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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA



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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!

The Sox Are Locks! (Though That Might Be ‘Bol-Locks’)

The secret ingredient is bile.

Well, dammit.

I had promised to tell you about my interview today, and then my How to Be Wicked Funny class. But they both went really well. So well, in fact, that I really don’t have any good stories from either. Oh, I could make shit up, of course, or sell out some of the people that I’m in class with… but that’s just rude.

(Meaning, someday I might give this URL out to the class, and they’d be in prime position to kick my ass if I butchered them here. So, no. Just no.)

So, I’ve got to come up with some other shit. Let’s see… I know! I’ll show you the article I wrote for a local independent paper. It’s been a couple of weeks now, and I haven’t heard back, so I’m pretty sure that they’ve passed on it.

(And if not — well, fuck ’em. The least they can do is send me an email or something. What am I, a friggin’ mind reader?)

Anyway, here it is. Those of you who aren’t baseball fans might not appreciate it. And those of you outside the Boston metro area might not feel the poignancy of it all. And if you don’t hate the Yankees with every fiber of your being, then it won’t mean much to you. And… well, while I’m at it, if you don’t read this blog, then you’re never going to see it, obviously. So, for the one or two of you that’s left, here it is — my first attempt at ‘real’ public journalism, which was thoroughly ignored by the intended publisher. I guess that ‘name in lights’ thing will just have to wait.


Forget Christmas, folks. This is the ‘most wonderful time of the year’, at least for New Englanders.

(Really, what’s Christmas got to offer, anyway? We run around willy-nilly, fighting each other for the last self-wetting doll, and pretending we like fruitcake and that ‘nog’ business, and for what? A screwdriver set, or a bunch of socks we’re never going to wear. ‘Ho ho ho’, my fanny.)

But now — mid-September — now is the pinnacle of celebration. The veritable apex of joy and hope. The true season of brotherly love. And why, you ask? What makes this time of year so wonderful, and joyous, and downright magical?

Because the Red Sox haven’t blown anything yet, of course.

As all of my fellow Sox fans know all too well, hope springs eternal. There’s no dictum or mandate that says this won’t be the year that we finally hand those damned Yankees their well-deserved lump of coal. Hey, anything can happen, so maybe it will. As Joaquin Andujar once said, ‘Youneverknow’.

(Okay, so he probably said it more than once. Don’t split hairs; I’m making a point here.)

Anyway, there’s still time. As I write this, the Sox are four games behind the Yankees, and one and a half games up in the wild card standings. There’s every indication that they’ll make the playoffs, and maybe — just maybe, if we cross our fingers and click our heels and wish ever so hard — this could be their year. And by extension, our year. Maybe we’ll finally have a Christmas without visions of pinstripes dancing in our heads, with a Steinbrenner Grinch stealing all the Sox’ toys.

But nothing’s been pilfered yet. And though we still have the nightmares — Clemens and Buckner and Dent, oh my! — we awake each morning in September with hope anew. This is Nomar’s team, and Pedro’s and Johnny’s and Trot’s and Kevin’s, too. Hell, sometimes it’s even Manny’s. Maybe we can do it, after all. Maybe we can put the curse and history and the Yankee mystique to bed once and for all.

We’ll storm into the playoffs, and advance to play our New York nemeses. We’ll spank them in four games, and go on to win the whole. Freaking. Thing. The Sox will be World Champs, and the monkey will be off all our backs for good. Maybe we’ll even decide to only chant ‘Yankees Suck’ when we’re actually playing them. You know, like other teams’ fans. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll have it all.

Hey, it’s still September. Anything can happen, right?


Damn. Five hundred words without a single ‘bumblefuck’ or ‘asshatter’, and they still didn’t publish it. What the flying shitball does a guy have to do, anyway?

Eh, really, it’s all right. I’m not sure that’s my strongest effort, anyway. I’ll chalk it up to practice.

(Well, I’ll chalk it up to practice and give that paper a big fat finger for not even acknowledging that they’d heard from me. But really, it’s all about the chalking, and not the fingering. So I probably shouldn’t have even mentioned it. I just wanted to work ‘fingering’ into this post somewhere. Yes, I may have some issues I need to work out.)

So, that’s about it for that. Speaking of ‘fucklybird’ and ‘shitterific’, though, I’d like to point out a new feature before I go. It’s yet another of my unceasing attempts to gather fresh eyeballs around here.

(Not that I don’t love your eyeballs, if you happen to be a long-time reader. Because I do. Yours are the most cherished eyeballs of all, really. No one can take away the special ball-bond that we share. Erm, ‘eyeball-bond’, of course. I suppose this is one of those times where it helps to be specific.

Anyway, your eyeballs are the very most bestest of all. I wouldn’t trade ’em for the world. It’s just that… well, there’s always room for more, you see? I promise I won’t love you any less; it’s just that I’d like to have as many eyeballs around as possible. Look, I won’t get jealous if you look at other blogs, just as long as you keep coming here, too. And I’ll still write every loving word just for you, okay? I just think we should expand our horizons, that’s all. I suppose what I’m trying to say is — I want to see other balls.

Damn. There’s that ‘specificity’ thing again. Bitches!)

Anyway, back to the new feature. I decided to join BlogSnob, in an effort to attract more people (and their balls) to the site. If that’s how you got here, then welcome! Cruise around, put your feet up, stay awhile. Make yourself nearly at home. Not quite at home, though. We have quite enough crotch-scratching and inappropriate farting around here as it is.

(I swear she never did that shit before I married her…)

As for the rest of you, I encourage you to hop out there and check out some of the other sites in the BS network.

(Yes, I’m abbreviating, because BlogSnob is just too damned long for me to bother with. Sure, I’ll waste two thousand words on a phone call or a trip to the store, but eight letters for some other web site is just too taxing. Besides, I just think I belong in a ‘BS network’. And I defy anyone to say differently. So there.)

Anyway, check out the constantly-rotating link at the bottom of my ‘Linkitation’ section. It’ll point you to a new blog every time, and may just earn you a new daily read. You know, if you’re into that sort of thing. And if you can spare the time while still reading this crap. Remember, you’re not allowed to leave me. We need each other. You complete me, and all that shit. Don’t forget.

If you’re going to try it out, though, you may want to act now. It may be just a matter of time before the BS folks boot me the hell out of their little club. See, after signing up, I found that they only approve sites that don’t contain ‘spicy’ language. And that’s just not me. I fling more ‘shit’ than a jungleful of monkeys. I throw ‘fucks’ around like Wilt Chamberlain in his heyday. And I am the undisputed world champion of throwing down ‘Goddammit!!’

(Sorry, Cartman. Maybe next year, you fat-ass dingledick.)

So, eventually — like, oh, after they read that last paragraph, maybe — they’re sure to notice their mistake in actually approving me, and kick me out. But until then, what the fuck, right? Ride the wave, baby, ride the wave.

So check out those links. Just do it after you’ve had your WTHWI? dose for the day. You’re allowed to rub those eyeballs all over somebody else’s blog, but you’re coming here first, dammit. I’m an open-minded son of a bitch, but I’m not gonna be the one getting sloppy seconds, you got that? Who’s yo’ daddy?

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