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.