Searching so long

I’ve been searchin’
So long
To find an answer
Now I know my life has meaning

(I’ve Been) Searching So Long – Chicago

I gotta laugh at some of the search terms that ultimately draw people to this blog.  There’s some interesting coincidences, there’s some oddball ones, and then there’s the ones that really get me worrying about who’s out there and what exactly they’re searching for.

One of those interesting coincidences is first up.  There’s be exactly the same number of searches for Tobin Elliott as there has been for throwing up. For anyone that’s counting, the number is 157 searches.  That could be an unplanned commentary on the quality of my blog posts. Either way, you can learn more about me, and maybe throw up here.

There’s a lot of Whitney Houston search terms that bring people to my most popular, and most controversial blog, in which I ask that we don’t canonize the late singer for an early death due to drugs. But the thing that fascinates me is that 106 searches for whitney addict house we have a problem tobin bring people here.

I like that 35 people have found my little blog by searching plox, the sound a turd makes as it hits the water. That’s kinda fun. 29 more have found me by looking for a turd burgler. Hopefully he doesn’t get the evil turd. Same for the dog eating shit. Wanna read more about plox? Or evil turds? Start here.turd

And that’s just one more than those that have landed her while searching for cat throwing up.

Then there’s those that have looked for something to do with a pee dance, which seems somewhat connected to the slightly less popular how do men urinate. I will admit to writing about the Pee Pee Dance, but I’ve never attempted to explain anything about how dudes pee.

I’m going to stick these next three together, because, well, it just seems fitting. Why? Because those searching shit faced may well have been, because why else would you also search bad out of hell. Not bat. Bad. And you know what that is? The last search term…bullshit. But you can read about my encounter with a…well, something that resembled a bat out of hell here.

I’m not sure why you’d want to search women with no eyeball and I’m also not sure why it would bring you here, but maybe it has something to do with the big tit search term. Notice it’s not tits, plural.  And here I thought they usually came in pairs. Apparently not from the one tit girls searches. Silly me.


Though there’s also those looking for titanic tits. Not sure if they’re looking for large breasts on the ship, or breasts that sank due to a collision with an iceberg.

I find it interesting that people land here looking for both cat throwing up and man throwing up but there’s no searches for dogs or women throwing up. I guess they just want the no-eyeball women.

Yet, in a remarkable coincidence, three terms line up nicely to create an almost hidden message: life is…, all work and no play, nude celebrities. There’s a second one as well… work from home is how a door knob works. How about those funny boy and girl conversationsin your pants. Finally the cat that gets flushed in the toilet is likely going nuts. Perhaps because of the other cat flushing toilet.


I’m guessing it’s only idiots who search for idoits. Then again, so is anyone looking for george bush badass. Though the ones looking for bacon strips in underwear and shoulder sniffing worry me a touch. As do the ones looking for a picture of a brain throwing up. I mean, can that even happen? But for a perfect brain, look here.


The person who searched i like when lady gaga smells my underwear deserves a special place with padded walls. Or a special place in hell. I haven’t decided which yet.

Let’s go get shitfaced. Kidding…that’s a search term, not an end goal. Perhaps the end goal should be to not use foul language. Yeah, probably not gonna happen. Not while cock out of underwear and jerking off anime boys somehow gets you here. Could it be when I jerked someone off…my car? Yeah, check it out here.

Ah well, the most heartening search term, and the one that has brought the most hits to my blog–almost 13000, compared to the next highest at 3600–and the name of my second most popular blog, life is beautiful.


It is, isn’t it? I hope you find what you’re searching for.


The perfect storm

259 days ago, I wrote a rather charmingly naive blog about becoming hooked on my blog stats.  You can link over and read it, or I can summarize it below.

I was excited because I’d just passed 1500 hits in a titch over a month.

I was excited because twice–TWICE! –I’d achieved over 100 hits in a single day.

So let’s fast forward to now, where I’ll endeavour to write another blog that 259 days from now on Oct 27th I’ll likely consider charmingly naive as well.

So let’s go back to the last day of 2011 for just a second.  Back in June, I’d been excited over those 1500 total hits to this blog.  On the last day of the year, watching with morbid fascination, I was terribly excited to watch that count tick over from 9999 to 10000 hits.

Didn’t think it would get much cooler than that.

But January turned out to be a good month for me getting new readers on and I started averaging a fairly consistent 100 hits per day.  My record high day was an absolutely ridiculous, never to be duplicated 366 hits.  In a single day!  Wowzers, right?

And then a very strange combination of events happened almost two weeks ago.  Whitney Houston died.  And I blogged about it.

I won’t go into it much here, you can read all about it here, but let’s just say I wasn’t happy that another celebrity checked out with a chemistry kit in their veins and confused loved ones wondering why.

The next morning, I checked my blog for comments and hits and I was surprised to find, instead of the usual 20-30ish hits this early, I was already well over a hundred.  By the time I started work, it had creeped up a bit more.

I remember having a conversation with Pat (who’s blog deserves far more hits than mine does) around mid-morning and I told her then that I thought this blog had the potential to take me past that 366 high note.  “Might even crack 400 hits,” I said.

By noon, it was coming up to 500.  It was then that Pat gave me some wise advice about my blog on the evils of addiction.  She said, “stop checking it.  You’re addicted.” She told me not to check until a specific time.  I think it was 2 p.m.

To be honest, she scared the hell out of me.  And I stopped looking.

Somewhere toward the end of the work day, I was at around 1100 hits for the day.  I had one last conversation with Pat.  I said I could see it topping out at 1300.  Pat said she guessed more like 1500-1800.  We bet a coffee and a donut on it, I was so sure I was right.  And then I stopped looking at it.

The next morning, I came down and checked.  It’s not often I use this term, but it’s truly the only one that accurately describes my reaction.  I was well and truly gobsmacked.  The final tally for the day turned out to be well beyond either Pat’s guess or my own.  I hit 2939 hits.

Now, I know there’s quite a few of you out there that probably yawn at numbers like that and see them with some frequency, but remember, this was just shy of 3000 hits on a blog that sees that in an average month.  That next day?  2034 hits.  5000 hits in two days.

From a blog I figured a maximum of 100 people would read, some would commend me for having the balls to write it, others to slam me for.  Maybe, I don’t know, five or six commenters.

Let’s just cut to the chase now, shall we?  The post has now been up a total of 11 days and has garnered 8247 hits.  In fact, the only other thing that comes close to it is the total lifetime hits of my home page, which has exactly 49 more hits.  And I’ve had a home page a helluva lot longer than the Whitney post.  My total lifetime hits is well on its way to 25K.  And still, I’m left shaking my head.

One last thing.  Suddenly, out of nowhere, another post of mine from Jan 13 called Life is beautiful has found new legs and is getting a lot of views, just in the last couple of days.

Obviously, yes, I’m sure a lot of the 8200 hits to the Houston blog are not full readers, but for a blog that normally gets four to six comments, this one currently has 60.  My favourite is the one where I’m called a “fucking idoit”.  Actually, that’s a lie.  My favourites are from an ex-addict named Colin and a few others who have had to deal with addicts in their lives.  The “idoit” one is just plain good times.

So, now, as my hit numbers finally start to fall back to their normal pathetic counts, I’m left to wonder, what caused this perfect storm of viewers flocking to my little profanity-riddled, scatologically-obsessed blog?  Was it the tagging of “Whitney Houston”?  Or the one-two combo punches of “Whitney Houston” coupled with “drugs” or “addict”?

Is that why the Life is beautiful blog is picking up?  Is it the addiction-related tags again?  Is it the hopeful title?  I don’t think so, because it’s found more of an audience now than it did a month ago when it was published.

I don’t get it.  I’ve written some stuff on this blog that commenters have said is the funniest thing they’ve read.  Apparently I’ve been the cause of food being sprayed across the monitors of some computers.

On the other hand, I’ve also tried to be painfully honest and opened up about some deeply personal stuff that I’ve also been commended on.

And none of it has resonated anywhere near as much as me bitching about Whitney.  None of it has found the same audience.

I find that weird, to be honest.  Regardless, I’m just going to keep writing about the things I find funny, stupid and aggravating in this wacky world of ours.  It’s the only thing I can do.  You try and chase those hits, you’ll drive yourself crazy.

I joked to Pat that I should give up writing blogs about farts and shit and start name-dropping celebrities instead.  “Don’t do it,” she said.  And then she said something sobering.  “I’ve got one word for you: Snooki.”

And I decided, yeah, I’m happier writing about shit than the shit that these idoits (yes, misspelling on purpose) do.  Though I reserve the right to poke them in print whenever the hell I feel like it.

The keys to my stupidity

In case you haven’t figured it out by now from reading this blog, I can be an idiot.  Yes, I know, hard to believe a guy with a perfect brain can be an idiot, but there you go.

But why am I making this confession now?  Well, I figured I’d bashed the the Wife and the Boy enough earlier this month that I should likely pony up some of my own shortcomings.  So, there’s nothing like just admitting it and getting it out there…

I have a problem with keys.

Not a big one, mind you, but a problem nonetheless.  There’s three big incidents that come to mind.

The keys to my stupidity, part one

The first occurred way back in the 80s.  If I had to guess, I’d plunk it down around 1984.  I know I was rocking a mullet at the time (which is idiocy of a whole different nature, and one we’ll reserve for a later blog…or not).

Anyway, being reasonably young and extremely stupid, myself and three friends went out driving all around the area north of Oshawa and Whitby, seeing what dumb things we could do.  I won’t get into most of them here, but I will draw your attention to one particular slice of the evening.

It was at least 4 a.m. at this point and we were getting punchy.  We were on a gravel road somewhere (and, truth to tell, I couldn’t find this spot again…then or now…if you pointed a gun at me) and we stopped on a slight incline to a railway crossing.  Two of the guys got out for a pee, leaving myself and one other to wander aimlessly.

I happened to wander up to the tracks.  First I stood in the glare of the headlights, then I moseyed off to one side.  The guys were still peeing.  I swear, at that age, an average male can urinate for at least ten solid minutes if pressed.

Anyway, when I was in the dark off to the side, I had a thought (my first clue that this wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but of course I totally ignored that).  Wouldn’t it be funny if…?

Oh what the hell, I thought.  I’ll just do it and get a laugh.

So, I kind of trundled along the path of the train tracks into the path of the headlights, and I made a sound like a train whistle and bell.  It’s not easy to reproduce through words, but it kind of went something like, “WOOWOOOOOOOOH!  …dingdingdingding dingdingdingding DINGDINGDINGDING DINGDINGDINGDING DINGDINGDINGDING dingdingdingding dingdingdingding…”

You know, like the bell gets louder then softer again?  Yeah, well, that was me.  Two of the guys found this uproariously funny and fell about themselves.  The fourth?  Still peeing.  Missed the whole thing.  So, he zipped up and asked me to recreate it.

The problem was, the next time I did it, it sounded more like, “WOOWOOOOOOOOH!  …dingdingdingding dingdingdingding DINGDINGDINGDING DINGDINGD–OOOPH!”  The “oooph” part was when I tripped over a rock or something and went sprawling into the gravel.  This time, all three of the guys found this uproariously funny and fell about themselves.

Eventually, around 5:30 a.m., we got back in the car and continued on our mischievous ways.  It wasn’t until I got back to the Whitby Arby’s, where I worked at the time and had parked my car, that I realized I didn’t have my car keys anymore.  We searched the other car, I dug through my pockets, then one of the guys looked at me and said, “Aw dude!  Bet you lost them when you derailed your train!”

All three of the guys found this uproariously funny and fell about themselves.  I had really begun to hate them.

But there was no denying it.  That’s very likely where I lost my car keys.  And the keys to the house.  And the keys to the Arby’s store.

Try explaining that one to your mother when you’re calling her at 5:45 a.m. to come bring your extra set of car keys.  Try explaining to your boss that you lost the store keys because your freaking train derailed.

The keys to my stupidity, part two

Flash forward more than a decade.  I’m married now, I have a couple of kids.  I’m older and wiser, right?

Yeah, dream on, baby.

So at this stage of the game, say, roughly around 1998 or so, my daughter, the Girl, is in Sparks, a precursor to Girl Guides and one of the events they held, which is still something I hold as a treasured moment, was a Daddy-daughter dance.

Now, to some, this might sound like cheese, but honestly, I loved it.  There’s nothing in the world like swaying around a gymnasium floor, holding your daughter’s hands as she looks up at you like you’re the most important, smartest, and most handsome man in the world.  At that moment, no matter who you are, you are that important, smart handsome man.

<Ahem>  Excuse me, something in my eye.  Dust or something…

Anyway, after the dance was over, the Wife, who was a leader for the group, had to clean up.  I helped, as did a couple of the other fathers, then, as is normal with the Wife, everything was done, everyone was ready to go…and she stood talking to one of the mothers or fellow leaders or whatever.  My point is, she wasn’t making any leaving noises.

I got bored.  Not a good thing to let happen to me.  I looked around.  I was in a large gymnasium.  I had nothing to occupy me except…my keys.

I pulled out my massive sprawl of keys, and I tossed them up a couple of feet.  Caught them.  Tossed them higher.  Caught them.  Higher still.  Caught them.

This went on for many minutes.  Eventually, I was tossing them with the intent to just get them to scrape the ceiling.  Just a little scrape.  It’s actually quite challenging and more than a little fun, let me tell you.

The other thing it does is draw the Wife’s attention.  She got annoyed.  I kept doing it, figuring, the more I annoy her, the sooner she’s going to wrap up her damn conversation and we can get the hell outta Dodge.

Then she says, “Tobin!  Stop it!  You’re going to get the keys caught in the rafters!”

I looked up at these support rafters, evenly spaced about five feet apart a good thirty feet above me.  “Holy crap,” I say.  “How in the hell do you figure I’m gonna do that?  There’s no way that’s g–”

The keys got caught in the damn rafter.

Have you ever seen that scene in the movie Porky’s?  The “Why do they call her Lassie?” scene?  The one where some guy is getting it on with a very young, pre-Sex in the City Kim Cattrall  in an area just off the gym, and there’s a teacher in the gym laughing so hard that he ends up hiding behind one of the mats hung off the wall?

When I hooked my keys over that rafter, one of the other fathers recreated the laughing coach to a T.

Took us a good twenty minutes and a very long pole to get it down.  At least I wasn’t bored anymore.  Kinda upped the ante on the whole “the Wife is annoyed” part though.

The keys to my stupidity, part three

And then, not long after that, it’s winter.  I had bought a second hand snowblower off a guy the summer before, had test fired the thing a couple of times, but never got to really take it out for a test drive.  So when we finally got a big dump of snow, I was so ready.

I got all geared up Nanook of the North style, grabbed the keys, backed the cars out of the driveway, got the snowblower out of the shed, lined it up, and cranked on the pull cord.

Sputter and die.

No biggie, thing’s been sitting for months.  It’d almost be a miracle if it fired up on the first try, wouldn’t it?  Crank again.  Sputter and die.

Okay, I’ll save you the agony.  Twenty minutes later, I’ve stripped the Nanook coat off, the gloves are off, I’m sweating like a pig, and my driveway still has as much snow on it as it did twenty minutes earlier.

By this point, my two neighbours across the road are three-quarters done shoveling theirs.  I could only imagine their secret, insidious snickers of derision.  I pressed on.

Twenty minutes after that, I gave up.  Screw the snowblower!  Shoveling is respectful, manly work!  Snowblowers?  Bah!

So, I got the shovel and cleared my entire driveway.  Probably took me twenty minutes.  Casting an evil glance toward the red mechanical beast, I then looked back on my handiwork with pride.  That driveway was clean!

I walked back down to the first car, opened the door, fished for my keys.

No keys.

Check the ignition.

No keys.

Check the other car’s ignition.  Same deal.  Check my coat pockets, pants pockets, even the ring inside the door.

No keys.

Then I think back to all the full-body swaying I was doing as I cranked on that damned snowblower.  Then I pictured the keys flying from a pocket.

And into the two feet of snow.

That I then shoveled more snow on top of.

My neighbours, having just finished their own driveways and now chatting across the street, stared in disbelief as they watched me come out from my shed with a garden rake and start raking the snow back onto my freshly shovelled driveway, each pull punctuated with some seriously manic swearing.

Eventually, the entire top end of my driveway was filled yet again with pre-shovelled snow.

The keys were nowhere to be found.

So, maybe I lost them at some point when I was shovelling?

Yes, in the end, I raked all of the snow that I’d shovelled off the driveway back on the driveway.  There was a three-foot wide path to either side of the driveway that had been cleared of snow.

Still no keys.

That’s when I gave up, took the Wife’s keys, hopped in the car, drove down to Stan’s Rentals and faced the guy behind the desk as I sheepishly asked to rent a metal detector.

The damn thing about it?  I was the third guy that day that had rented it, and when I got it back to him twenty minutes and ten or so dollars later, he’d had two more calls.

So yeah, I’m an idiot when it comes to keys.

But there’s at least four other guys out there that seem to be just as friggin’ stupid.

Are they really this stupid? Why, yes! They are!

Oct 26, 2009, Ontario instituted a ban on using cell phones while driving, unless using a hands-free device.

Which isn’t a hard thing to do, there’s a lot of good, cheap Bluetooth earsets out there, or a speaker device that clips to you sunvisor.  Hell, a lot of newer cars have it built right into the radio (though the one in our truck kinda sucks).  Get email or texts a lot?  There’s a lot of apps that will read them for you out loud so you don’t have to read.  They’ll even do it as they come in, so you don’t even have to fiddle with the phone.

C’mon, admit it…If you dug Star Trek, you’ll buy into this.  Captain Kirk had the first flip phone, but Lt. Uhura had the first Bluetooth.  So who’s cooler?

So why in the hell do I constantly see morons with phones to their ears, babbling away as they swerve drunkenly over the same roads my family uses?  Why do I see idiots happily holding their phone at eye-level as they tippy-tap their obviously earth-shaking messages out to recipients instead of, you know, watching where the hell they’re going?  Or even better, the ones that keep it low so the cops don’t see them, but completely give themselves away by occasionally glancing at the road while devoting the bulk of the time they’re navigating a speeding two-ton chunk of metal to looking down.  Even better at night.  Let me give all you morons a free piece of advice…you’re not fooling anyone when the glow from your cell phone is illuminating your entire face.


And then, just when you think you’ve heard it all…just when you’ve yelled at a person (my favourite is, “It’s illegal, dickhead!”) and gotten a what-are-you-yelling-at-me-for-I’m-totally-not-doing-anything-wrong-or-dangerous-or-stupid-you’re-just-being-an-asshole-for-no-reason look…just when all that has come to pass, you hear about someone like David Secker.

Who’s David Secker?  Only the guy that was pulled over in Blofield, near Norwich, England for talking on his cell phone.  And texting on his other cell phone.  While doing 75 m/h (120 km/h).  While steering with his knees (of course, because he had no freakin’ hands left to drive with!).

When he was pulled over, he insisted on finishing his phone call before dealing with the police.  Lucky he wasn’t in L.A. or something.  They would have shot or, at the very least, tased his ass.

Instead, he got fined about $250 and got his licence suspended for a year.  And really, why does anyone need two cell phones, let alone David Secker, who’s unemployed?  One has to wonder how someone with such mad multitasking skills manages to remain sans job.

Oh yeah.  It’s because he’s a dickhead.

And then…and then…I thought that was bad…until I watched this.

I’ll warn ya, the f-bomb is dropped, but quite honestly, I can understand why.  Please, watch the video before reading on…I wouldn’t want to spoil the fun.

So, yeah…you saw it with your own eyes.

What kind of audacity does it take to do this?  What kind of I-really-don’t-give-a-shit-who-I-kill-as-long-as-I-get-to-do-any-dumbass-thing-I-want attitude do you need to have to even attempt this?

I mean, drunk drivers?  Don’t get me started.  But at least they can blame the alcohol for impairing their judgement.

This dude?  Not so much.

Can we just make a new law?  Whenever we see somebody doing something this life-threateningly stupid, we can pull them from their vehicles, drop their keys down the nearest sewer grate, and beat the living shit out of them?