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Charlie Hatton
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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!

Fat, Manic, and Sober Is No Way to Go Through Life, Son

Well, howdy-do, nice people!

Man, I’m wired. I just got back from an impromptu-ish show at the On the Hill Tavern (pics and movies and such soon!), and for some reason, it’s got me all jazzed up.

It wasn’t a particularly great show or anything — there were only a few people watching, and the laughs weren’t what you’d call ‘riotous‘, or anything close.

(Unless you’re a Mormon, maybe, or Amish. Then it was probably downright hysterical, out-of-control, ‘haven’t laughed this hard since Maw slipped and sat on the butter churn’ funny. But I’m pretty sure nobody there was Amish. Or Mormon. Or particularly interested.)

Anyway, it was still a trip, and fun was had by all. And now, I’m inexplicably giddy. And not just any old sort of giddy. I’m talking ‘giddy like a schoolgirl who’s just discovered her budding breasts’ giddy. Now that’s goddamned giddy!

(You know, I’ve always wondered — or I just thought of it; whatever — why the universally accepted euphemism for boob growage is ‘budding’. When did that happen, and who voted for it, anyway?

I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with breasts ‘budding’, per se — but can’t we have a little variety, now and again? Would it kill people to say that some girl’s tas are ‘hatching’, or ‘swelling’, or maybe even ‘rising like a pair of fluffery biscuits in the oven’?

Okay, never mind. Maybe that’s just inappropriate. And now I’m suddenly hungry for biscuits. Moving on.)

So. Where the hell was I, anyway? Ah, giddy. Yes, how could I forget?

Anyway, as I was just telling my wife, Wednesdays suck ass.

(And whatever you do, folks, don’t drop that last sentence on the floor and get the words all jumbled up. Just about any sentence besides that one that contains ‘I’, ‘my wife’, ‘suck’, and ‘ass’ is gonna get me in a lot of hot water. So fer chrissakes, be careful!)

The point is that Wednesdays are difficult for me, in my current situation. Nine am meeting in the morning. One pm meeting (that I have to cobble together agendas for) at one in the afternoon. Lunch, if I’m lucky, in between. The ‘real’ workday for me starts at about three, and therefore usually ends around eight, or later. Tonight I got out at nine. just in time to be a half-hour late to the comedy show. Eh. You’d think I could manage to be closer to ‘on time’ for something I wanted to do than I was for that hellish morning meeting.

But no, not on Wednesdays. Not this Wednesday, anyway. Thirty minutes late getting to work, thirty minutes late getting out. There’s a balance there, a harmony. I’m sure chakras are involved somehow or other. And I want to shoot myself. Wednesdays suck a big one. A big donkey one. I ain’t kidding around here, folks.

Add to that the fact that I’ve gotten little sleep the past three or four nights, between getting swamped at work and getting the new site up, and I should be droopy-droolin’ around here right now. Or better yet, snoozing away in the comfort of my own sheets. Lord knows I need the resticles.

And yet, here I am, not only blogging, but wide-awake and ready for action. (Okay, okay, so maybe not ‘boom-chicka-wanna-boom-bachicka-bawanna‘ action, but still — some kinda action.) And to top it all off, I’m almost entirely sober! I had a celebratory (read: ‘hey, they didn’t string me up with the microphone wire and flog me after my set‘) Guinness after the show, but that’s it. Apparently, I’m ‘high on life’. (And could that be any fucking dopier?)

Whatever it is, it’s got to wear off soon, right? After the sleepless night, hectic day, and stress of telling five minutes’ worth of bad jokes to ugly strangers (ooh, I’m a pissy bitch tonight!), the ‘crash’ has got to be coming soon. This manic mood will fade away fast, and leave me saggy, sullen, and slobbery. I can feel the first tugs on my eyelids right now, as a matter of fact. The transformation is beginning.

So, I think I’ll wrap up here, the better to actually be in the bed when I hit rock bottom and fall asleep. Here’s hoping your Wednesdays look better than mine, and may you feel the way I have tonight, except preferably for some semblance of a frigging reason.Nighty-night, compadres!

Permalink  |  1 Comment



One Response to “Fat, Manic, and Sober Is No Way to Go Through Life, Son”

  1. Flip says:

    Sleep well :) I’ll have my breakfast now.

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