Blogging Like I've Never Blogged Before

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Tania and I were discussing what signs Eagles fans will have at the game against the Cowboys and Terrell Owens in two weeks.

All I can remember right now are these two:

If at first you don't succeed...


Try Harder

Come on Philly fans. Don't disappoint!

Anyway, I don't think he tried to kill himself. I believe him. I don't think you can take 35 pain killers and give a press conference the next day. But I'm not a doctor.

Hey, today is my birthday. It is the most hungover I have ever been on my birthday. At midnight, these people kept buying me shots. And then I drank those shots because I am a team player. And now I feel like I drank from a sewer.

When people ask me how living with my girlfriend is going, I like to say, "We are getting along, but she isn't crazy about my giant pubic hair ball. It's like a rubber band ball, but with pubes."

Happy Mike Toole's birthday everyone.

How big of a douchebag am I? That's a good question. I'd say about yay big.

This John Mark Karr guy (the one who didn't kill JonBenet) reminds me of this guy I once met.

My friend Rick and I were in a Perkins in Florida at around two in the morning. It was basically empty except for the employees. We had placed our order with our waiter, who was a scrawny, kind of awkward, bad skin, yet somewhat chatty fella. He was a Florida native, I believe. Nice enough guy, but Rick and I just kind of wanted to hang out and shoot the shit amongst ourselves.

He finally left and he brought us our food. He came by moments later to make sure everything was good, like a fine waiter should. We told him all was well, and he said, "OK, well, if y'all need anything, I'll just be in the back eatin' a sticky bun."

He left and then Rick and I just looked at each other and smiled knowing we had an inside joke for life. For at least the next month or so, whenever one of us would leave the room, we'd incorporate the sticky bun into wherever we were going. "OK, well if y'all need me, I'll just be on the toilet eating a sticky bun."

Anyway, I hadn't thought about this guy until I saw the creepy John Mark Karr when he was wearing that blue short sleeved shirt with the buttons up to his neck. He reminded me of the waiter in the back eatin' a sticky bun.

"If y'all need me, I'll just be in the back looking at some kiddie porn and eatin' a sticky bun."

So I was in Texas this past weekend visiting Abilene, the hometown of my lady. I messed with Texas, despite all of the warnings not to. No one could stop me.

That's a lie. I messed with very little. There was not much to mess with. Tons of fat people, but they have been messed with enough, so I let them be. Good Lord, there are a lot of fat people in Texas.

And just so you know, it is true that everything is bigger in Texas, including the open sores on the arm of the guy at the fair who prepared my "nachos" for me. Now, I'm no health inspector, but I would think you'd put the open sore guy at the House of Mirrors. I guess when it comes to carnies, you just go by how many open sores they have. I only saw one on this guy, so House of Mirrors guy must have been one big scab.

So yeah, the West Texas Fair and Rodeo was in town while I was there. I did not see any rodeo, but I got to ride some rides in Texas. I went on the Scrambler, but in Texas it was called the Titty Twister or something. Tania enjoyed it, but I was feeling kind of dizzy.

The best person from my trip, though, was this dude at Newark Airport. I was checking my bags curbside and I see this guy standing to my left. One of the check in guys is like, "Sir, I can help you over here." The guy just kind of stares and has a little wobble going on. He appears to be drunk. He will soon confirm this to be true. He tells the guy he doesn't think he needs help. Then the airport guy says, "Well, do you need to check in?"

"Yes I do," says the guy, and he stumbles on over. He slurs, "I just want you to know that my flight leaves at 11:20 and I have a six pack of beer with me. I am guessing that will be gone by 11:20." Uncomfortable laugh comes from airport guy. Oh, did I mention it is about 8:00 in the morning?

He says something like, "I need to be on the plane later." So the airport guy says to him, "Do you have a confirmation number?" He says he doesn't think so. The airport guy tells him he should have gotten one when he checked in online.

"Oh, wait. I do," he says. He throws his hand in front of the airport guy, palm open and starts reading from the palm. He has his confirmation number written on his hand. He then starts reading it off, and he must have been a military man or a truck driver because he starts saying, "Delta, Charlie, forty niner." And then my favorite part, for the last letter, he stops and looks directly at the guy and very dramatically says, "X-ray."

He then repeated it a few times just for good measure. He was enjoyable, but I am so glad he was not on my flight.

So, Texas. Hey, check it. The Ten Commandments were in my hotel lobby! So that's where they went!

ten commandments in my hotel lobby
Photo courtesy of Tania, because I was too chicken shit to take it in front of people that were there, and also in front of God, who thought I'd be poking fun. But Tania doesn't give a god damn about God. Oops! That was number three.

We went to this restaurant where longhorns just roam in the parking lot. This thing looks fake, but it is very real and very gigantic. At this steakhouse, it was kind of like a seafood place where you can choose your lobster. I picked this guy, so the waiter shot him. It was tasty.



UPDATE: Apparently there was a Simpsons episode where Mr. Burns goes to a restaurant where they shoot cows after you pick them out. I don't recall seeing that episode, but I am sure I have and it was buried in my subconscious. Just so you know, I am not knowingly ripping jokes off from the Simpsons. If I do, it is purely unintentional.

If I've learned anything from television and film, it's that there is lots of making out and sex going on in hospital supply closets.

John Goodman is doing voice overs on Dunkin' Donuts commercials. Do you really want your spokesperson to be a man who is always a donut away from a coronary?

I had a dream the other night that I was going to Saudi Arabia on vacation. All I really remember is that before I left I was Googling information on what to do if I encountered a bunch of elephants. You know, desert elephants.

That's all I have to say for now.

Can I do a 9/11 post on 9/13? OK, thanks.

Here is a story. It is long and I am not sure it has a point. And I could swear I have told it here before, but after an exhaustive search, I don't believe I have.

As you may already know, I was in New Orleans on 9/11. I went down there by myself on a last minute vacation. I booked my ticket on 9/6 and I was there on 9/9. So of course I wake up on Tuesday morning, still probably half drunk. The night before I had watched the Denver Broncos beat the New York Giants on Monday Night Football. And just like Lozo, I remember Ed McCafferey breaking his leg. That was my memory of 9/10.

Ed McCafferey. Never Forget.

One of the reasons I did go to New Orleans, aside from the booze and the cheap JetBlue flight, my friend Chaz was going to be there on a business trip. So I thought, Cool, I will get to hang out with Chaz (real name Chris) for a bit while I am there. We met up on Sunday night, had some beers, watched some football, and said we'd see each other again. I had called him on Monday night, but couldn't get in touch with him. I didn't have a cell phone, so if he was going to call me, it was going to be through the hotel.

So Monday goes by and it's now Tuesday morning and I am sleeping. I remember hearing someone in the hotel room next to me on the phone. He said something about a plane hitting the World Trade Center. I was barely awake. I fell back asleep and woke up maybe two minutes later, not really sure if what I just heard was a dream or not. I turned on the TV, and of course, I see it was not a dream. The Twin Towers are burning alive.

Holy shit.

The first thing I do is dial home. This was the first time I ever used a hotel phone before checking to see how they would rape me with their rates. My dad answered and I said, "Are you watching this?" And of course he was. And then I don't think we said anything for the next ten minutes. We just sat there on the phone. It was good enough for me, because after I would hang up the phone, there was no one else to talk

We eventually hung up and I ordered room service for the first time in my life. Even though I was sick to my stomach, I needed something. So this chick comes up with my food, and wanting to talk to someone, I say, "Can you believe what's going on?" She looks at the TV, but I think was more interested in a tip, and she says, "Oh yeah. Nobody died, right?" I almost puked on her. A plane just hit a building. I've got my money on the pilot dying.

After about eight hours of watching TV, seeing the towers fall again and again, I decide to leave my hotel and just walk around. Never have I wanted to be home so bad.

The first thing I encounter when I walk out of the hotel are these businessmen on a smoke break. What do you think they'd be talking about? Maybe who did this to us? What about all of those poor people in those buildings? How are we going to get home? No. This is what I heard:

You think Barry Bonds is gonna break the record?

Holy shit, where the fuck country am I?!?! <--- Trust me... that sentence was gramtically correct when I thought it.

So I walked around. Went to the cathedral that Bush would eventually stand in front of when he gave his Katrina speech. Lots of people were in there, mostly silent, some crying, but after hearing the Barry Bonds conversation, I didn't know whether or not they were there for the same reason I was. I wasn't there because I am religious. I was there because thousands of people just died, and I wanted to find a place that wasn't showing them dying over and over again.

My long and rambling point is this: I wanted to find people that were from New York. I wanted to find someone who knew what those buildings looked like and felt like. At the time, I was commuting to Jersey City, and during my drive I would focus on the Twin Towers. They were sort of my finish line. Even though it was Jersey City, the Towers were right across the river. Just about as close as you could get without being in the city.

So I wanted to commiserate. I felt like nobody could relate. I would talk to a few people, and I'd get comments like, "Oh, you poor thing" or "These fucking Arabs." Those weren't things I wanted to hear. I just wanted to talk to someone about those buildings. People who had never seen them just didn't get how mammoth they were.

So the day goes by and I go check my messages at the hotel to see if Chaz called. Nothing. I call him again but get no answer. Oh well. It is now night time and I decide to hit Bourbon Street and get drunk.

Go back to that day. Can you think of any place you would rather not be than New Orleans? Party City. Show me your tits. And all I want to do is steal a car and drive home. So I go into a few bars, and nothing feels right. I walk towards the end of Bourbon Street and see a bar that is practically empty. This bar is practically off of Bourbon Street. It looks like a nothing bar, almost no reason to be there.

There is a bartender and two people sitting at the bar, a couple that consists of a guy and a girl. I go there, order a beer. We are all watching the TV. Of course. The girl turns to me and shakes her head and says, "I just can't believe all of this." I say, "I know. I practically grew up next to those buildings." She asks me where I am from and I tell her New Jersey. And then she says, like the angel I was looking for, "I am from New Jersey too!"

Thank fucking god. Finally, someone who has a clue as to what is going on. She was from South Jersey, the part that affiliates itself more with Philadelphia, but still, she knew what this meant. So I start talking to her and one of the first things I talk about is just the enormity of the buildings, and what it felt like to stand next to them, and I can't imagine how many people were there.

And then she says, "You know, I've never been to New York City."

I wanted to punch my angel in the face.

This girl lived two hours away from New York City for her entire life and was never there. I was deflated. There was no one in this city I could talk to. I felt like I was in another country.

But I stayed here, because despite this girl not knowing what it really felt like, she was at least the most sympathetic person I had met. We talked for quite a bit while her boyfriend did shots with the bartender. I had told her how I just wanted to be with my family and my friends more than anything else that day. She told me I was lucky that I wasn't in the area, and I told her how horrible it felt NOT to be in the area. You wanted to be there. Not to witness carnage, but to be among people who were feeling the exact same thing.

Some time went by at this stupid little bar that no one was visiting. I was getting fairly lit, and the South Jersey Girl was also lit. She was talking and I looked up and saw some people walk inside. A group of about five guys, when all of the sudden, I yell out, "CHAZ!!!"

Chaz walks into this bar, this stupid little bar that barely qualifies as Bourbon Street. At heart, I believe I am a fairly large cynic. But that moment is one of the most, "Why on earth would that ever happen?" moments in my life. Keep in mind, Chaz is with a bunch of dudes in New Orleans. They want to see some boobs. They should have gone to Senor Frog's or some shit like that. In a city with hundreds of bars, they decided to walk into the biggest dive with no one in it.

So I don't know, fate, divine intervention, lucky ass shit. Whatever it was, it felt like a fucking miracle on that day.

Then I found out that Chaz had called me about five times over the past two days. The flashing message light on my hotel room phone wasn't working. It was then I realized I needed a cell phone.

So the lesson of this post is that cell phones are fantastic.

This story, I think, would have been way more dramatic on 9/11. This 9/13 bullshit just doesn't cut it. Sorry to rehash what we were all feeling two days ago. I know everyone wants to get back to what killed Anna Nicole's son.

A few months ago, I saw this in a bathroom. So true.

I am pretty sure this is the greatest one minute and forty six seconds you will waste today. is replaying their original broadcast in real time from September 11, 2001. In case anyone is interested, I am also going to be replaying what I did on September 11. I am going to feel like puking for about 4 hours, then cry a little bit, then I am going to get shitfaced on Bourbon Street.

I have nothing new to say, so here is what I wrote way back when.

Real quick... CNN's guy from five years ago just said, "The FBI is suspecting foul play."

Foul play?! Foul play is a stinkbomb in the bathroom of a high school.

It is interesting to hear how dumb and silly people sound in the moments right after. We were all so dumb back then. We are way smarter now.

Dude, I fucking smell like syrup. My left armpit smells like syrup. I thought it was just my mind playing tricks, but it has been confirmed.

This is similar to when my feet smelled like popcorn. I think most people enjoy syrup, and if they got a taste, they would be like, "Mmmm, syrup." But if you licked my left armpit right now, you'd be like, "Oh, good god, is that syrup? Oh, that's awful."

So I just took a shower and hopefully that fixed it. I checked the soap I was using to make sure it wasn't Aunt Jemima's For Him. It was not.

I got out of the shower and realized that this fly that has been living with me for about a week was in the bathroom. I was not leaving this bathroom until that fucker was dead. I don't know how he has been around for so long. So I dried myself off and put on some boxers, because it's like my mom (pictured below) always used to say, "Never kill a fly when you are naked and wet."

Then I decided to brush my teeth and let the fly enjoy the rest of his stupid little life. But then he had the fly balls to fly right by me as I was brushing my teeth, so I decided to take a stab at him, and I grabbed him out of midair. I had caught him once before, and when I opened my hand, he flew away, so he cheated death once. Not this time.

I can kill a fly. I am awesome. Just call me Syrup Armpit Popcorn Feet Fly Killer.

The other day at work, I learned way too much about a co-worker in the bathroom. It's not what you are thinking, like, "Oh, he must have had corn in the last 24 hours."

I was about to leave the bathroom, heading to the sink to wash my hands. This guy was already at the sink. We exchange Good mornings, and I notice that he is setting up shop to shave his face. OK, that's weird, but whatever. I say, "How's it going?"

Quick background:

The most I have ever said to this man is "Good morning." He has said basically the same thing to me. He seems like a nice enough guy, maybe a little bit "off".

Anyway, I asked how it was going, and he told me.

"Oh man, just got back from vacation." So I said "Oh yeah?" But I didn't say it like, "Oh, yeah? Where did you go and how was it?" It was a very uninterested "Oh yeah" but he didn't see it that way.

"Yeah, man, went to Florida. It was great, but man, that hurricane shit. Fucked it up, man."

Whoa! This is quite a profanity filled first conversation, I thought. It usually takes me about an hour or so before I feel I can be comfortable to curse in front of someone. It took him much less.

So I say "Oh yeah." This time I meant, "Oh yeah, I am familiar with the fact that a hurricane hit Florida."

So he says, "Yeah, fuckin' shit. Had to do that hurricane shit to my sister's windows down there, you know? Fuck, man. So now I know how to do that shit to windows."

"I'll keep you in mind if I need you."

"And then the fucking plane ride home, man, shit. I thought my sister was gonna shit her pants, man. That fucking plane was like, 'ba-boom' man." He made a motion with his hand to indicate turbulence.

This was pretty much the entire conversation, but it was way too long. It felt like an eternity. I just wanted to get out of that bathroom and go home. Now when I see him, I feel like we might have to talk and I will have to listen to stories about his sister shitting her pants.

Oh well. Anyway. I just noticed on the back of this coffee package I have, the word "delightful" is used twice. That is delight overkill if you ask me. I don't think I have ever used the word "delightful" to describe something. Here is the only time I believe I have ever used the word or a form of the word:

Someone: What's the name of this song?
Me: Rapper's Delight.

And that's it.

You know what fad I hate in sports right now? The group of fans at a game that root for one player and then call themselves something clever. Like in Philadelphia, there are a group of girls who want to do Chase Utley and they call themselves "Chase's Chicks." And when Sal Fasano used to play there, a bunch of guys who wanted to do him called "Sal's Pals" would wear fake mustaches and root for this incredibly mediocre catcher.

There were even a few retards who would root for Lastings Milledge of the Mets. He is a guy with a lot of hype, but a rookie who has done next to nothing when given the chance. These jerks called themselves "The Milledge People." And then they would dress up like the Village People. Uh, really? You want to root for your a player by dressing up like a gay disco group?

Anyway, this stupid phenom has now gotten into tennis.


There are these people who root for James Blake who call themselves the "J Block." I was watching the Federer-Blake match last night and they kept showing these guys up in the stands. I forgot what they were called and said to Tania, "What are they called again? Blake's Dickheads?"

She told me I was wrong, but that should be their name. What a bunch of dickheads. And the worst is that the geniuses who produce and direct the telecast constantly show them. Stop doing that.

Here is my plea to all sports telecasts. Please stop rewarding idiotic fans by showing them on TV. I am talking about the face painters, Sal's Pals, Blake's Dickheads, and whatever else is there. I like when they show old ladies at baseball games who keep score. That is awesome. Or when they show fat people eating. Always funny.

Did you see how 15 people were at that no-hitter the other night? How embarrassing for the Marlins. See, if those fans were clever, they would start a little clan and just call themselves "Marlins Ticketholders." That would make me giggle.

Here are Blake's Dickheads.

I bet there is some guy somewhere who goes by the name of The Alligator Wrangler that is conflicted by his current feeling of guilt, which was brought on by the feeling of overwhelming hope. It's your time to shine, Alligator Wrangler. The world needs you now... more than ever.

I would like to thank the Crocodile Hunter for a post he inspired me to write back in 2004. It was a good one. Back when I was funny. It was right after the Crocodile Hunter dangled his baby in front of a crocodile. It gave me many ideas on how to harm my own baby. So my tribute to him is to link back to one of my own blog posts that has very little to do with him.

Things I recall from last night:

-- Half price appetizers.
-- Shots of tequila.
-- Meeting a guy named Tim, but he went by his middle name, which was Tom, not remembering which name was the right one, calling him Tim Tom for the rest of the night, and also introducing him to people as Tim Tom.
-- Tim Tom not thinking the whole Tim Tom thing was as funny as I thought it was.

Stupid tequila always gets me drunk. My cell phone tells me today that I called a cab at 10:26, or 22:26 for my militaristic readers. Which means I was probably in bed by 23:00. I woke up smelling like tequila and wings.

Hey, if you are in Cleveland today, I suggest you go to Hooters. There will be two girls named Meg there. Which means there will be at least four hooters.

Hey, there's a Hurricane John. Who knew? I didn't.

I saw this headline the other day -- Dangerous John Marches Up Mexican Coast -- and I was like, "Cool, who the fuck is Dangerous John and what's he doing in Mexico?" I had never heard of this guy, but I assumed he was some sort of bandito heading up the coast, getting ready to cause a ruckus somewhere in Mexico. I thought there was going to be a coup. I am serious about this. I thought it was kind of awesome. I got excited that there was going to be some crazy El Guapo kind of shit going down in Mexico started by this crazy guy named Dangerous John.

So I click on the link and was totally disappointed by a stupid hurricane. I am so sick of hurricanes. I wish my nickname was Dangerous John.

Oh well. Stupid misleading headlines. Ruining my day.
All material © Mike Toole; 2003 - 2006