Blogging Like I've Never Blogged Before

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Someone who shall remain not anonymous wrote to me today, "I think you should stop not blogging." Or something like that.

I'll be very surprised if spell check doesn't point out that I misspelled the sixth word of the first sentence up there. I'll check now. Please wait. What do you know? I got it right. That 'y' just looks out of place. And that 'u'? English is dumb. As evidenced by that silent 'b' in 'dumb'.

Stella I love you!

I can listen to Interpol's "Stella Was a Diver And She Was Always Down" at any time anywhere and always want to yell that line when it comes on. On the subway, it'll be on my headphones and I just want to fucking shout, "STELLA I LOVE YOU!"

I wish I was dating a girl named Stella because I'd make her a mix tape with only that song on it over and over again. Then me and Stella would fuck to that mix tape. And approximately every six minutes I would yell, "STELLA I LOVE YOU!"

Stella would probably break up with me the next day. But it'd be worth it.

If you don't listen to Interpol, you should.

So I should be packing for Branson, which I am supposed to depart for tomorrow, but Johnny Weather might have another idea. I am connecting in Texas, which is supposed to have some storms a brewin'. Busiest day of the year + stormy weather across the country = lots of cursing at airports and people sighing heavily and saying to people on their cell phones, "I have been sitting here for gah gah blah blah wah wah."

What can you do, right? Buy an Entertainment Weekly, get wasted at the sports bar, chat up a gal from Altoona, Pennsylvania. You are stuck in an airport and you have no control. Just be glad it's because of weather and not because of a bunch of Saudis with an unreasonable chip on their shoulder.

I first typed "soldier" rather than "shoulder" by mistake.

OK, I should go pack now. What do I need? My "I (heart) Branson" button, toothbrush, paste for the brush, some clean undies, and I think I'm set.

I am going to be with my parents for the week, who are also visiting my sister Laurie. I now call her "Laurie in Missouri." I'd like to move to a state that rhymes with my name. But there aren't any, are there? Montana? No. North Dakota? No. I'll just have to go with "Mike, who lives kind of near the Jersey Turnpike."

I'm trying to call my parents at home right now and there is a busy signal. When was the last time you heard a fucking busy signal?

My mom and dad are very much against call waiting. It's the one thing they agree on. In a way, I agree with them. It can be awfully rude.

I just got through to them. Now I lost my blogging momentum. Damn.

Oh well. Sorry I lied to you last week when I said I wouldn't be blogging for a while. Perhaps I will not blog every day from now on. Deal with it, jerks.

Happy Thanksgiving. Here is a good thing to say after your Thanksgiving meal to your entire family.

"Oh man, that turkey was so good, I kinda feel bad that we ate it. We shoulda fucked it instead. Now let's watch some football!"

I'm going to go pack now. Right after I scour some online personals for a gal named Stella.

Before I hang up my blogging boots for the next few days, I meant to recommend you go and read Tricia's blog, specifically the latest news about an old lady that she watches shit on a guy's lawn. I know you are tired of hearing stories about old ladies shitting on people's lawns, but this one is different. Start here, then go to the main page and check out the photo. And be sure to read the comments.

And I'm out.

MISSING: My urge to blog.

LAST SEEN: Friday, November 12.

DESCRIPTION: 20 months old. Likes to use the word "vagina." Answers to the name of Toole.

Well, hello dear readers. I apologize for going almost a week without posting. How dare I!

Truth be told, I haven't had the motivation or inspiration as of late. I suppose I need to run into an old guy with lemons, maybe see a kid get hit by a car, or move back to Brooklyn and get a wacky neighbor (these neighbors in Queens just can't cut it).

Anyway, I am going to Branson once again next week to visit the kid sis and have a Thanksgiving, Branson style!

So I am not going to post anything at least until I get back, which is the Tuesday after Thanksgiving. Just taking a little bloggin break. I shall return. Just thought I'd let you know I'm still alive. Although no one seemed overly concerned.

I wasn't going to talk about this auction, because I was holding out to see if it would stay a secret and I could win it for a hundred bucks. Now that it's above a thousand, I feel comfortable enough to talk about it. Anyway, the item up for bids is to attend a table reading of The Simpsons. mmmmm, table reading.

That would be quite amazing to attend. I am a Simpsons junkie. Although I would ideally like to win an auction where I could go back a few years via time machine and be at the table reading for the Monorail episode. For that, I might go over a grand.

Anyway, now that it is out of my reach, I encourage all of you rich people out there to bid your little hearts away on this auction.

Another item of note is quite amazing. You can bid on an autographed copy of Hunter S. Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. It is a first edition, complete with original Steadman color illustration and poem. So you know it's going to get some high bidding. And oh, by the way, Hunter S. Thompson is going to shoot it with a rifle. The title of the lot is This Book was Shot by Hunter S. Thompson.

Another fun one is Get Shitfaced With Charlie Rose. Well, it's officially called Drinks at Elaine's With Charlie Rose. But come on, you know the guy can drink his pants off. Before you know it, you and Charlie are back at his place doing coke with a couple of trannies.

Anyway, I'm thinking of doing an auction of my own. One in which I will combine all three of these auctions. The official title of this lot is "Get Drunk With Mike Toole While He Watches The Simpsons And He Gets So Drunk That He Will Shoot You."

I'll start the bidding at two bits!

So I just realized that women and black men are quite similar, at least when it comes to high profile murders.

The ladies in my office were filled with joy as the Scott Peterson verdict came down. A similar joy that the black men I worked with during the OJ trial expressed after that verdict.

And white men? Well, we seemed to not really care one way or the other for Scott Peterson. And after OJ, there was a feeling of "Yougottabefuckingkiddingme" that was pretty universal.

So anyway, congratulations to all the women out there.

Girl Power!

If you are interested, here is my Scott Peterson interview from last year.

I heard this story from my roommate in college, who apparently knew some stupid people.

A few guys were discussing GHB, the date rape drug. Not that they were trying to score some, it was just a topic that came up. One of the guys involved in the discussion was a guy who really enjoyed weight lifting. He was really into taking supplements beforehand that would get him all riled up. You know, so he could lift real fast and grunt a lot and have a lot of energy. Sometimes, to come down from this, he would take a form of GHB. I think this might be somewhat common.

Anyway, they were talking about how it was used as a date rape drug. The weight lifter guy decided to weigh in on the subject and said, "I don't know why people would use that. When I take it I get really tired. I don't feel like raping anyone."

Yesterday I was walking through Times Square when a very old man approached me. He was with his elderly wife and looked lost. He said to me, seemingly quite irate, but somehow in a jovial way, "Can you tell me where we are?!"

I looked at him and said, "You know where you are? You're in the jungle baby. You're gonna diiiiiiieiiiieiieieieii.... in the jungle. Welcome to the jungle!" I stopped when I got to the "Shananananananeeee" part.

OK, so that was a lie. He asked if I knew where this one address was, and of course, he was a block away, which was something I discussed way back in my second post of all time.

I think I had a point here. Apparently I don't. Maybe I just wanted an excuse to get all Axl Rose on your ass.

You know how sometimes you just can't delete old emails? There's just something about them that makes you giggle every time you see it? Well, I have this one in my sent file, and it's really the subject line that makes me happy. That subject line is, "mark gastineau hugging a retard".

Thanks Greg for that one.

I think I need to stop saying "retard" or any forms of it. Like, "That's retarded." From now on, I will say, "That's all mentally slow and whatnot." Or "That's totally paralyzed from the neck down." Or "That's so easily amused by things like cookies and often scared by loud noises created by things such as fireworks."

Damn. I wanted to sign myself up for Pimp My Ride, but I am too old. I have to be between the ages of 18-22. That blows. Discrimination. All I really want is for them to clean my car and maybe remove the cement that was splattered on it. And replace the runners. That's all I ask. I promise to be excited.

"Oh shit! Check out the carpets, yo! They all vacuumed and shit! That is sweet, bro." Then I'll hug Xzibit and thank him for pimpin' my ride. But since I'm too old, I guess I should let go of that dream.

Perhaps VH1 can create a show called "Please Clean My Car."

Well, good day to you. I have not much to report today. As you may know, when I start off a post like that, I often ramble for miles.

Speaking of miles, this past Sunday was the NYC Marathon. And what a marathon it was! I slept through it. Yes, that's right, while some amazing people were wrecking their knees for 20-something miles, I was sleeping away a beautiful day. When I did wake up, I was just in time to watch The Surreal Life marathon. It was 20-something miles of hilarity! Watching Flavor Flav and Brigitte Nielsen... weirdest television romance ever? Yes, I think so. I also liked the rare occasion when Flavor would have a conversation with Charo. Two people talking to each other, neither of which having any clue what the other is saying.

Speaking of romance, this lady wants to have my virtual babies, which is downright nice of her. I am fine with that, just as long as you understand that I will be a virtual deadbeat dad.

Speaking of deadbeats, Doug... I got nothing. Doug's not a deadbeat.

Speaking of Doug, last night I got the urge to clean the bathroom. That's never too much fun. But the end result is always nice. It was an odd urge to get late on a Sunday evening as I waited for the Simpsons and Arrested Development. That should also tell you how I feel about King of the Hill. "Hmmm, watch King of the Hill or scrub the bathtub and toilet???"

Sorry, Hank Hill. I just can't watch that show. It's not even that bad. I just physically can't watch it for some reason.

So the bathroom. Every time I do that, I think back to when my mom would clean the toilet and she never seemed to really enjoy it. So I always wondered why she continuously did it. Turns out you kind of have to clean it. Otherwise it gets disgusting. I do remember her saying something once to the effect of, "Do you think I like cleaning shit?" Not that my family was shitting all over the place. But you know how toilets get, what with splashback and all.

Why am I talking about this?

No reason. I've got nothing else.

I always find it amusing after I clean the bathroom how careful I am for the rest of the day. Any drop of water on the top of the sink, and I quickly wipe it away. I assume everyone is like this, no? I am not a very "clean" person, but when I clean the bathroom, I go kind of nuts. I have to get into every last nook and clean out the last cranny. Then I'll go into my room and jump over a pile of dirty underwear on my way to bed.

Speaking of bed, I think I'm ready for it. It is now 9:30 EST. 9:30. I'm probably going to bed. I am awesome, no?


Someone at my place of business left a stack of CDs in the kitchen, with a note above them that read, "Take these." So I did. Well, some of them. And one of them is so mind bogglingly amazing, that I can't understand how this guy isn't on the same level as Usher.

His name is apparently Sup. The song? Pussycat, Pussycat. There is only one song on the CD, but there are 11 versions of it. All of them will blow you.

There is a warning on the cover that reads "WARNING: This song has the potential to drive your sexual groove OUT OF CONTROL!" And in case you don't heed that warning, there is another on the inside cover that makes it clear that this song has some amazing sexual powers. It declares, "WARNING: If your sexual drive is out of control, please do not listen to this song in public!"

Awww, yeah. Only in the privacy of your motherfucking home, y'all.

Sup also lists his Top Ten Soul Tips To Please Your Pussycat. Tip number 1 is "Put on the Pussycat song, now you are ready to start."

OK, Sup. I've got the song. Eleven different versions of it. I am more than ready.

I won't give you all the tips, but tip number 2 is flat out amazing, and I love the way he just cuts to the shit. Ladies and gentlemen... Tip Number 2:

Tell her that you are gonna enjoy her backside like a thick juicy T-bone steak served on a silver platter with potatoes, hot soul gravy and corn bread on the side.

Nothing a woman likes more than having her ass compared to a steak. And oh yes, cornbread on the side.

I'ma put some A-1 on that ass.

Tip number 9 is for Kat. "Use a touch of ruff neck style for the spice."

And now I know what you really want. Some lyrics. Here is my favorite verse:

I'm gonna treat you like ice cream on a cone girl
I'm gonna lick you from the sides
and treat you like a piece of lickery stick

Damn! As if your ass being a steak wasn't enough, now you are ice cream in a cone. Hope you don't melt and get my hands all fucking sticky.

Sup's night of romance isn't done yet.

and after I'm finished with you
I'm gonna take you in my arms
and walk you to the shower
and both of us are gonna take a shower together, baby
and when you finish washing my back
I am going to wash yours

and if it steams up in here
don't worry baby that's just me
showing all my love and my heart
through my body
the steam is going out of my mind
because baby, I know how to treat you girl

I probably should have put a warning to the ladies before I typed those lyrics, because you might get all hot and bothered at your work place. I know how that line about the steam coming from his body and mind is quite the turn on. And nothing is sexier than a lyric like, "and when you finish washing my back I am going to wash yours."

Straight and to the mother fucking point. We both have dirty backs, baby. Let's scrub that shit.

I'll leave you with this. Another lyric to get you all hot and bothered. A lyric that will practically speak to your vagina:

yea girl how you feel?
you feel good? hmm
that's good 'cause I'm not finished yet

Fellas, all I can say is take these lines and make them your own. If you are going to try and slightly change the lyrics, I suggest you use caution. Sup is a professional and he knows what he's doing. I made a few up. I'm going to try this one tonight.

oh yeah girl
you're like a pop tart, right?
you got your frosting on the top
and the crust underneath
and when I take you out of the toaster
you're all hot

Sorry I didn't write anything yesterday. I was busy. I am trying to figure out a way to induce a four year coma. So far, I'm not really coming up with anything that seems effective. Yasser Arafat is so lucky.

I will have to get my wisdom teeth taken out soon, so that's exciting. Painkillers! Haven't had them since I had kidney stones. That was quite fun. I was in college. I was killing "pain" in many a class. I think I made the dean's list that semester. Did I ever tell you my kidney stone story? Maybe one day I will.

A few years before I got them, my little sister had them. They are apparently hereditary. My dad had them. So not only did I inherit a sweaty back from him, but I also inherited the most painful shit in the world. Anyway, we were on the way to school. My older sister was driving. She a senior, me a junior, and my kid sister, Laurie, a freshman.

Laurie starts complaining that her back hurts. Christina, the elder, didn't want to hear it. I don't remember exactly what she said, but it was something to the effect of, "Shut your mouth, bitch!" My sisters didn't get along back then.

So we got to school, and that was that. During my fifth period history class, everyone noticed there was kind of a stank in the hallway. Craig Butler, who had the nickname of Buttface, walked into the class and said, "It smells like fucking vomit out there."

It did smell like vomit. I thought nothing of it. I got home later that day and there was a note from my dad that said he was at the hospital with Laurie. Apparently, soon after homeroom, Laurie's back pain kicked into full gear and made her nauseous. She puked in the hallway. Turns out it was kidney stones. They'll do that to you. I think Christina felt bad.

First, I'd like to thank a fella named Mike for sending me this picture of the FUCK THIS SHIT guy. I would like to meet him.

I was going to write a big rant on this election, but I'm a little late to the party. But I'll sum up:

-- My stomach hurts from being so disgusted.
-- I'm thinking of buying stock in wire hangers, now that abortion will be made illegal.

I think that's all I had. Except for this really long thing I'm about to type.

I think the biggest mistake in all of this for Kerry was his choice of a running mate. Sure, he's got the nice smile, the boyish charm, the John Ritter resemblance, the southern attitude. But what else did John Edwards really bring to the table? In 2000, people who voted for Bush were also confident in Cheney, and those that they'd be surrounded by (mainly Powell). Who could be confident in Edwards? He couldn't even win in his own state. Arkansas actually had a higher percentage vote for Kerry.

Looking back, Wesley Clark was probably the way to go. He's from Arkansas, so he's got the Southern connection, but most importantly, he was a four star general in the Army. And there probably weren't any Swift Boat Veterans that would have been able to bring him down.

That's what Kerry needed. Some sort of backbone that made you believe he could be strong on Defense. He vowed to protect the country and "hunt down and kill" the terrorists. But he never made you believe it. He said he had plans. I'm not sure what those plans were, but he had them. And when you get right to it, the undecideds who still had some faith in Bush, didn't get a strong enough sense of confidence from Kerry. And Edwards brought nothing to back him up. I think someone like Clark could have been a guy to swing a lot of votes.

Democrats are in some serious shit. Perhaps the people from that Extreme Makeover show can help.

Oh well. We'll get them next year! Clark in '05!!!!!

My favorite part of the election coverage so far was on CNN. Their headquarters are in Times Square and they have one of those windows where people on the street can look in and wave. There was one guy who stood up on the tips of his toes, opened his jacket to reveal a t-shirt that read, "FUCK THIS SHIT".


Since all of the networks are being pussies about it because of 2000, I will go ahead and predict a Bush victory. It is now 10:00 Eastern Time. You heard it here first, folks. Bush is still your president.

But it might be Kerry. Who knows, right?

Well, America. Here we are. After all the Bush bashing, flip-flopping, pavement pounding, flag flying, terrorist torturing, uummm, I'm out of alliteration.

Anyway, the big day is here. And in only a few short weeks, maybe months, we'll know who the winner is. That will be another exciting day.

It looks as though Puffy's Vote or Die campaign has been more effective than people expected, based on what already looks to be a record turnout. Perhaps this will start more "____ or Die" campaigns.

Floss or Die
Volunteer or Die
Set Up a Living Will or Die
Don't Get Cancer or Die
Buy My Motherfuckin' Album or Die

A month ago, I would have said, "Bush will win." Now I'm not so sure. What's scary is if Kerry does win, we are all going to be eaten by wolves. I think. I'm not sure, but I think that's what that one Bush ad said. I totally don't want to get eaten by a wolf, let alone a pack of them.

Whoever wins, let's hope that we all made the right decision. And when this is all over, I invite people of all parties to my apartment for a big party. We'll drink Sam Adams and yell shit about the Alamo. And if there are any Nader supporters, we'll plant a tree. Then the Bush supporters can cut it down and build a deck. Then the Kerry supporters can tax the shit out of it.

Today as I walked to lunch, a gust of wind blew something into my eye. It was one of those things where you're like, "Oh, I just got something in my eye. I will now blink ferociously, maybe rub it a bit, and all will be forgotten."

Whatever got into my eye, had no intention of leaving, and thought that perhaps, a good place to nest would be beneath my eyelid.

I've never had something in my eye for so long, and hurt so bad. Come on baby, make it hurt so bad. My eye was red, my eye was crying, my eye was wondering what hit it.

I often hide my injuries. I don't like to complain. I once slept on a collapsed lung because I didn't want to wake up my mother. But this eye occurrence was obvious. My soop took me out for a lunch because I care about customers. She was concerned for my eye.

She: Are you going to be OK?

Me: (blinking, reddening, tearing and poking) Yeah, it's fine.

She: You're sure?

Me: No. Yeah. Don't worry. It's cool.

She: Maybe you should try to flush it out again.

Me: No, really it's fine. (long pause... eye hurts more than ever.) I'll be right back.

So I go into this bathroom, where lots of disco music is playing. I made three trips to the bathroom in about 30 minutes. I couldn't see anything in my eye, and whatever it was, it wouldn't come out. So first I listened to Flashlight by Parliament, as I rubbed and blinked. Then I listened to that song that goes "At the car wash..." It is probably called "Car Wash." Then there was one more song on my last trip. A song I didn't know.

Whatever was in my eye, I could feel at the very top of my lid. It was trying to get into my brain. So I started fucking with my eyelid, rubbing it a lot. After a while, I pulled it back, and stuck my thumb so far in my eye, to a place I never thought possible. It was kind of creepy, painful, disgusting, enlightening, and most of all, enthralling, because whatever I did, I got that mysterious piece of nothing away from my ball of eye.

The second half of my lunch was great, because I wasn't blinking every .5 seconds and I wasn't tearing. But most importantly, I am still able to participate in the Staring Contest Championship this Friday. I hope you all come out and support me, especially after my most frightening ordeal.

So I think the moral of this story is, Remember to vote this Election Day. Big Brother is watching you.

All material © Mike Toole; 2003 - 2006