What an awesome power I command!

Well, bless my soul, I've come to realize that new acquaintances can blossom in any number of glorious ways; they may result in lasting friendship, bloom into a bubbling cauldron of steamy romance, get you free sandwiches at a Quiznos, or even develop into something even more miraculous, wherein willfully leaving your copy of the film Hotshots at that person's home seems not only acceptable, but downright logical, even though you've already watched the movie together once and so the next time the dvd is taken out of its case probably just means there is a small clump of dried oatmeal on the coffee table that needs to be scraped off.

One of the most significant ways I've used to determine that a certain someone is a terrifically worthwhile addition in my life is the conversation. Even telephone conversation, which I avoid occasionally/periodically/normally/every conscious moment, unless it's regarding something urgent, like lab results or olive dip recipes, slaps a smile on this ol' pasty face. Now, there is one specific person who I'm speaking of, but for anonymity's sake I will call her... Choco-paws.

Choco-paws was feeling a tad under the weather the other day and, regrettably, we had to cancel plans that we had for the evening. Thankfully we did have time for a nice chat, and just before we hung up she politely informed me that she needed to hurry and find a suitable place to throw up, since she had been fighting the urge to do so for... well, at least a handful of minutes I'm assuming. So I took her word for it which, being a trusting soul, I'm accustomed to doing. Yep, because if it weren't true that she was feeling nauseous due to the medication she'd been taking for her aching, fractured rib, it wouldn't speak very well of me. I'll push my own sweet grandmother into a snowbank to be the first in line and trumpet loudly that I'm not always the guy who's gonna charm the socks off you with my Thole brand gab. But, if Choco-paws was not, in fact, feeling ill before our phone exchange that evening, it would serve as a pretty incriminating bit of evidence that a seemingly harmless dialogue with me is enough to not only put you off your lunch, but instill in you a fiery passion to vomit powerfully into any nearby empty container you can find. And really, as quirky personal gifts and party tricks go, it's a pretty disgusting one... not that it wouldn't be fun to maybe test the theory out next time I attend a police auction or something. I'd just like to think I've got some amount of control over it. Well, I suppose I could bone up on a few ASL basics to be on the safe side. As long as I can sign "yes", "bathroom", "potatoes" and "no, that's a bleach stain", I should be okay for a while.

TIME magazine's girl man of the year!

Despite what professional body builders/construction foremen/investment bankers/hairdressers/my parents/second grade girls might say, I think I'm a man. For a handful of years now I've consistently thought of myself as a man; even a gentleman, if you'll allow me to briefly pat myself on my own chivalrous back. But recently I was given a reason to doubt the idea that I am, in fact, of the gender I've convinced most people of over the years.

The root cause of this confusion was a health insurance seminar/presentation at work. Our insurance provider through our employer was going to be different, come the new year, and so the new company sent a representative to go over some of the changes that would be taking place in our health insurance policy. I don't like to toot my own horn, but I think I do a damned fine job of showing interest and looking like I'm paying attention, even though you can practically see every other word bull charge my skull and be deflected by my impressively thick and stubborn head. I nod, look concerned when the tone of the speaker seems to become more serious, and I smile and chuckle when I sense that whoever is talking is trying to make a joke, and with a health insurance representative, expect something about as dry as day-old dog shit. I think I remember one of this guy's punch lines being something along the lines of "because you sure wouldn't want to pay out of pocket for an emergency room visit and still have the entirety of your $1,000 deductible to pay off when your plan could cover 75% of the cost for a trip to an urgent care clinic... am I right?". I smiled dutifully and did one of those quick-exhale-through-the-nostrils laughs.

But then he started going over insurance coverage scenarios that primarily involve women; specifically mammograms, pap smears, pregnancy and maternity leave. This is terrific and appropriate, especially since a good majority of the staff where I work are women. So, imagine my amazement when he appeared to make deliberate eye contact with me, and address me personally when mentioning the benefits of "preventive care" and going in for the above mentioned "mammograms" and "pap smears". He even ambled in my direction, not losing the eye contact, when going over the pregnancy and maternity topics for approximately the 8th time. His look and demeanor said to me "YOU are obviously the person I need to get the point across to the most: Get a breast exam and stock up on sweat pants and cheesecake, because everyone here already knows that you are pregnant female with lumpy boobs!" (no disrespect to women who actually suffer from breast cancer. Just making a point.). Now, the fact that I have a decent sized rack-o-lamb for a guy is beside the point, and I was just huffed up about it enough to pause him in the middle of his speech, explain to him that nearly every other person in the room was a woman, but NOT myself... but I didn't. I simply nodded, like I had been the entire time, and began to think "Well, this man is a professional. I'm sure he knows what he's talking about. I guess I should have a long face-to-face with my genitals when I get home tonight. I think they each have some explaining to do.".

I've since reaffirmed some confidence in my masculinity. For instance, each bottle of Herbal Essences shampoo I use is of a brutish, manly colour, like citrus orange and a bright forest green; the specific fragrances are inconsequential... there, see? That was totally a guy-like statement. So mothers, lock up your daughters, because as soon as I'm comfortable enough to wean myself away from bi-weekly Brazilian waxes and go jogging without an appropriately durable sports bra, I will be on the prowl!

It's my fault. I deserve it. I paid the 8 bucks (concluding the previously posted blog)

Well, I thought that MTV was the most shameless thing available to the viewing public, but it looks like that station is gonna be fighting a brutal, one-on-one, no-holds-barred cage match against Dragon Wars for that honor. I went to see it at the theater recently, and I just need to make a formal and very sincere apology to joy and happiness while I can. I am so sorry that I, as a human being, did nothing to stop production of this film before its contamination... I mean "release". I just sat idly by while I was bombarded with trailer after trailer advertising what I knew would be stupid, but I assumed would entertain me.

Here's the layout: Our main character (I don't remember his name, I'm proud to say) is what looks to be a scrawny, shaggy, unshaven undergrad who has finagled his way into a career as a reporter for a major news station. His voice never rises above the level of a timid librarian, and his facial expressions, or "expression", I should say, remains unchanging. But it is not unchanging in a mysterious way that draws you in and makes you yearn for the deep complexities that surely stir within his mind. It is unchanging in a way that makes you certain that he is thinking about a squirrel he saw on his way to the set that morning. Anyway, he gets told a story about a serpent that may change into a celestial dragon if it performs a good deed and some sacrifice or another takes place. Apparently this fellow is a reincarnated warrior from feudal Japan and he has a gaudy necklace to prove it. Now, in the area of serpents, all I saw was an evil serpent who terrorized a major metropolitan area in search of a girl. There is an evil man who looks like a half-melted Bill Marray doppelganger and is also leading an evil army in search of the same girl. Everyone is after the girl because she has a dragon-shaped birthmark on her shoulder. So what! I knew a guy once who had a birthmark on his thigh that was shaped like a peanut. Did he ever live in fear of being persued by hordes of circus elephants? No! Anyway, the evil man's voice is modulated to sound like Louis Armstrong suffering from laryngitis. At one point in the film he places himself in front of a moving car so as to get hit by it... then he does it again moments later, and I'm not sure why. There's also a shape-shifting Robert Forster who beats up some large drunks, and an overweight zoo worker who must have been inspired by everything Kevin James has ever been a part of.

Well, everything probably culminates at the end and there might be a dragon that makes a cameo appearance at the end. But, truthfully, Dragon Wars is 90% dragon-free and 147% substance/entertainment-free. Admittedly, I didn't/couldn't sit through the whole thing and, with what must have been about 20 minutes left of the movie, I got out of my seat, went to the men's room and went into the screen next door to see what was playing. I found myself entranced, in comparison, by a portion of the end credits to Mr. Woodcock.

My fake, former, fiery friends

I've never held a darn thing against dragons. Heck, I find the mythology behind them to be fascinating. My good friend Smoke-stool is a dragon. The only friction we ever had between us was when we got lunch one time at Panera. I ordered a turkey artichoke panini and shortly after we sat down he ate my foot. I thought it was incredibly rude, and I was so peeved that I simply stood up, hobbled confidently over to the door, leaving as small a blood trail as I could, and left. I know that every customer in the restaurant supported my bold action because I heard comments like "Eeeww, gross!" and "My god, wrap a towel around that disgusting stump!". I thought it was a little cruel to call my friend such terrible names, but he knew what he did was wrong. I also heard a unanimous round of applause as I exited. And it was applause. I'm sure of it. It most certainly wasn't the sound of dozens of customers screaming and vomiting.

Anyway, I digress; it just occurred to me that the only two films I've ever actually stood up and walked out of the theater as a result of seeing, were both about dragons. The first one was Reign of Fire. I personally thought this was one seriously loaded diaper of a movie, and I'm just a little angry with myself for not walking out sooner. It might have entertained me if I didn't find it so uncomfortable to watch. The embarrassment was close to what I would have imagined feeling if I had invited all my extended family over to crowd into my bathroom and watch me take a shower. Reign of Fire is full of filthy looking people who are charred like neglected campfire marshmallows by boatloads and boatloads of dragons (from what I remember), and an oily Matthew MaCconehaggeagigigiggerrhhyy-hay. He was certainly an impressive hunk of man in the film, and I do like Christian Bale a lot. I just think they could have... well there was... I just didn't... *sigh* I thought it sucked.

The other film... Well, I already have a blog on that posted elsewhere. I don't need to regurgitate my thoughts on that, I guess. I'll just repost it here, immediately after this one. So stay tuned! And Smoke-stool, I'm sorry I stormed out. It really was nice to see you. Let's go out for some Chinese or gross villagers sometime.

Now THAT'S a bargain!

I think that if there is one, shining example of generosity and good will in this world, it would be J-Lo. Now, I've had a few years to do my research on this and, so far, I have not come up with any offer that matches up to her claim that her "love don't cost a thing". I mean, realistically, you're looking to shell out almost $4.99 a pound for ground love, and upwards of $16.75 for an 8 oz. love strip steak. And those prices I got from the meat department at Cub Foods. You'd be spending almost twice as much at Von Hanson's, though theirs is a noticeable difference in texture and the love meat is far leaner. I haven't even considered the likelihood of acquiring love at such steep prices, to be honest. And, though I'm sure there is a waiting list a mile long for J-Lo's cost-effective brand of love, I think I owe it to myself to take a number and hop in line. I believe it was Aristotle who once said "Get your hands off me, you damn, dirty apes!", the apes being a metaphor for those who had apparently given him love at a discounted rate, but ended up demanding monthly payments, insisting that the first 25 leptas was only an initial installment, and that the great philosopher still owed nearly two full drachmas. "Decent action, but still not worth the price" he once confided in his mentor, Plato. So, until a universal love proposal reaches the heart and soul of our government officials, I believe I should take action, get at least a good year's supply of J-Love, as I've heard she calls it, and make a Greek man proud.

Take a gander at those wide-smiled degree havers

Perhaps a handful of other people have already seen this, but for those who haven't, be careful. It's about an advertisement I just saw on yahoo. Approach it cautiously, maybe tossing a pebble at it to see if it's still alive... It's on my email page, and actually just on a separate tab, so I'm flipping back to it periodically to make sure it's still stupid. Yeah... there it is, and YES it is. Well, stupid is a little harsh. I'll just say it could use some revision, some sharpening up... pruning, if you will. It advertises a website called degrees.info, with the above caption reading "How do I become a..." and the ad is filled with cartoons; happy cartoon people, all of whom have apparently gotten degrees to aid in their career choices to "become a" cartoon network specialist, cartoon bounty hunter, and cartoon... "more". Wait, is that right? Yeah, it is. I think More is supposed to have me believe that people (cartoon OR carbon based, I hope) have more degree options than the couple dozen or so that are listed, but there's a woman's animated face above it, just like there are animated faces above every other profession, making me seriously think I need to expand my knowledge in the field of "more". She meets a handsome young gentleman at a friend's cocktail party and I can only imagine how the conversation would go.

"Ha ha, oh my darling, that is hilarious! I never knew that about Hitler's barber! So, what do you do for a living?"

"More. I specialize in the more-itude of people's behavior when they are exposed to things like more cats, more printer paper, more botanists, more fro-yo samples, and more belt sanders. What about you? What do you do?"

"Oh, me? I'm a police!"

Yes, that's right. The ad doesn't list the flash animated fellow as a police man, but instead as an entire mass of police. Everyone else is listed as a single unit of his or her profession (project manager, counselor, patient advocate, etc...), but not this guy. He is the police. Officer, Lieutenant, Chief, I guess he's got it all covered. So that's it. Maybe there isn't anything wrong with the ad at all. Perhaps, just perhaps, Mr. Police and Ms. More will end up together, and raise hordes of children who will grow up to be more police. Degrees.info... Make your future. Get career in jobs

You may be right, I may be crazy... FOR DICAPRIO!

I figured it was about darn time for me to scribble out another blog. It seems that when I write a blog about a movie, I'm usually a decent handful of years behind the curve, and therefore what I have to say isn't all that relevant, but guess what! This time it's different, and it's different in a way that will make it seem not quite so different. And by that I mean this time is not so different. I'm thinking of the movie I watched over at my friend's house a handful of months ago: Blood Diamond. I thought it really was a pretty intense and tragic film. Intense because of all the inherent drama, the explosive gun battles, the utter severity and direness I felt for nearly its entire duration. Tragic because I wasn't entirely convinced that Leonardo Dicaprio new precisely what accent he was trying to pull off. It was kind of funny to hear him talk when he was laying the patented "Leo" brand mack moves (which simply means he is somewhere where people can see him) on Jennifer Connely, but awkward and uncomfortable when one of the 6,883,205 stomach churning mass murder scenes that are in the movie happened to come up. To me Dicaprio's "Rhodesian" dialect sounded British (as a lovely new person in my life pointed out when we were coincidentally talking about this very thing recently, kind of a "southern/British hybrid"), and maybe it's supposed to be, but I heard British in a manner which, if he were actually speaking to someone from the UK, he might receive either a hearty laugh or a an even more hearty fist in the stomach (however a typical Brit would react to a clumsy insult). Now, in all fairness, I know next to nothing about Rhodesia, aside from the spelling if Google is to be trusted, so maybe Leonardo nailed it. Maybe he did a terrific job in every facet of playing the great white savior. If so, then I am more than happy to extend my apologies. If not, then congratulations to him on being so adorable anyway.

Who makes the rules? Who rakes the mules?

Someone once told me orange is not my color. I don't think that's any of their concern. What if I were to tell you that I don't think you'd look good with jack pine needles hot glued to the seat of your pants? Or what if I took it upon myself to decide that your pet box turtle doesn't have enough horse power and THAT'S why I loaded her into my potato gun and ignited the Aqua Net, huh? What if I used a fire hose to flood your basement with Brut because I thought it smelled better than the musty piles of old Playboys you have lining every square foot of floor space? What if I told you I bought my wrist watch on clearance at Target for ten dollars and as a result it gives me the right to steal your wallet? What if I saw you clinging to a ninth floor window ledge of a 23 story building and I told you "Don't do it! There has to be another way to deal with your problems! Don't jump!" but then you said to me "I'm washing the windows, you moron! You almost made me drop my squeegee!"?

I don't know what your individual responses would be, but I do know that I like the color orange. And I also know that I know that I don't know if you do know that most people know that I'm... kidding :) No, wait... someone actually DID tell me that about the color orange! Blaarrp!! That's the sound of my brain exploding inside my skull. I think my... smart brain brani... hurt lots...horts with hitting groins!!

To: Mike's ex-pancreas

Well, the joke is on me, Pancreas. You sure got the best of old Mike. I gotta hand it to you; you are living a life that I, and I'm sure millions of other people, would love to have. You've worked out a perfect system, wherein you live warm, rent-free, sharing ample living space with my gallbladder and my bile duct, who both pull their own weight and do very nice work by the way. But you, Pancreas, have one of the cushiest lives ever since you and those free-loading exocrine tissue friends of yours decided to quit your full-time jobs with the biliary system and not produce my insulin for me anymore.

Now brace yourself, for I've thought this through and have made a decision; I want a divorce. I'm sorry. We've had some wonderful times together, I know. But I have to do what's best for me, and right now I... I just don't think you're it, and I think you know that. You don't have to move out. You've been neighbors with my small intestine ever since I can remember and I know you two have become good friends. He still talks about you a lot; "Remember the deep fried Snickers bar?" he'd say, and then add "Pancy didn't know what the hell he was doing!". Then we all laughed. He always called you Pancy. It was really cute. But these happy memories are no excuse for how you acted, and I intend to take back what's mine. Now, you can have the pancreatic duct, but I am keeping the kidneys, the duodenum and the Hot Shots DVD. We will discuss more of the details when our lawyers are present.

For a while I was thinking of changing my name so nobody would directly associate you with me anymore, but I realized that was just silly. I think YOU should be the one to change your name. I don't want you to be Mike's Pancreas anymore. How about "Arthur P. Ancreas" or maybe "Pancston Von Lackin Insulinstein" or "Hanky Panky" or "Jim". I don't know. It's your choice.

I'll miss you, Pancy. And I'll always remember the good times, but don't take that to mean that I've forgiven you so easily. Have a good life, you old so-and-so.

Yours truly,

Michael D. Thole

You will wet your pants with the explosiveness that only Steven Segal could muster!

From the producers of Under Siege, Under Siege II, and the ultimate in Steven Seagal action documentaries, Close, but no Seagal, comes the even-more ultimate Steven Seagal action documentary:

The Ponytail Dies With Me

Narrated by Steven, himself, Ponytail picks up the excitement where Close, but no Seagal leaves off... which is the epic mid-life of this larger-than-life mega star as he continues to enthuse over and demonstrate every reason why he is the greatest and most influential martial-artist/actor since John Saxon. Experience the intensity as Seagal pulverizes his way thru his past interviews and informative commentary like a squinty-eyed wrecking ball. This model of pudgy perfection is pulling out all the stops when he cleverly cuts down would-be legends like Bruce Lee and Sonny Chiba with the razor-sharp sting of phrases like "I don't think he was that good" and, of course, the legendary "Can I g-- another m--rophone? I th--- -ine is c--ting out. I'll try n-- to sweat so m--- on the ne-- one". He will keep you on the edge of your seat as he delivers each line of dialogue with mind-blowing ambiguity and retains, even in the face of criticism and adversity, that signature, expressionless, stuck-pipe, whispery voice of his. Is he preparing us for yet another explosive adranaline rush? Or is he struggling to dislodge 6 ounces of marinated, pork tenderloin from his lower esophagus? The answer will blow you away and you'll just have to watch it to find out.

The Ponytail Dies With Me. Look for it on dvd from LionsGate Entertainment.

Holy mackerel! Get a load of those memories!

I think that most people look at old photos of themselves and say "Wow, those were good days. what a cute little kid I was. I wish I could bring those times back." Well, I won't argue that I had some good times as a child and I do miss a good portion of my kid-hood. But WOW!! There is no reason in salty Hell that I would want to revert to what I looked like back then. Well, I should say that I would make a large effort to not look like such a hare-brained doof when having pictures taken of me. Because I don't think I was an ugly child by nature, but if I had a severe case of amnesia brought on by a pillowcase full of cashew nuts striking me sharply in the temple, and the only tool I had to recover memories from my childhood were old school photos and the like... well, I'll just say that I would do everything in my power to make sure that my memory loss remained in tact. And that would most likely include keeping heavy, head-thumping objects close by at all times.

The most embarrassing photographic example I can recall is my first grade school picture. When you first look at it, the shiny, red chunkiness of my face is astonishing and unavoidable. It overwhelms your senses. Truly, if I showed you the original, your breath would come in short gasps and you would race for the nearest reflective surface just to make sure your face didn't somehow become infected by the severe rosiness you witnessed in the picture. I look like a pile of ripe tomatoes with a matted mound of brown hair on top, and the smile I am wearing could only be described as daffy. The bold, solid colored 49'ers t-shirt was also a gross miscalculation on my part. At the time I thought it was cool, but it only served to make me appear more "red". The only thing that doesn't appear red is the one gray tooth I had at the time.

Then, there are a handful of elementary era photographs featuring the styling error known as the bowl cut. I'm not sure how it came to be that a large, concave piece of picnic ware paired itself with scissors and found its way to the top of someone's head, but maybe that information is best left wherever it's buried.

Now, adding itself to a good number of these memories is the past belief that bearing one's teeth, squinting one's eyes and grinning like an idiot is always hilarious... nothing could be further from the truth. There are a couple pieces of photographic evidence displaying this, yes, but mainly I am remembering a particular home video where I did just that, and if memory serves me, I had shamed myself even further by grabbing a small set of deer antlers (antlers that my dad was preparing to mount on the wall but were now still attached to the top of the deer's skull) and holding them on top of my head as I... umm, I don't know... pretended I was a happy, retarded whitetail, I guess. Hmm, come to think of it, I'm pretty sure I was bowl-cutted at that time too.

I can only praise the boundless mercy of the Gods that none of these atrocities was accompanied by Zubaz. I dodged that bullet; though I suppose cannon ball would be a more appropriate choice of words. Yes, because like cannons, Zubaz put me in mind of things that are clumsy and dangerous. My mom attempted to coax me into getting a pair, and though potentially harmful to my emotional development, she had good intentions. So, thanks for not pressing too hard, Mom. You let me learn from my mountains of other mistakes without forcing me into ugly pants :)

Who likes candy?...

You know what I thought would be a great idea?

"Writing about something more substantial than whatever random thought squishes its way into your thin-haired melon?" you might say.

"No" I'd reply. "Absolutely not. For one thing, I'm only 26, you boondoggling cow! And my hair can't be thinning that much" I say as I panic and run my hand over my noticeably thinning scalp. "Another thing: squishes? What the hell do you mean by that? Never in my life have I had a thought and said to myself "Eeeewww, gross, what a uniquely horrible feeling; a squishy thought!" Not once... I'm almost close to 76% sure of it"

No, some time ago, I figured it would be a really good idea to bring about 10 pounds worth of Runts candy home with me from my cousin's house. My cousin works for a vending company and brings all kinds of whatsit home with him. One of the whatsits was a 30 pound box of Runts and he asked if I wanted to take a bunch of them home. Hey, sounds pretty great, right? Free candy! Though my insulin-lacking pancreas pleaded with me as much as it could to think twice about this, I opted instead to accept a heavy duty Ziploc bag full of hard, fruity, brightly colored, chalky-in-the-middle teeth annihilators; easily weighty enough to use in place of sand bags in the back of your truck for more reliable winter traction. Well, as the weeks and weeks have gone by, I realize I still have a few Runts left; probably about 11.5 of the original 10 pounds (yes, I've eaten several handfuls, yet the bag looks heavier and fatter than it did when I brought it home). Not only that, but I've lost any and all interest in the entire amount. So here the bag will remain, gradually getting bigger, laughing more with each mutated, fruity expansion of its volume, and just beginning to learn toddler level threats... but slightly more menacing. "Hwama hwama hwamba he he he" (I picture it having an odd sort of jiggly, girlie, alien muppet type of laugh) "hwama heeePEEEeeeeee! It's a funny for wen you're scared and funny! This times it's good for a times for me... to... gonna beep in owange stobby bobbie.... killer you... STOBBIE BOBBIE!! (roughly translated "beat you with oranges and strawberries... and kill you... STRAWBERRIES) Hwama hwamamama hee PEEEeeee heeeee heeee!"

Well, I suppose I could just get rid of the stupid thing.

Normally I feel safe in my bathroom

I just watched a television commercial. It was for a new shaving system (?) from Gillette; Gillette Fusion Power: Phenom. The first message this commercial sent me was that I need to be very careful about what shaving hardware I use, else I be picked on and assaulted by professional athletes. Tiger Woods and friends are apparently passionate enough about hairless faces that they will not only keep tabs on me while I'm in the bathroom, but also use their golf clubs, tennis rackets, snow shovels, house cats and whatever else to completely demolish the slightly-less-than-Phenom, run-of-the-mill Mach 3 I have, as I'm using it. And do they offer to buy this fancy new shaving gear for me? Or at least lend me their own so I can finish clear-cutting the other side of my face? No... no they don't.

The second thing I guess I was meant to realize was that I should have already been aware of what Phenom is. I don't. I think I saw something orange, glowing and oozing inside the razor, for the brief moment that they actually showed a close-up of it. I thought maybe Phenom's dermal dominance is because it is meant to dissolve through all seven layers of skin, obliterating hair follicles and sizzling on your face, like a snowball in a deep fat fryer. Then I thought "no, that's gross". So I don't know. I'll try to sleep easy, but the thought of a stealthy, adrenaline-fueled kick to the temple from a sweaty soccer player after I take a leak doesn't sit well with me.