So, brown celery. That means it's bad, right? Just wanted to check. Thanks.

Man, I have gotten lazy. No wait. I already was lazy. So what have I become? I don't know, but I know that when I get home at midnight, I don't feel like doing squat. I keep telling myself that this apartment needs a good washin', but damn, you do some spring cleaning at 1:00 AM on a Tuesday. Not gonna happen.

At least when I worked in the morning, I could be like, "Well, I get up at 5 AM, so that's kind of productive." You know, I was an early snob. Now, I'm a guy that has to set my alarm to ensure that I'm out of my apartment by 12:30.

Twelve thirty!

Damn.

I just took a crap in my kitchen sink because it was the closest thing with a drain. Now that's lazy! But because my sink is such mess, you wouldn't even notice. You'd just be like, "I guess these are some incredibly old eggs or something."

Anyway, what else? I feel like I've had much blog fodder over the last few days, but nothing sticks.

The other night I couldn't fall asleep and one of the things that was keeping me awake was wondering why LIVE STRONG bracelets are popular. Kudos to Lance Armstrong for coming up with the idea to get people to donate money for cancer research, but come on... it's kind of retarded. It annoys me that it takes something trendy and fashionable to get people to donate money. Same stuff with the AIDS ribbon craze of the mid-nineties. It's this "look at how much I care" kind of thing. Now I feel kind of gypped that I didn't get something for a tsunami donation. Where's my SWIM STRONGER necklace?

I don't know. Cynical me. I've been wearing a rubber band on my left wrist for the last few days. Why? That's none of your business. Maybe it's my silent tribute to those of us that suffer from dandruff. Maybe it says DON'T SCRATCH - IT WILL ONLY MAKE IT WORSE.

I feel bad for having negative feelings against something that is a positive, especially because cancer has ravaged a good part of my family and friends and continues to do so, but I sometimes want to ask people why they are wearing it. Do you wear it because you or someone close to you has had cancer or is it because you want people to see your yellow wrist and be like, "Hey, that motherfucker lives STRONG, y'all."

Do you know how many southerners I have argued with about the spelling of "y'all"? They often spell it "ya'll". This is how fucking stupid southerners are. They don't even know how to spell their own damn word. The idea of a contraction is that the apostrophe is replacing the missing letters. So of course, the contraction for "you all" would be "y'all" with the apostrophe replacing the o and the u. And I note that my scorn is coming from a region famous for saying "youse guys".

And I occasionally like my periods outside my quotes.

Here was something that happened to me in first grade, I believe. Wait, might have been later. I'm not sure, but let's just say it was first.

Mrs. Goodman: Michael, what is the contraction for "can not"?

Me: Can't.

Mrs. Goodman: Very good. And for "do not"?

Me: Don't.

Mrs. Goodman: Correct. And "will not"?

Me: Willn't.

Mrs. Goodman: (laughs) No. Anyone else?

Someone else: Won't.

Me: That's fucking bullshit! It should be willn't. What the fuck is won't? What ass did you just pull that word out of? Fuck this, I'm going home.

So I went home and I pulled a beer out of the fridge and I was like, "Dad, wake up. You know contractions, right? Well, why the good God damn is won't the contraction for will not? Shouldn't it be willn't? Yeah, but doesn't it make more sense for it to be willn't? I know I should still be in school, but I had to leave because the teacher laughed at me for saying willn't. Yeah, Mrs. Goodman. I got the beer out of the fridge, why? No, I will not put it back. You can't make me. I know I'm only in first grade, but I want me a fucking beer. No, I will not put the beer back and I will not stop cursing. I willn't I willn't I willn't!"

So part of that story was a lie. I'll leave that to you to figure out. But damn. Shit should be willn't.

Anyway, Mrs. Goodman got hers. She died of cancer. I suppose she didn't LIVE STRONG enough. This was pre-bracelet, so I guess we can cut her some slack.

Actually, Mrs. Goodman was awesome. I was on Romper Room when I was a kid and she let the whole class watch it. Yes, I was on Romper Room... that's probably why I look so familiar to you. I was the kid wearing a blue shirt. I think it had the number 7 on it. Possibly 11.

I should go. Gotta clean all this poop out of my sink.

Go now.

This is the current front page picture on espn.com.



I'm sure they have better photos from this amazing game, but I'm willing to bet this was the only one with a little cheerleader ass crack.

Hello. How are you, on this Goodest of Fridays?

I feel that I have to blog about that media hog down in Florida, Terry Schiavo. Especially because of this article which makes me feel I have to write about it. They say it is provoking a "blogging storm." That would be a decent name for a movie. The Blogging Storm.

Anyway, I wasn't following this case too much until the media made me fucking follow it. Let's just keep showing her kind of smiling face over and over and over and over. I feel like I can't add too much new to the debate. My personal feeling? Pull the tube. But I understand her parents holding out for a glimmer of hope. They are parents and they don't want their kid to die. What I don't understand are the people lining up outside holding vigils for this lady. Butt the fuck out. They are speaking for God, they say. Maybe God is saying, "Hey, can you pull that tube out? I've been trying to take her for ten years, but you keep feeding her. Lemme at her!"

So this got me thinking that I don't have a living will. If that ever happens to me, I would like to not be kept alive. Consider that my will. I would just feel terrible for my parents or my wife having to take care of me. It's not fair. Sure, it must be gut wrenching to make that decision, but just do it. But I do have one caveat: If Jeb Bush offers to take custody of me, then please let him!

How fun would that be? And I bet it would make a great sitcom. We'll call it Vegetative State Property. Play on words! That would be so fun to have Jeb Bush as my adoptive father. I would also like to be named after him. Jeb W. Bush Jr. The W. will stand for Wallerford. Whenever I get in trouble, he yells, Jeb Wallerford Bush! So you ask, How can you get in trouble if you are in a coma? Well, that's just it... I'm not really in a coma! He just thinks I am. When he turns his back or leaves me alone, I do zany stuff. That will be how TV critics describe this show: ZANY!

We'll also have a neighbor that knows my secret. He will be a precocious little black kid. He always comes in the house and says, "What up, Veg?" And when Jeb isn't in the room, I'll go "West Siiide!" because that's how I think black people talk. There will also be lessons on how I learn about black people and how they are not that different than white people, and the little black kid will learn many things about white people that are pretending to be in a coma.

So in conclusion: Brain damage is hilarious.

I'm going to bed early tonight because I'm tired. So instead of a real blog, here is a cheap one. This is a letter I wrote to the "snackmaster" at the Dipsy Doodles company after one bad experience. And they haven't gotten back to me. If any of you are so inclined, please email the snackmaster yourself and demand answers on why no one has answered my complaint. Thanks.

Hello. My name is Mike Toole and I have been a loyal fan of Dipsy Doodles for as long as I can remember. When I see people eating Fritos, I say, "Hey, you should eat Dipsy Doodles. They're just better!"

Often when I am at work and I need something to get me to lunch, or to take me through the rest of my day, I go to the vending machine and proudly drop my fifty cents on a 1.5 oz. bag of Doodles. When I have a rough start to the day, I think, I know what will turn this day around. A nice fresh bag of the Dipsy!

And that has been the case for the last five years of my job.

Until today.

I opened up the bag and immediately noticed that the chips were a little darker than usual. No big deal. Maybe my eyes are going, I thought. Maybe I'm just tired and I'm seeing everything a little darker. I also noticed that the Doodles were a little smaller in size. Almost as though they had been broken.

When I picked up the first Doodle, I knew something was amiss. It just didn't look right. I checked the front of the bag to make sure it wasn't some new sort of flavor. BBQ, perhaps? But no, according to the bag, it was regular old Dipsy Doodles with a new look, but the same great taste. SAME GREAT TASTE!

So I trusted the bag and proceeded to eat. Everything was wrong. The texture, the look, and most importantly, the taste. I'm not sure if they were burnt or maybe just a little overcooked. I don't know how you make your Doodles, and frankly, I don't want to know. I just want to keep eating the magic, and wonder how humans could make such beautiful food.

Don't mistake this message as me looking for a handout. Although I wouldn't complain. But I just wanted to let you know of this lapse in service.

Your product has treated me beyond my expectations for many years now, which I thank you for. Hopefully, whoever is responsible for this error will be dealt with. I'm not saying someone should lose their job, but maybe they should be docked a day's pay? Just a suggestion, because I feel as though my day has been lost, it's only fair that someone else's should be lost as well.

Thank you.

Sincerely,
Michael R. Toole

P.S. Per your request, the product name is Dipsy Doodles (I think you knew that!), the weight is 1.5 oz, the freshness date is April. The product code on the front of the bag is APR1905BDB.

Tonight when I was coming home on the subway, I saw a guy with a beard and I got the urge to travel around the world for a while and grow a beard. That would be priority number 1. Good beard growing. Sure I'd like to soak in the culture and all that, but I would definitely want a kick ass beard.

People that wear sunglasses inside for more than 8 seconds deserve a swift kick in the groin. I can't stand that shit.

Here is a great picture of my friend Rich about 10 minutes after a horrific wreck on a snowmobile. Let me point some things out to you. First, the snowmobile is behind Rich, down the cliff upside down against a tree. If Rich was still on it, he'd be dead. Also, you should look closely at his eyes. They aren't quite looking in the same direction. The one on the left is pretty much looking at his other eye, which is looking straight ahead.



He flew off of his snowmobile and hit another one head on. You might ask, "What kind of asshole friend takes a picture of his friend right after an accident like that where your friend is clearly injured?" To you, I respond, "A friend with a blog, of course." Well, at the time I didn't have a blog, but I did have email. And actually I think it was my friend Rick who took the picture. So yeah, he's the asshole!

I'm looking through pictures to see what I can put up here, because people like pictures, right? Here's a good one. This is my friend Robbie. He has awesome hair and is an owner of an awesome restaurant in San Francisco.



His restaurant is called Asqew Grill. It's really fucking good. If I was a restaurant reviewer, that would be my review. There are a few of them in SF, so if you live out there, you should go. And when you are there, say, "Hey, is Robbie here?" If he's there, tell him you know Mike Toole. I can't promise he'll do anything special for you, but he might. He might also put his balls on your food, but I doubt it, though I can't make any promises. And look! I'm even on the web site with a very special friend.

So what other photos can I share with you? This is Doug on Halloween. As you can see he dressed up like... well, he dressed up like Doug.



He is wearing a Halliburton t-shirt. That's pretty awesome and quite ballsy. And Texan.

Speaking of Doug, recently I took an old cardboard box and I converted it into a recycling bin. And by converting it, all I really did was put newspapers and other recyclable paper in it. So anyway, I noticed the other day some new trash in it, but also a sweater and some jeans. The jeans are pretty beat up, so I'm thinking he wants to throw them away, but I guess I have to tell him that New York doesn't do a whole lot of denim recycling.

Here is an awesome picture from Colorado. This is from when I was there in October, not the trip for work. I almost killed myself getting this picture. It was the last picture I took on my trip. I was driving back to Denver when all of the sudden I looked in my rearview mirror and saw this:



I mean, shit, look at that shit. So the reason I almost killed myself was because I pulled off the side of the road doing about 60 miles an hour. Cars drove by me looking like I was a psychotic asshole. But I was like, "Sorry! My wife is going into labor!" My sister Laurie, whenever you are driving with her and some other car pulls a dickhead move, she tells you not to honk and says, "Maybe his wife is going into labor." Or if it's a woman, "Maybe she's going into labor." Stupid sister... so understanding.

Here is a picture of my stupid, understanding sister crying like a little bitch at my other sister's wedding.



What a wuss! You can even see her friend in the background pointing and laughing at her! Suck it up, Toole, ya Lyme disease havin' motherfucker!

So, what did I do this weekend? Well, for one, I ran over a car. That's right, a human running over a car, and not the other way around. Payback for all those people hit by cars.



Just an FYI, I'm the one on top of the car. If you'd like to see the photo even larger in all its detail, go here. Hopefully, the Nike people will be knocking on my door soon to talk about endorsements.

So yeah, sometimes when I get drunk, I like to run across a car. I am always cautious and make sure that the car is either at a red light that won't be turning green soon, or as is the case of the above photo, I make sure the car is idled and not about to go anywhere. So please, if any kids are reading this, be sure the cars you run over are not going to peel out beneath you.

So like I was saying, I get drunk and run over cars. Usually I do this when no one is expecting it. Like, we'll be about to cross a street and I'll just dart off and run over a cab. Oh yeah, always cabs. That guy up there is one of those livery cabs. So yeah, this time someone mentioned my love for running over cars and so I was like, "Yeah, I'll run over a car." Luckily a person in my posse had a camera and a good eye, so it made for a nice photo.

You can see the guy in the car kind of looks not very phased by the whole thing, but I assure you, he was quite phased when I got down from the back of the car and saw him starting to run after me. So I ran like hell, with my legs all drunk.

I'm 29-years-old.

I'd like to tell you I ran all the way over the Triborough Bridge, but I only got to the next block. He couldn't keep up with me.

So yeah, I think I am going to retire this stunt of mine. That will be the last one. Now that it has been captured on film, or pixels, I can put that baby to bed.

I don't recall when this started, but it happens every so often. I think it might have to do with my boyhood dream of being one of the Dukes of Hazzard. But they always slid across cars, didn't really run over them. Although I'm sure they did once or twice. I also wanted to be a stuntman for a while. But I think I'd have to be a drunk stuntman. If I was ever on a movie set and they needed me to do a stunt, I'd probably ask them to hold off for a few moments while I tighten my buzz.

So yeah, that was my weekend, or at least one very small exciting part of it.

So both of my NCAA brackets are shot to shit. Almost. One for sure. I knew I should have had Vermont and Bucknell in my Final Four.

I like how espn.com barely recognizes the existence of women's basketball. The day the men's tourney started, the whole front page was devoted to the men, then at the very bottom there was a link that said something like, "Women sometimes play basketball too".

The other day when I was walking to the subway, I passed by the barbershop I've been to twice. I had my headphones on and all of the sudden, once I was about 20 feet passed the barbershop, I heard "Sir! Sir!" But it was this very weird way of saying "sir." It was like, "Seeir." Something like that. Anyway, I'd figured I dropped something. I turned around to see one of the barbers chasing after me, still saying Seeir. And he has something in his hand, I look at it, and it's a fucking card for the barbershop. Like a business card. He chased me down with the utmost urgency, yelling, to give me a business card. He said something like, "Uh, barbeeirshop."

So I was like, "Yeah, I already go there."

He said, "Oh, you do?"

"Yeah."

I stared at him, fairly incredulous, thinking, What kind of nut runs out of a barbershop to chase one guy down to give him a card. Not even a discount card, like after five haircuts, you get one free. It was a card with a phone number and address on it and a picture of scissors. Then I thought, Damn, I must really need a fucking haircut.

I walked on and he handed the card to someone else who was wondering why a barber was now about a block away from his barbershop handing out cards. Go cut some hair, ya nutjob.

One of the crappy things about my late schedule and living in Queens is that everything seems to shut down at 10:00 around here. City that never sleeps? They didn't take into account Queens when they made that one up. We sleep plenty.

Tonight when I was walking home, I saw a delivery guy on a bike. I wanted to knock him off his bike, grab him by the lapels, then get all Jack Bauer on his ass and be like, "WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR?!?" I just want a fucking taco, man. Sometimes I'm coming home and I'm like, All I want's a taco. Yes, All I want's a taco. That is what I think.

See, I love me some tacos. And I enjoy eating tacos before I go to bed. In Brooklyn, you could eat something from any corner of the globe at almost any time of night. You want some falafel at 3AM? I know a place that will deliver it to you, motherfucker.

So if you live in Queens and you hear a guy yelling some time after midnight, "Can I get a taco?! Falafel? Anything? Someone must have something? Please?!" That's me. Throw me a tortilla and some ground beef. I'll be pleased as pico de gallo.

Just continuing on the vivid dream kick, I dreamt last night that this girl I went to school with (kindergarten through high school), who is now (or was at one time) a police officer at the US Capitol... this sentence got confusing. Damn. Anyway, Jessica Gissubel, that's her name, in my dream adopted a baby from Dunkin' Donuts. It turned out to be a really crappy baby, kind of like Problem Child. And she was all mad about it, but I told her that it was a bad idea to get a baby at Dunkin' Donuts. I was kind of just like, "Shoulda just got a chocolate frosted donut. Can't go wrong there. They're not really known for their babies." I don't think I said that exact line, but that was the gist.

Anyway, last I spoke to Jessica she was working as a cop at the US Capitol Building. A search of her name brings up CNN transcripts and such. Last time I saw her, she showed me her gun. That was pretty cool.

And speaking of guns, when I opened up my mailbox today, I found out that I have been accepted as a member into the North American Hunting Club. I don't know why I've received this package, but it's pretty damn funny. I feel like someone sent it as a joke. Other than seeing Jessica Gissubel's gun and my dad telling me when I was a kid not to ever touch his gun, I don't have much experience with guns. Although last time I played Big Buck Hunter, I got two triple bucks. Maybe someone from the Hunting Club saw that and were like, "We need that guy.

I just don't think I'd be much of a hunter. I'm not all about saving animals (I eat lots of them and have run over a few), but I don't see the need to go out of my way to kill them. If this was me in this picture, here's what I'd be saying:

Um, OK, now what do I do?



The kid in that picture is 11-years-old. You should go read his story. It's inspirational. You'll say to yourself, "Well, if an 11-year-old with a rifle can kill a wild boar, then surely I can do anything I put my mind to! As long as I have a gun! And as long as 'whatever I put my mind to' is actually a wild boar!"

Anyway, I think I might get into this whole hunting thing. Check out this cool shit they sent me. They gave me a bright orange wallet type thing that I can put my member card in. Look how hunter I look! I even already have kick-ass hunter glasses. I bought them because they made me look like a child molester, but now they make me look like a child molesting hunter! I'm gonna feel me up some bunny rabbits!

The front of the envelope they sent me says, "Please keep what you learn here to yourself." So I'd best stop talking. They also sent me some return address stickers for me to use. Those are actually pretty nice. They have my address and pictures of bears, eagles and deer; all beautiful things that I could be killing right now.

I think the reason I really never wanted to hunt was that episode of Silver Spoons where Ricky goes hunting with his British grandpa. Then Ricky starts crying when the grandfather tells him to lift up the gun and aim for the heart. I don't remember if he actually shot the deer or not. I think he did. But the message was that hunting is bad. Fucking liberal Hollywood!

I've been having insanely vivid dreams lately. The dreams where once I wake up, ten things will happen to me where I'm like, "Holy shit, that was in my dream last night."

So I had this dream last night where I was arguing with someone and I came up with this line:

That's like loving women's volleyball, but hating lesbians.

I don't recall what context this was in, but I love the line. If anyone can somehow work this into a conversation some time soon, I'd appreciate it. Once I write a book, I'm sure that will be the name of a chapter.

Chapter 6: That's like loving women's volleyball, but hating lesbians.

I also had a dream with The Golden Girls in it. Specifically Blanche crying. Again, I don't recall the context, but Bea Arthur was yelling at her. Such a bitch! That show is fucking funny, which I'm sure you all know. I was watching it today before work and here was my favorite sequence:

Blanche (looking out the window): Oh, how I do love the rain. It
reminds me of my first kiss.

Dorothy: Aw, your first kiss was in the rain?

Blanche: No, the shower.


Slutty old chicks are great. Hey! I think I just wrote the title for Chapter 7.

So Sarah B. (who is on one of those lame fucking "blogging breaks"... I would never do that) recently commented after I posted about my chocolate fixation (which has thankfully passed quite quickly... I'm back to beer, potato chips and sleeping pills) that I should change the name of my blog to "Mike Toole: Almost A Lady." I think this might be a good idea, especially since I now watch the Golden Girls and Ellen before I go to work.

I think I might change the name of this blog. It's time, right? Any suggestions? Going in Sarah's direction, I came up with this one:

Mike Toole: His penis will kind of remind you of a vagina!


That might be too much. Someone always likes to remind me how much I use the word "vagina". It's true. I do love using the word. The name of my fantasy baseball team this year is The Sexy Vaginas. I want to win the league, because we actually have a cup that gets engraved with the winner's team name. I want to have a video camera when I go to the place and ask them to engrave this cup with "2005 - The Sexy Vaginas".

Here's a funny story. When my kid sister was in high school, she was diagnosed with Lyme disease. I know, hilarious right? That's not even the best part.

One of the side effects of the disease is mood swings. So there were some crazy days where Laurie was just plain crazy. Whenever she got nuts, we would always say, "It's not her, it's the tick." She was crazy pre-tick, but we gave her the benefit of the doubt.

Anyway, I somehow started calling her "Lyme disease idiot". You know, normal big brother type stuff. So one day I see on the back of Frosted Flakes or Rice Krispies an offer for personalized pencils. I saved up five proofs-of-purchase and a couple of bucks and mailed away to either Tony the Tiger or Snap, Crackle and Pop. What did I request on my personalized pencils? LYME DISEASE IDIOT, of course.

Four to six weeks went by. I had wanted to get them in time for Christmas. So I assumed that the people in charge of making the pencils objected. It was offensive or something. I had pretty much forgotten I ever ordered them, when one day, I hear a scream from downstairs: MICHAEL!

I ran out to see my sister looking at all six or eight of her new pencils that proudly displayed the fact that she was an idiot with Lyme disease. She eventually laughed and I think still has one somewhere buried among her childhood keepsakes.

I'm pretty sure it was the greatest thing I have ever done as a brother.

I stopped in a bar the other eve as I walked home from work. An Irish bar near where I live. And not just an Irish-looking bar, this is an Irish bar. Most in it are Irish, silly accents and all. Very grubby looking. Top shelf bottles are not top shelf in most places.

Anyway, a guy walked in, not Irish but obviously a regular, and he started talking to another regular, and after being asked how he was, he said, "Been better. Just got laid off from my job." I felt bad. Nearly bought him a shot.

The lady bartender, not hearing the previous words, said, "Hey Paul. What can I getcha?" Paul replied, "A gun and one bullet. If you don't have that, I'll take a pint of Bass."

He got the pint of Bass, on the house.

I sat there and thought, That man just ordered suicide. My life is kind of OK.

I know I promised you a story about crap, but I don't know if I'm feeling it right now. We'll see.

So my wisdom teeth. Are you sick of hearing about them yet? Tough poo. I feel like my dentist added a sweet tooth somewhere in my mouth. I've never been a big sweets guy, except for the occasional 65 cent Twix from the work vending machine. But lately, all I want is chocolate. So I'm either going through a phase or I'm turning into a woman. Or maybe turning into a woman is a phase. Either way, I've got lots of sugar in my bones.

The other day I was in a drug store to buy drugs, when all of the sudden I found myself buying a bunch of Mrs. Fields cookies. This shocked me, because I've never bought cookies. I also bought chocolate pudding, but that was wisdom teeth related. I felt pretty stupid going up to the clerk with all of this chocolate. I thought he was going to judge me and say something about how much sweet crap I was buying. While I was on line, I even played out a possible scenario in my head. And of course, here it is.

Clerk: Hiya.

Me: How you doing?

Clerk: All right. Got a lot of chocolate here, huh?

Me: Sorry? Oh. Oh yeah, the chocolate. I've got a sick daughter at home. You know, gotta be a good daddy and go get some sweets for her.

Clerk: Oh that's too bad. What does she have?

Me: Cancer. No, uh, flu. It's a ... cancer flu.

Clerk: My God.

Me: Well, no, I mean at first they thought it was cancer, because of uh, some weird symptoms... which were similar to cancer. Apparently.

Clerk: What possible symptoms could there be that would make a doctor mistake cancer for the flu?

Me: I'm not sure. I think a headache or something. I'm glad I spoke to you. Maybe I should get a new doctor.

Clerk: Sounds like a good idea. The total is $18.63.

Me: Here you go. Thanks.


So there you have it. Even in my possible scenarios, I'm an idiot. In none of the scenarios played out in my head (there was more than one) was the actual scenario, which probably happens 99 time out of ten, which is nothing. Nothing happened. Nothing ever does happen. Clerks don't care what you buy. They see it all. The other day I saw a guy buying nothing but Vaseline and a box of tissues. And it seemed like he didn't care what people thought about him, even though it seemed like he had a long night of jerking off ahead of him.

I once was buying some sleeping pills, and while on line I saw some beer that was pretty cheap. I almost picked it up, but then thought that would make me look like a horrible human. Sleeping pills and beer. Big night planned? Also, when I bought the sleeping pills, I told the clerk I didn't need a bag, which made it seem like I needed these pills now! (Although I am very much in favor of bag taxes.)

No point to this post, I suppose. I guess I've learned that I shouldn't give a shit about what I buy in a supermarket. Because there's always going to be a guy behind me with Vaseline, a box of tissues and a boner. Yes, that guy will always be behind me.

I just realized after reading Anise's post that today is my blog's second birthday.

Maybe I should throw you a party, little blog. Would you like that? Yes you would, wouldn't you?

Happy birthday, you little fucker.

Hello, World Wide Web. How I missed you as I was all the way over in the oft-ignored Mountain Time Zone.

So yeah, back from this old work conference of mine. It was actually pretty darn fun. Lots of butt kissing and bullshitting, but everything else in between was good stuff. I made a great impression by being five minutes late to the first seminar. So you think, Well, five minutes late isn't so bad. True, but two minutes prior to that, there was a moment where they were welcoming the first timers. Me being one of them. So they said my name, yet I was probably in the elevator. Not good.

A co-worker mentioned to me that I should offer up a story where I was late because of the Vicodin for my wisdom teeth. Yes, great idea. "Hi, I got shitfaced last night and took a Vicodin. Sorry I'm late."

Just for the record, I did get shitfaced, but I didn't take the Vicodin.

My trip back today was, how do you say? shitty. I flew to Dallas, where I learned that my flight to Laguardia was cancelled. Got on another flight many hours later, which once we finally boarded, we pulled away, rolled towards the runway, then heard the captain say that we were going to sit there for an hour. I text messaged a co-worker in the back of the plane, "This is fucking awesome!" He replied, "Best time I've ever had. Thank god I bought this Time magazine, w/ a cover story on poverty, and how it kills millions of people every year." He then followed that up with "Make a scene, so they have to evacuate, so we can get off and go to a hotel. I'll buy you 2 beers for that." I replied, "I tried to crap myself and blame it on the dude next to me but i got stage fright. sorry."

This made me laugh for a while, because I think the guy next to me looked at my phone as I typed it, then I actually thought about the visual image of me crapping myself and then shouting, "Oh flight attendant, I crapped myself, but it was this guy's fault! He made me poop myself!"

Maybe it wasn't that funny. But after being in the Dallas/FuckWorth airport for seven hours eating at a Chili's and a Friday's, well, you find ways to giggle.

It's ten to four in the morning right now. I should go to bed.

My mom always wants to know that I landed safely. I like to tell her my flight number and that she should watch the news.

Because this post is crappy and unnecessary, I will apologize and point you to something quite funny. Here is a recent post from Trish where she listed ten things about butter. My favorite is number 7: Keep your cat off of your kitchen counter. Cats will lick the butter.

Yeah, so by the way, me and my iPod are officially in love. Well, I know I love it, but I'm not so sure how it feels about me. It's been very good to me. I feel I should name my iPod. When I was a kid, I wanted to name our cat Gunther. So maybe I'll call it Gunther.

I learned today that restaurants in airports use plasticware, because they are beyond the security checkpoint. These FAA guys thought of everything. J.P., my waiter at Friday's let me know. Or maybe his name was J.T. I forget. Either way, he was really fucking friendly for a guy working at a Friday's in the Dallas airport. Much friendlier than the Chili's guy. But the food at Chili's was better.

I took a Vicodin so I'm rambling. Perhaps I'll stop.

I apologize again for this crappy post. I will make it all better on my next post where I will tell you my most favorite story about taking a crap. I sure do talk about crap a lot. Let me know if you want me to stop. But not right now. You'll have to wait for the next crappy post about crap.

I went for a return visit to the dentist today. One of the areas where one of my wisdom teeth used to reside has been hurting like hell. All of the others are fine and seem to be normal, but this lower left one has been a cunt. Yes, a cunt.

So I saw the oral surgeon today, and I told him that I can't really eat anything, and even if cold water goes over it, I feel pain like I've never felt in my mouth before. I said, "It feels like the worst canker sore in the world." He looked in my mouth and said, "Well, everything is healing nicely. And you have the worst canker sore in the world."

So I conveniently got a canker sore right where my slashed up gum is healing. I'm glad it's only that and not dry socket. I was worried about that. Dry socket. What a horrible sounding affliction.

Anyway, this canker sore has been wreaking havoc on my mouth, and I think it was also bleeding a little bit for a while, which caused me to spit a lot. I often found myself spitting on the way from the PATH train to the subway and vice versa, which happens to be the sacred Ground Zero. So I felt like an asshole spitting there, but I had to. I'm a terrible American.

I'm excited to be healing properly. I can't wait to eat a huge meal. I've lost a lot of weight. I'm not sure how much, because I haven't weighed myself since I was at my aunt's on Thanksgiving. She has a scale in the bathroom. I think I only ever weigh myself on Thanksgiving at my aunt's. But I can tell I've lost weight based on my belt knotches. And I am a very hungry kid. I've been eating nothing but yogurt and soup for a week. Now I know exactly how starving Africans feel.

I was going to post a picture of what I look like and how much weight I lost, but I was going to link to a photo of one of those horribly malnourished African kids. But to find a picture of that, I had to Google "starving africans", which made me feel like a dick, and then seeing the pictures... well, I didn't find any that were very funny. I feel like those kids used to be hilarious. Guess not.

Anyway, I want to eat a big meal. I think I'm ready. Something crunchy. Something with nuts in it. I want to chew on some nuts. I want to yell to the world, "I WANT NUTS IN MY MOUTH! CAN SOMEONE PUT SOME NUTS IN MY MOUTH?!!!?!"

So I'm off to Colorado for work, and I hope they feed me well. See you next week, moferthuckers.

A nice thing about working late is that I completely avoid rush hour. I call this photo, NOT RUSH HOUR.

Man, I still love Hey Ya.

When you are on the subway pretty much by yourself, you can soil your pants and not worry about what others think. You don't have those asshole nine to fivers judging you with their dry pants. You have to worry about guys like this.

Check him out. He's got a Budweiser can in his fucking pocket. You can't offend a guy like that. Let's say he has kids or something, and you curse in front of his little kid without realizing there was a kid within earshot, then you'd see the kid and you'd be like, "Oh, I'm sorry for cursing, I didn't realize you had a child with y- Oh wait, you don't care. You've got a Budweiser in your pocket. Fuck it."

If you go around town with a Budweiser in your denim jacket, you are definitely telling the world something along the lines of, "Hey, I gave up a looong time ago. I've got a beer in my pocket and a mustache. Leave me be."

I imagine he says things like, "Now where did I put my Budweiser? Oh! It's in my pocket! Right where I left it. Silly me."

When I leave my apartment for work, I always check myself by slapping my pockets and saying, "Wallet, keys, phone." Hopefully one day it will just be "Keys, Budweiser."

It is much fun to write about a guy with a beer in his pocket. Just saying it is kind of fun. Beer in pocket. It's kind of like when I tell people that when I was a kid, I got dropped on my head by a retarded guy at a picnic. It's fun to say. I sometimes use it as an excuse for things. I forget to do something at work? Oh sorry. When I was a kid, I got dropped on my head by a retarded guy at a picnic. Sometimes I forget things. On account of that. The picnic. And the retarded guy. Dropped me. On the head.

One very nice thing about this promotion of mine is that I get to go to Colorado this weekend for a conference. I'll be in Colorado Springs which is all pretty and such. I love Colorado and everything in it, but these conferences are usually held in some sort of sunny oasis. And right now I am itching for some sun. Maybe not the sun, but at least the warmth of the sun. It's been a pretty mild winter, but I'm sick of it. I want spring and I want it now.

It's snowing out right now, and my landlord is shoveling. It's 1:40 AM. Dude shovels non-stop when it snows. My dad was always kind of crazy with the shoveling. It would snow two inches, and we'd be expecting 11, and he'd tell me to go shovel the two inches that just fell, even though we are expecting nine more. So I'd be all, "Why can't I just wait until it's done?"

"Just go do it."

I realize now that it makes the whole thing easier to do it in spurts, rather than waiting for the giant dump, but it would have been nice to know that back then. My dad was a big "Because I said so" kind of guy. I suppose he still is, but he doesn't tell me to do that much these days.

Hmm. It's 1 in the morning and I've got Vicodin in my veins. I could so easily be a drug addict, if only I had the balls, and wasn't influenced by Nancy Reagan and fried egg commercials. I don't think my dad ever told me not to do drugs. It was definitely implied, though. You know, he was a cop, so if I did drugs, it'd be extra bad. Son of a construction worker turns to drugs? Acceptable. Son of a lawyer? Understandable. Son of a cop? Where did that family go so wrong? My sisters, though, good God. In high school they were known as Powder Keg and Slutty Drug Face.

Just jokes.

Speaking of drugs, though, what's the deal with gay guys and crystal meth? Especially the part that makes them want to have tons of unprotected sex. Like the guy in NY and this asshole. What is it about crystal meth that makes people think, "I've got raging hormones and a hatred for latex. Who wants on?!"

Sure, unprotected sex is great, but when you're doing it at a club in a bathroom with a dude you met twenty seconds ago, I'd say you should make the sacrifice and wear a condom. Of course, this goes for all of us heterosexuals as well, but it seems to be out of control in the gay community right now. And there are some gay guys who also like to have the occasional sex with women, so it makes it everyone's problem.

Here's my solution. Let's all just stop fucking for a year and see what happens. Everyone go get tested for everything. It'll be like starting anew. OK, we're on the honor system here people. No fucking!

OK. Starting... now!