our own.

I remember every night during that playoff run going home and listening to Steve Somers on the FAN. I remember after one of the big wins -- I forget which -- he said, "This is one of those nights where you can't wait to read the paper tomorrow."

Never more true. I fucking love that line. Every day during that run, I read the paper. Every square inch that had anything to do with the Rangers. I couldn't wait.

Every game during those playoffs, I was in my friend Jay's basement, with the exception of two games. I was at those two games.

In the finals, game 5, where we thought we had it locked up, we lost. It was one of the most torturous games ever. They were down 3-0. All of the sudden, it was tied 3-3. Before we could finish yelling and jumping, we were losing 6-3. Cancel the parade. It ain't over yet.

The next game at Jay's, there were only three of us there. Usually, we had five. The other two guys decided to watch it somewhere else. The whole game didn't feel right. The Rangers lost. Game 7 came, and all five of us were back. That was one of the greatest nights of my life.

At one point, I thought that might be a pathetic kind of thought. Why should a hockey team mean that much to me? Then I read stuff that Boston fans are writing now and it all slaps me in the face.

I wouldn't mind living to be 104. Just as long as the Rangers win the 2079 Stanley Cup, and I can sit in my recliner happily chanting "Nineteen Ninety Four!"

Sports are fun. Except during lockouts.

I feel like I had a lot to say about the Red Sox last night, and I thought I'd remember it all today, but the only thing I can recall is thinking, "So, um, Johnny Damon is kind of retarded, right?" That guy has to be one of the worst interviews ever. I understand you just won the World Series, but at least try and put a complete sentence together.

Anyway, seems like a nice guy. I mean, he must be. Ever met a retard who's a dick? Didn't think so. Congrats to Boston and congrats to all of the fans. Way to lose your identity. Now it's all Cubs.

So where was all the rioting last night? Very disappointed in you, Beantown. I recall when the Rangers won the Stanley Cup after 54 years (only nineteen of which I was alive for), I celebrated with my friends, gave hugs and high fives, then said, "Well, this is all well and good, but what I really want to do is overturn a parked vehicle. For that is the only way to truly show how much I love this hockey team."

I almost said this at work today, which would have been an accident: "This sucks. I think for lunch I'm going to go to Flashdancers and bust a nut."

Mike, please report to the HR Department immediately. Mike, to HR.

Aaahhh, Flashdancers. It is a strip club on the same block that I work. That is one hell of a web site they've got. What with the music and a spinning globe and stars. I've never been inside the place, but it looks pretty swank. They've got a doorman and everything.

Speaking of globes and stars, that eclipse last night was shit. Granted, I only watched it for a minute, because how long can you stare at the moon without getting a little bored? And then I remembered that there is going to be another one in 2007 (weather permitting), so I figured I could wait another three years to see the moon get covered by a fucking shadow. I like the solar eclipses. I remember one from third grade and I was so fucking scared that I was going to accidentally look at it without that protective device we made, and my eyes would explode. I think it ended up being cloudy that day. Aren't we due for one? I don't remember any others. Maybe there were but I just stayed inside with my sunglasses on, having third grade flashbacks.

Soooo... What else is going on? Not much, huh? That election is right around the corner. I am excited for that to be over, no matter who wins. At least we can get back to focusing on the Scott Peterson trial. By the way, that dude is so going to be found not guilty. I was reading something the other day about evidence they had against him, which is almost nothing. "Well, he had a girlfriend, and uh, he said something in an interview with Diane Sawyer that didn't really match up with he told us. And he had that goatee. You know, a real evil looking one. Like the devil. You know how the devil has a goatee? Kinda like that. Here's a picture of the devil. It's on this little candy box of Red Hots. That was just like Scott's. His wasn't as black or as pointy, but uhhh.... Aw fuck it. Scott, you're free to go."

I'm not saying the dude is innocent, but they've got shit.

Who fucking cares?


Hmmmm. Recently, Doug's alarm went off. He uses his CD player as an alarm. The song that started playing was Johnny Cash singing "Hurt". Talk about a real pick-me-up to start off your day. For breakfast he had a large bowl of tears, followed by a stack of Shoot Me In The Face.

Well, that made no sense.

Sure didn't.

Perhaps this should end.


OK... now!

No wait! Now I remember something else from last night's game. That douche from Creed singing God Bless America. Holy crap, that was awful. I think I heard Uncle Sam say, "One way ticket to France, please. These fucks just don't get it anymore." Good Lord. He should have grabbed his crotch and spat, that way, people would have been like, "Oh! He was being ironic, just like Roseanne. Now I get it." They also introduced him as a Grammy award winner. If that doesn't make you want to return your Grammy from whence it came, I don't know what would. "And now, ladies and gentlmen, to honor the men and women in the Armed Forces protecting our freedom here and abroad by singing God Bless America, please welcome Grammy award winning, shit eating, God sucking, vomit inducing, ear cancer causing, it's that shithead from Creed."

See this fucking dumpster?

This thing mysteriously appeared around the corner from my abode yesterday. I was walking home, when all of the sudden, I notice this gigantic dumpster with a lot of garbage in it, and more importantly, lots of garbage on the outside of it.

While that isn't the most unheard of thing, what was quite interesting was the number of children that were climbing in it, around it, and rummaging through it, apparently searching for hidden treasure. I don't know who dumped this thing here, but it almost looked like a dollar store had dumped its contents in it. There were plenty of unopened packages. Shitty shit, but still free shit that is new. I imagine these kids' parents requested that the kids go "find mommy up some new shoes."

Anyway, later on last night, I went to get something to eat, and on my way back, there was this little white kid looking through stuff that had been on the sidewalk. He was young, couldn't have been more than eight. He picked up a flat, rectangular box. Then, as he stared at his new find, to my shock and awe, I heard him say, "Bitch, you gotta be fucking kidding me!" Then he turned his head upward to where he must have lived, and yelled, "Mommy! I found Christmas lights!"

I would love to be in that kid's living room come Christmas. "Motherfucker! A PlayStation! Oh shit, nigga! It's a PS2! Next time I see Santa, I'ma suck that bitch's dick!"

God bless us everyone.

Again, another reason why it might be fun to be an "expert" on something.

Experts: Web Searches for Sex Declining

Where have all the perverts gone?!?!

Well, in case you weren't worried about all of those missing weapons over in Iraq, maybe you should, now that the "experts" are worried.

Seriously, I want to be an expert on something. I could totally do this. When I first heard the news of those missing weapons, I thought to myself, Hey, that's quite worrisome! But I didn't tell anyone because I'm not an expert.

So remember when people were pleading with the Bush administration to let the inspectors continue to do their jobs? See, those guys knew that these weapons were there, then when they got kicked out, told the military where those weapons were, and now the weapons are gone. I guess we forgot to put that "Police Line: Do Not Cross" tape around them. This war is just splendid.

Don't fret. I won't get all politico on you. Well, maybe I will. Voting is a week away. I'm hopeful, but only mildly.

I just can't comprehend this shit. "theft and looting ... due to lack of security"

Theft and looting. Explosives! They are looting explosives. The only looting I am all that familiar with is seeing some people busting out of a fucking Radio Shack with a TV during the LA riots. Or a radio. Or whatever they sell there. Shacks. Not plutonium or whatever the crap they are stealing.

Someone recently asked me, "How can people still be so supportive of Bush?" I said something to the effect of that he seems to provide a security blanket that people like hearing. No matter what awful shit goes down over there, he still says we are safer. My apologies, but 400 tons of missing explosives doesn't inspire a lot of confidence.

I'm not saying Kerry will get in there and make the world safer and Iraqi insurgents will lay down their arms and we'll all hug and thank God this international nightmare is over. But at least he tells the truth. Iraq is a fucking quagmire and the shit ass planning ("Well, we blow it all up and go from there") that GWB and the Fuckwads brought with them was obviously horrendous. And as far as I am concerned, that deserves a big swift kick in the tush, right out the Oval Office.

"Got a problem with my swagger? Stick it up your ass, America!"

Work absolutely blows today. I'm thinking of setting an out-of-office reply on my email that says, "Hi. I will be away from my desk for the foreseeable future. If you need me, I'll be crying in the bathroom. Check the far stall."

I suppose I'm rooting for the Red Sox, but there were some fans I ran into Saturday night that were the most annoying fans I've ever encountered, and almost made me root for the Cardinals. Granted, every team has idiot fans, but Red Sox fans, especially now, seem to have this thing where they can be like, "I'm a Red Sox fan and I've earned the right to be loud fucking dick! Wicked!"

These guys were clapping or complaining after every pitch. At one point, the count was two balls, one strike against a Cardinals player. The next pitch was a strike, and this guy yelled, "Yeah! Two and two, baby!"

Yes, the count is 2 and 2. Way to pay attention. They would also chant "Let's go (player name)!" for almost every batter. That didn't get too old that quickly. After Mark Bellhorn caught a routine pop up, this guy yelled, "Yeah, Bellhorn! Fucking nice!" Yeah man. Great job in standing under that ball for five seconds. That's a pretty tough play for a major leaguer.

I understand being excited. But come on. There was a guy next to me who I heard say, "Are these guys seriously going to do this after every pitch?" That did seem to be their goal, but lucky for us and humanity, they were probably drinking since 4:00, and they got that "My head weighs 700 pounds right now and it's filled with tequila and Bud Light" look about them. They quieted down around the fourth inning.

I think I should probably stay in for the rest of these games, because these fans are driving me nuts. And as a side note, I've yet to run into an asshole from St. Louis.

James Taylor did a fine job singing the National Anthem tonight at game 2. My favorite thing about James Taylor is that he used to be a heroin addict. I don't much care for his music, but I like the fact that a fellow like himself can be a heroin addict. He doesn't fit the stereotype. I'm not really sure what the stereotype is. Skinny and naked, I suppose. He's just skinny.

He reminds me of my Uncle Bobby. Only because they are both bald and tall. My uncle never did heroin. As far as I know. And he can't play guitar. As far as I know. I have a vague recollection of him with a harmonica. But I might be wrong. And he can't sing for shit. That I'm pretty sure of. He is one of lots of uncles and distant uncles in my family that would get drunk and sing Polish songs. Not very good at it. They probably won't be singing the National Anthem at game 3. Mainly because Uncle Ziggy and Uncle Stanley are dead. So they probably can't carry a tune. And I don't think Uncle Bobby would fly solo.

The other day when I was walking home, two teenage girls were walking by me. They were somewhat punky. Well, what passes for punk now. You know, Avril Lavigne type punks. Anyway, one of the girls was very demonstratively telling a story, and all I heard of that story when she walked by was, "So we were like, 'Yo. What the fuck is up with poncho?!'"

I really wish I knew the whole story.

Yesterday at work, there was a cake for all those lucky enough to be celebrating a birthday or an anniversary with the company during the month of October. I had a piece of this cake. It was mediocre, which for the cakes we usually get, mediocre is pretty damn good.

Anyway, this morning, there was nothing but a smidgen of icing left on a big plate. It looked quite comical in the middle of the kitchen. Here is a photo. It is difficult to tell, but that is only about an inch high. I don't know if anyone ate it or not.

Way to go Boston. In case you are wondering what you should do right now, might I recommend you pahty hahd.

I got bored towards the end of the game and thought I'd take some pictures of my television with my phone (that sentence would have made no sense two years ago). The ultimate in photo journalism.

I just love seeing Yankee fans with that "Will someone please tell me how this is happening?!?!?!" look.

The other night I was talking with Bill, and he said it'd be a pretty sweet job to be the cameraman that just scopes out cute girls in the stands. Well, yesterday, that guy must have had the night off. There was the one Boston fan who at first seemed somewhat cute, but then she opened her mouth and screamed "Hurrah!", and all you saw was metal and rubber bands. I am glad I never had braces. Then towards the end there was that Yankee fan lady with the crazy red lipstick who looked like the most miserable woman on earth. She was not cute.

Did anyone see the most random sign during game 6 that some fan had, which read, "Get Rubenized!" All the players on that team, and you bring a Ruben Sierra sign? And a piss poor sign at that which doesn't make a whole lot of sense.

If I was in charge of the camera, I'd have only one objective: Fat guys eating hot dogs.

So I have not much to blog about. Who wants to see more pictures of Colorado? You don't? Tough poop.

On my third day, after a crappy night in Aspen where the views are beautiful but the people are ugly, I went to the Great Sand Dunes. They are these giant -- you guessed it -- sand dunes in the middle of nowhere. Not sure why they are there... I saw some signs that said it has to do with wind and shit, but I wasn't there to take an eco-lesson. I just wanted to climb my ass up some sand.

This was one of the hardest climbs I've ever done. I didn't think much of it, but when I started up there, it hit me that sand isn't all that easy to walk in, especially when it's all kinds of vertical.

Here is a picture from the bottom, somewhat far away. A lot of those people walking up there are a bunch of kids who seemed to be on a class trip that were "sledding" down the sand. They brought their own pieces of cardboard to use. Exactly how the gods intended it, I'm sure.

God of Nature: You see what I've done here is place these magnificent sand dunes at the base of these wondrous mountains. It will be a pleasure for people to marvel at and an exciting endeavor for those adventurous enough to climb!

God of Toys: Awesome! And kids can slide down that on some cardboard, right?

God of Nature: Um, no. Well, I don't follow. What do you mean?

God of Toys: Well, you've got all this sand out there for no reason. You might as well let some kids slide down it on cardboard.

God of Nature: Well, no, not at all. It is a thing of beauty to appreciate, not a something to play with.

God of Toys: Whatever, man. Kids should be able to play in this pile of shit.

God of Nature: It is NOT shit. Look, I'm just saying kids should not be sliding down and playing in this sand as if it's a giant sandbox. And this is Colorado. They get snow almost every day of the year. Don't you think they can take a break from sledding for a month or two?

God of Toys: Whatever, Nature Boy.

Anyway, here is a picture from the very top. It took longer than I thought, and produced a lot more back sweat than I anticipated. It is difficult to gauge the depths and valleys, but there were a lot of ups and downs on the way up there.

This was when the Lord was carrying me.

Here I am leaving with the dunes in the background.

It was a pretty cool thing to see. Quite unique. Anyway, I mentioned earlier the ugliness of the people of Aspen. They were just an unfriendly bunch. But the drive there was nice, what with the foliage and all. And then the next day on my drive out, it was winter all of the sudden.

Oh well, that's all for now. Except I will leave you with what is perhaps my favorite picture from my entire trip.

Today is one of those days where I'm like, "Fuck blogging." But it's not exclusive to blogging. I'm also like, "Fuck changing into my work shoes." And "Fuck being awake."

I'm tired. Stupid baseball. Keeps me up too late. The wings and beer don't help.

Here is my game plan that the Yankees should follow: Don't pitch to David Ortiz.

Here is my game plan that the Red Sox should follow: Enjoy yourself and just wait for your cruel fate to destroy your hopes, yet again.

Here is my game plan that I will follow after work: Go buy the Arrested Development DVD, watch some episodes, take a nap, then watch baseball. Do most of this pantsless.

I heard a funny joke recently. What's the difference between Michael Jackson and acne?

I'm not going to tell you the punch line. Figure it out.

David Ortiz kind of reminds me of the Abominable Snowman.

Will someone let this man take a fucking nap?

OK, John. You like sports. We get it.

"One time, I went to a zoo, and this monkey was like, "SHREEEIKKKK! SHREEEIKKKK!"

"Five more years! What? Oh. Four more years!"

All rise for President Plastic Man.

"And now I'd like to do an impression of a choir boy. Oh Holy Niiiiiggggghhhhhtt!!!..."


"Dear God. I want to be president again. And, um, I want a new pony. And a cowboy hat. And bless my mom and my dad. And ..."

"Someone get over here and hold my wife upright!"

"Heh heh. It's like a real person. Only it's kinda little!"

One of the weirder things about my Colorado trip was the dreams I had. Probably because I was in a different bed almost every night of the trip. You know when you sleep in a room or a bed other than your own, you wake up without provocation, look around, wonder where the hell you are and hope to God your pants are still on.

I had a dream one night that I was at Mount Rushmore and I somehow destroyed the face of George Washington. I don't know how I did it, but all of the sudden, his face was nothing but a indistinguishable jagged mountain edge.

On the last night I was there, I stayed in a hotel room near the airport. I had a dream that I was checking out of the hotel, and the guy behind the counter said, "OK, I'm going to ask you twenty questions about your stay here, and you have to answer at least four of them, otherwise your entire stay will be broadcast on the internet." So he starts asking me questions about what I watched on TV, and I couldn't get any answers. So I started freaking out, saying he was violating my rights and whatnot. Bottom line was I couldn't answer any questions, so my 13 hours in a hotel room were on the internet for all to see.

I can't imagine it would be a hot seller.

"Dude, should we download the new Paris Hilton video, or do you want to watch the one with this guy in a hotel?"

"Well, what's he do in the hotel room?"

"Says here that he drinks 5 beers of a six-pack and eats tacos."

"No shit. What else?"

"Watches some baseball."

"Download that shit. I can see Paris Hilton another time. I want to see this dude eat some fucking tacos."

There were tons of other dreams, but I can't recall them. Probably not as fun as that one.

Hmmm. You know what bugs me? HBO not showing movies in widescreen format. I think we are to the point as a people where we have accepted and understand that widescreen is better. I used to think you were missing out on something because it wasn't using the full screen. Like those black bars at the top and bottom were just being unutilized. But I was just a dumb kid back then.

Dear HBO,

We are ready for the widescreen.


I can't watch pan and scan shit anymore. It bugs the nuts off me.

OK, so my first day in Colorado, it was suggested to me that I drive up to Estes Park, home of Rocky Mountain National Park and the hotel where Stephen King wrote The Shining. Apparently, they also shot the lobby scene there, but I'm not sure about that. I didn't go into the hotel. I drove by it.

I did, however, go into the park. It was pretty nice, what with the mountains and shit. I love mountains. If I could fuck a mountain, I would. Check that. I'd make love to that bitch.

Anyway, here is one of the first pictures I took. I was afraid these would be the best sites I would see, so I took a lot of pictures. Turns out these were some of the less scenic of the trip.

(These photos are somewhat large, because I ain't small time, ya hear? So if you have a shitty computer or a gay ass dial up piece of shit, they might take a while.)

I was hiking up this trail, which was a three mile hike. I thought I'd start off easy because I wasn't acclimated yet to the high altitude and all. I felt like dying about 3 minutes in. My heart started racing, I would breathe, yet air wouldn't enter my lungs, my back got sweaty, but I thought to myself, It will all be worth it when I get to the top to see the magnificent view from the summit.

I soon got a bit more used to the altitude. I trudged on to the summit. It wasn't easy, but it wasn't all that difficult. Every time I would feel tired, I'd say to myself, "Some blind guy climbed Everest. Some blind guy climbed Everest." And then I'd go, "No wait, maybe it was a guy with no legs. Was he blind and had no legs? That'd be fucking hard. I'm sure he had a sherpa. I need a sherpa. Maybe it was a retarded guy who climbed Everest? Damn this mountain air."

Things turned out all well and good when I met this little guy. I named him Tiny Nervous Little Dickhead. He followed me around for the rest of the hike, once saving me from falling of the mountain and once giving me mouth to mouth. I didn't even need it, but he's just that nervous. Our story is actually being turned into a Disney movie. The title of the movie is called Hiker and Tiny, the Nervous Little Dickhead. In the movie, we save the Rocky Mountains from being hijacked by terrorists who want to crash them into the White House. I've lost all creative control. Except for the fact that they took my suggestion and Willie Aames will play the president.

The biggest bummer about this hike was that there was no real summit. All of the sudden, it started going downhill. Usually there is some sort of clearing and angels going "Aaahhhh" and there is a view of heaven and earth, but here there was nothing. So I felt kind of gypped. I cheated, went off the trail which is apparently a no-no in a national park, climbed to the top and stood there for a while. It was awesome and quiet. So quiet in fact, that I began to write a song called the "Sound of Silence". It starts off "Hello darkness, my old friend..." That's all I've got so far.

In case you are not aware, what I did was fly to Denver, then my plan was to drive around by myself for a few days, then go visit my friend Dave in Telluride. And that is what I did. The first night I planned to stay in Boulder. My mother called me to make sure my plane didn't crash (you know how the news doesn't cover those stories anymore), and when I told her I would be in Boulder, she said, "You should call your cousin Mark."

I totally forgot my cousin lived in Colorado. So I called him and he answered and he was like, "Holy shit, you should stay at my house," so I did. We went to dinner and had some beers and talked about our dysfunctional families. Good times. I didn't take a picture of Mark, but here is the Foo Fighters official web site. Something about Mark reminds me of Dave Grohl.

Getting back to my hike, I did see some wildlife, which was pretty cool. I'm not all that into the Discovery Channel or shit like that, so I'm not sure exactly what I saw. But here is a picture of what I think are some velociraptors. And then I saw an elephant.

So that was basically my first day. I'll be back to talk about future days.

I am trying to make these posts about my vacation really interesting, but I'm having trouble getting started. So I guess I'll just type. Unless you don't want to hear about it. Maybe I'll just talk about the guy on the subway when I got back that was yelling to a high school kid, "You ain't nothing but a fucking punk. A punk. You a bitch. Someone fucked a bitch and out came you. A bitch."

That was my "I just got back from an incredibly peaceful vacation and now something must remind me that I'm back in New York" moment.

I have run out of time once again today. So nothing fun. I'll give you one picture. This is what happens when you eat too much elk jerky and you get stuck on a hiking trail in the middle of the woods.

Hello. I am back from Colorado. I will put up some photos soon. I hope you like pictures of mountains, leaves and my noggin. Because I gots plenty.

Whenever I go on vacation, celebrities die. This time it was Rodney Dangerfield and Christopher Reeve. Last September it was Johnny Cash and John Ritter. I was on vacation when Phil Hartman died. I know there have been more.

I'm killing Hollywood!

I go away again in November. Look out, Courtney Love! I think you're due.

Hello. I will be gone until next Wednesday. Until then, you can peruse my archives, visit some of those other links on the left, or maybe get up off your ass and do something, you lazy sack of shit.


So I picked up my laundry yesterday, all smelling fresh and shit. It was neatly folded and stacked like a giant pile of flapjacks.

I declare that from this day forward, I shall never do laundry again! Hurrah!
All material © Mike Toole; 2003 - 2006