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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
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Well, here's something that might keep us all amused on a Monday evening.
Or maybe it'll be the last straw that finally pushes one of you over the edge to call the men in the little white coats on me. Whatever. Either way, this Monday needs a boost. So let's dance.
It's a little game I've been thinking about -- more of an exercise, really. You know the old cliche where some macho pimpster type says:
'I like my wine like I like my women'
And then he follows it up with some witty gem like:
'French, sweet, and after dinner'
or
'Cool, wet, and on the dining room table'
or even
'Cheap, vinegary, and straight from the box'
(Okay, that last one's a little disturbing. I'll admit that. It happens. You take an old joke, stretch it out too far, and it turns into something scary and ugly. It's sort of like nipples that way. I apologize.)
(And... um, I apologize for that 'nipple' thing, too. That might be worse than the first thing. I think I'll move on now.)
So, anyway, I got to thinking -- why should these assbags have all the fun? There are plenty of other things in the world besides wine and women, right?
(Okay, okay -- nothing better, maybe. Depending on your point of view, and priorities, and, I dunno, whether you're descended from Henry VIII, perhaps. But still -- there are other things. Follow me, here.)
Anyway, I figure, there's a whole world of things out there to compare to other things, when we're looking for a colorful analogy. But we're really only used to this wine-women juxtaposition thingy, so maybe we need a little practice. And that's where the exercise comes in.
Here's the idea -- I thought I'd come up with a topic, something random and crazy, just the first thing off the top of my head, and then see what I could compare to it. You know, as practice. So, I tried to think of something appropriate. Something clever, and witty, and flexible enough to get a ton of mileage from. Something classier than the original, and deeper. Something thinkier.
But then, of course, I gave all that up. You gotta do what you're best at, after all. So, I settled on my wife farting.
(Now, I'm not saying that my wife actually does pass gas. I'm not saying that in public, anyway. I am way too comfortable with my testicles where they're currently located -- as opposed to, say, shoved up my nostrils -- to come out and say that.
But give me a call one day, and I'll fill you in. Yow. Just be sure to call me at work -- I can talk there.)
Anyway, wife farts. Spouse sputters. Pookie bear pooties. Whatever you want to call them, that's the challenge -- what out there, in this big world of ours, is a lot like my wife floating air biscuits? Well... let's see:
'Getting hit by lightning is a lot like my wife farting -- you never even know it's happened until you're lying on the floor, gasping for air and wondering whether you still have eyebrows.'
Hmmm. Let's try again. How about:
'Bow hunting is a lot like my wife farting -- it's quiet, but with good enough aim, you can bring down a moose at a hundred paces.'
Okay, I'm not sure how well this is going. What's next?:
'Seeing London was a lot like my wife's farts -- sort of foggy and moist, and with a faint smell of kippers.'
All right, that's probably enough. I swear to god, it sounded like a good idea an hour ago. But a lightning strike, a hunting trip, and a vacation overseas later, and I'm not so sure any more. I think I'll just go to bed now -- my work is done here, anyway. Now I've got all of you thinking, 'Hey, I wonder what my farts could be like?' And that's a beautiful thing.
Yeah, yeah, I know. Just have the guys in the white coats wait until morning to pick me up, okay? I'll be more in the mood for the loony bin after a good night's rest. Later, all.
now i remember why i started reading your blog in the first place. you are a cracker. i just wish i was clever enough to post a witty answer to your game.
I have to remember to stop reading your blog at work, the boss wonders what the hell I'm doing every time I do.
Anyway...cantaloupes are like your wifes farts...you never know if they're ripe until you smell 'em.
You're going to die, Charlie. She'll probably kill you in some sort of ironic (yet extremely painful) way, too.
I agree with Monkey. So you have some kind of death wish? You couldn't have said "my Uncle Bud's farts" or something?
Oh Charlie! LOL.... I love reading you, you're a HOOT! I am certainly gonna love to read what your wife does to you after she hears about this post! You might just get your lightning strike, hunting trip, and vacation overseas! Keep us posted!
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Waiting for a bus is like waiting for my wife to fart. You're standing there, happily minding your own business then two come along at once.