Charlie Hatton About This
About Me
Email Me

Bookmark
 FeedBurnerEmailTwitterFacebookAmazon
Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA



All Quotes
HomeAboutArchiveBestShopEmail

  |  

Howdy, friendly reading person!
I'm on a bit of a hiatus right now, but only to work on other projects -- one incredibly exciting example being the newly-released kids' science book series Things That Make You Go Yuck!
If you're a science and/or silliness fan, give it a gander! See you soon!

And Now for Something Completely Random

Well, shit. I’ve tried to start three different posts today, and they all went a big fat bunch of nowhere. So, you know what — screw it. It’s about time I got back to the roots of this blog, and threw a bunch of unrelated, random, schizophrenic shit at you. So that’s what I’m gonna do. Don’t expect coherence, folks; as a matter of fact, don’t look for any damned sense at all.

(And if you think I’m bluffing, you should know that I also managed to find Monty Python on BBC America, and I’m watching some of that TiVoed goodness right now. Currently playing — ‘Owl-Stretching Time’. Strap in, folks — this may get a bit silly. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.)


Is there anything more mind-numbingly, suicide-inducingly boring than folding socks?

(And if you say, ‘yes, this blog‘, then you’re cut off. Don’t be a smartass, dude.)

Anyway, I’ve just been folding socks, and I’m ready to tie a few together and choke the life right out of myself. Maybe it’s because all my socks look almost — but not quite — alike. And there are six or seven styles — some have yellow toes, and others have gray toes, and some are just a little longer… other than my fishnet stockings, I can barely tell any of them apart.

Er, that’s my wife’s fishnet stockings. Of, um, course. Moving right along.

Matching these socks is like… I don’t know, pairing up jumbled-up pictures of centerfold boobs cut out from a Playboy, or something. Only without all the magic and involuntary ecstatic shivering.

(Hey, come to think of it, that would be a pretty fun game. Just snip out a bunch of lefties and righties, and mix them together, and then try to figure out which ones go with which. Cool! Wow, I’m glad I thought of that! Next time it’s time to fold socks, I’m doin’ that instead! Laundry just got sexy! Woo hoo!)


I’m an only child. This is in stark contrast to my father, who was next-to-last of eleven kids. Eleven kids, folks — they could have played basketball against each other — full-court, full-squad, honest-to-God games, plus one left over to sub. Or ref, or pretend to be Spike Lee or Jack Nicholson. In any case, it’s a frickin’ boatload of children.

I remember asking my dad about it one day, back when I was a kid:

Me: Um, Dad — you were one of eleven, right?

Dad: Yep, that’s right.

Me: So… we’re what, Catholic, then?

Dad: No, son. We’re not Catholic.

Me: Part rabbit, maybe? Like, we got bunny DNA in our systems from some horrible farming accident, or by sitting on the wrong toilet seat?

Dad: Um… no.

Me: You’re not saying… grandpa was a ‘bunny lover‘, are you? I mean, cows, sure, with the udders and the fuzzies and the moo-ing… but rabbits?

Dad: No! Look, son, we’re not ‘part rabbit’. Let it go.

Me: But… but… eleven kids? Dude! What’s up with that?

Dad: Well, it happens, you know?

Me: Dad, I’m twelve. I know what happens. I even know how it happens. But there’s nothing in my short life experience that indicates how it could happen eleven fricking times, man. That’s crazy.

Dad: Well, times were a bit different then. I think they were sort of… you know, bored.

Me: Bored? Shit, Dad — bored is one thing, but eleven kids? Christ, couldn’t they have read a book, or taken a damned walk, or — I dunno — played some freaking Nintendo, or something?

Dad: Son, there was no Nintendo back then.

Me: Well, Christ, there should have been. Eleven kids… shit! Let the woman rest, for goodness’ sakes.

Dad: Riiiight. Not to change the subject, son, but you’re adopted. You know that, right?

Yeah, Dad always was a kidder. And I’ve always been told it’s just a coincidence that I have the mailman’s high cheekbones.

Still, eleven children has got to be a pain in the ass to put up with. And the younger ones, like Dad, have it tough, too — it’s like having five or six parents, with all the older kids telling you what to do, or sending you to bed, or making you run errands. It’s gotta be like being a gofer in a sweatshop or something. No wonder Dad’s a little wonky sometimes.


I went to a party last night. Really, a real party — one of those dress-up adult parties.

(Well, okay, not one of those ‘dress-up adult’ parties, like in Eyes Wide Shut, or anything like that. We didn’t put on costumes, or lingerie, or oversized puppet heads and get all ‘adult‘ on each other. Stay in my world here, all right? I mean, I’m with you — those kinds of parties would be much cooler, but that’s not what happened. Let’s not get ourselves all lubed up unnecessarily, ‘k?

Well, maybe just a little… mmmmm… oversized puppet heads… yeah, baby!)

Anyway, I had to come home and put on a suit for this little soiree. It was some holiday shindig or other thrown by the law firm my wife works for. So, yeah — four hours in a monkey suit, surrounded by lawyers and listening to Christmas carols — that’s pretty much the third circle of Hell right there. But there was free booze, and nobody knew who the hell I was, so it really wasn’t all that bad.

But what I kept thinking to myself was this: what the hell do women do with their hands at parties like these? I mean, it’s a big company thing, so everybody’s a little nervous. Throw in dozens of overdressed uppity bastards and pompous stuffed shirts, and everyone’s gonna be a bit antsy. It’s perfectly natural.

And this is one of those areas where guys have it much easier than women. Because when you get nervous, you start fidgeting, and wondering what to do with your hands. And men’s suits have pockets, which is a damned life saver. I spent all night last night putting my hands in, and taking them out, and putting things in there, and taking things out — I did the ‘Pants Pocket Hokey Pokey’ the entire time I was standing up. And it saved my ass — otherwise, I’d have been clasping my damned hands, and unclasping them, and folding my arms, and unfolding, and putting my hands on my hips, or other people’s hips, or heads, or boobs, or god knows where else. The pockets keep the little guys out of trouble.

(No, not those little guys. The zipper keeps those little guys out of trouble. Amazing how many helpful accessories a pair of pants can have, isn’t it?)

But the women don’t have the same advantage — their hands are out there, just flapping around, with no container or anything to put them in when they’re not in use. You’d think some designer would have come up with a holster or something for dresses, so they’d be on a level playing field. But no. I simply don’t see how they manage. My hands would have strangled me by now, if left to their own devices like that. A long time ago. No doubt.


Well, that’s all I’ve got for now, folks. Hope you enjoyed the snippets of silliness. Hopefully, I’ll be more focused and coherent tomorrow. On the other hand, I’m about to head out to a party — no dressing up this time — so I’ll be drinking for the next four or five hours. Hell, I might be worse tomorrow. Might blog in Japanese, or Spanish, or something. Or just pound my forehead on the keyboard for twenty minutes, and post whatever the hell comes out. We’ll just have to see. Until then, this is what I’ve got. Enjoy!

Permalink  |  3 Comments



3 Responses to “And Now for Something Completely Random”

  1. TVZ says:

    I have never, ever thought about what women do with their hands. On the one hand, insightful, on the other…are you trying for a spot on Queer Eye? How…ummmm…thoughtful. But, really, lol.

  2. Shelby says:

    “what the hell do women do with their hands at parties like these?”

    Hold a drink, of course. Preferably one in each hand. No, seriously though. Holding a drink (even a coke or, if necessary, an empty glass) is a good way to go. If you feel you need to involve the other hand, there’s always hors d’ouevres. Or the empty cocktail napkin.

  3. Shelby says:

    That should be hors d’oeuvres. Or hors d’…oh screw it… APPETIZERS.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

HomeAboutArchiveBestShopEmail © 2003-15 Charlie Hatton All Rights Reserved
Highlights
Me on Film 'n' Stage:
  Drinkstorm Studios


Me on Science (silly):
  Secondhand SCIENCE


Me on Science (real):
  Meta Science News


Me on ZuG (RIP):
  Zolton's FB Pranks
  Zolton Does Amazon


Favorite Posts:
30 Facts: Alton Brown
A Commute Dreary
A Hallmark Moment
Blue's Clues Explained
Eight Your 5-Hole?
El Classo de Espanol
Good News for Goofballs
Grammar, Charlie-Style
Grammar, Revisitated
How I Feel About Hippos
How I Feel About Pinatas
How I Feel About Pirates
Life Is Like...
Life Is Also Like...
Smartass 101
Twelve Simple Rules
Unreal Reality Shows
V-Day for Dummies
Wheel of Misfortune
Zolton, Interview Demon

Me, Elsewhere

Features
Standup Comedy Clips

Selected Clips:
  09/10/05: Com. Studio
  04/30/05: Goodfellaz
  04/09/05: Com. Studio
  01/28/05: Com. Studio
  12/11/04: Emerald Isle
  09/06/04: Connection

Boston Comedy Clubs

 My 100 Things Posts

Selected Things:
  #6: My Stitches
  #7: My Name
  #11: My Spelling Bee
  #35: My Spring Break
  #36: My Skydives
  #53: My Memory
  #55: My Quote
  #78: My Pencil
  #91: My Family
  #100: My Poor Knee

More Features:

List of Lists
33 Faces of Me
Cliche-O-Matic
Punchline Fever
Simpsons Quotes
Quantum Terminology

Favorites
Banterist
...Bleeding Obvious
By Ken Levine
Defective Yeti
DeJENNerate
Divorced Dad of Two
Gallivanting Monkey
Junk Drawer
Life... Weirder
Little. Red. Boat.
Mighty Geek
Mitchieville
PCPPP
Scaryduck
Scott's Tip of the Day
Something Authorly
TGNP
Unlikely Explanations

Archives
Full Archive

Category Archives:

(Stupid) Computers
100Things
A Doofus Is Me
Articles 'n' Zines
Audience Participation
Awkward Conversations
Bits About Blogging
Bitter Old Man Rants
Blasts from My Past
Cars 'n' Drivers
Dog Drivel
Eek!Cards
Foodstuff Fluff
Fun with Words!
Googlicious!
Grooming Gaffes
Just Life
Loopy Lists
Making Fun of Jerks
Marketing Weenies
Married and a Moron
Miscellaneous Nonsense
Potty Talk / Yes, I'm a Pig
Sleep, and Lack Thereof
Standup
Tales from the Stage
Tasty Beverages
The Happy Homeowner
TV & Movies & Games, O My!
Uncategorized
Vacations 'n' Holidays
Weird for the Sake of Weird
Whither the Weather
Wicked Pissah Bahstan
Wide World o' Sports
Work, Work, Work
Zug

Heroes
Alas Smith and Jones
Berkeley Breathed
Bill Hicks
Dave Barry
Dexter's Laboratory
Douglas Adams
Evening at the Improv
Fawlty Towers
George Alec Effinger
Grover
Jake Johannsen
Married... With Children
Monty Python
Nick Bakay
Peter King
Ren and Stimpy
Rob Neyer
Sluggy Freelance
The Simpsons
The State

Plugs, Shameless
100 Best Humor Blogs | Healthy Moms Magazine

Alltop, confirmation that I kick ass

TopOfBlogs

HumorSource

Blogging Fusion Blog Directory

bloglovin

Top Blogs

 

Feeds and More
Subscribe via FeedBurner

[Subscribe]

RDF
RSS 2.0
Atom
Credits
Site Hosting:
Solid Solutions

Powered by:
MovableType

Title Banner Photo:
Shirley Harshenin

Creative Commons License
  This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons License

Mint Installation

Performancing Metrics

Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape

Valid XHTML 1.0

Valid CSS!

© 2003-15 Charlie Hatton
All Rights Reserved