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And Baby, You Should See My ‘Ham and Eggs’

Before I get to whatever the hell I end up pulling out of my ass tonight: Was I the only one who saw Eric Allen on ESPN News this afternoon talking about some team ‘matriculating the ball down the field‘? I’m not making this up. I mean, I know this guy’s an ex-player and all, but please — ‘matriculating’? Where the hell did that come from? Next he’ll be out there sponsoring petitions to keep people from masticating in public. Goober.

(And if you didn’t get that last bit, it’s cool. I got no beef with you — just don’t dress up in a suit and become a commentator on a national television channel. That’s all. No good can come from that.)

Okay, so what other trouble can we get into? Ooh, I know — I can tell you something I forgot about when I recently talked about how damned old I am. That’ll be nifty.

So, realizing that I’m a decrepit old geezer with one ass-cheek in the rocking chair has gotten me thinking — when the inevitable happens soon, and I finally wheeze my last breath, how do I want to be remembered? I’ve given this some careful consideration, and I’m not quite sure I have an answer yet.

First, I thought I might like to be remembered as having a ‘heart of gold‘. That sounds nice enough, right? It vaguely suggests philanthropy, or charity work, or being nice to children and old people — basically a lot of things that I’m terribly good at getting around to.

(Hey, I never said I was trying to figure out how I deserve to be remembered, dammit. This is one of those ‘glass half-full’ exercises, all right? Don’t be a parade-pisser.)

Anyway, after a while, it struck me that the whole ‘heart of gold’ thing really isn’t such a good deal. Think about it — you never hear people using that phrase to describe someone who you’d expect to have a ‘heart of gold’, do you? It’s never the ‘children’s hospital nurse with a heart of gold’ or the ‘elderly missionary nun with a heart of gold’.

No, the only time you actually hear ‘heart of gold’ used is when it’s actually a surprise — so you end up getting the ‘mafia hit man with a heart of gold’, or the ‘inner city crack junkie with a heart of gold’, or the ‘soulless, smelly, foul-mouthed, money-grubbing, grandmother-mooning ambulance-chasing pedophile trial attorney… with a heart of gold’. So, to actually be remembered that way, you’ve apparently got to basically be some sort of perverted, ruthless asshole, or it doesn’t work. And like I said, this is supposed to be an upbeat sort of thing here. So ‘heart of gold’ is out. Cheesy stupid phrase, anyway.

So then I thought I might like to be known as a ‘peacemaker‘. I’m not even quite sure what the hell that means — I think I heard it on the Simpsons once: ‘Remember me as a peacemaker.‘ It’s probably a famous quote from some guy I’ve never heard of who’s now long dead and gone. And, as far as I can tell, he’s not remembered as a peacemaker — from my perspective, he’s not remembered at all. I certainly don’t know who the hell it was. And if I did, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t remember him as a ‘peacemaker’; I’d most likely think of him as ‘the guy who said, ‘Remember me as a peacemaker”. I’m ornery that way.

And then there’s the problem of what exactly I’d have to do to manage to get myself remembered as a peacemaker. I mean, jeez — solve the Middle East? Get those crazy Korea kids back together again? Get Red Sox Nation to extend the olive branch to the damned Yankees? That’s some tough shit, people. I got a full-time job here, plus this blog, and my standup gigs — and occasionally, I like to kick back and watch TV, or play a little Madden, you know? I don’t have time for this ‘peacemaker’ nonsense. Please.

So, I’m not sure quite how, exactly, I want people to think of me when I’m gone. I’ve kicked around some other ideas — to be remembered ‘fondly’ (that’s for grandmas), or remembered ‘as a pillar of the community’ (way too self-righteous for me), or finally, remembered ‘for his light and fluffy biscuits’.

So far, I’m leaning toward that last one. Of course, it has the rather obvious downside that I don’t actually know how to make biscuits, but that’s no big deal. Actually, it’s a plus — once people find out that I never cooked biscuits, they’ll simply have to take as some sort of vaguely sexual euphemistic anatomical reference. A reference to what, exactly, I’m not quite sure. Still — ‘light’? And ‘fluffy’? And as a bonus, ‘biscuits’? Oh, yeah — that’s a good thing. I’ll take that, any day of the week. And I don’t have to get near any of that ‘peacemaking’ bullshit to get it, either? I think we have a winner, baby.

So that’s it — if you want to do me a huge favor, you’ll read the nonsense on this site, and then you’ll go back to your daily routine, and sometime later, as you reflect on what you’ve seen here, you’ll think back and say to yourself, ‘Boy, that Charlie… he’s not perfect or anything, but damn, how about those light and fluffy biscuits of his! Mmm-mmmm!‘

And preferably, you’ll do it in public somewhere, so other people will hear about my superior biscuitage. Or biscuitalia. Or however it is you choose to describe my light, fluffery, biscuity goodness. And then they’ll tell two friends, and they’ll tell two friends, and so on, and so on, and so on… until the whole world will remember me for this weird, slightly creepy thing that I just made up and don’t quite know what it means. Sweeeeeet. This Internet shit is cool, man. Now go spread the word, like butter on my biscuits, people. My light, fluffy, oh-so-tasty biscuits.

(Yeah, I just added that last part in for fun. You don’t have to mention ‘tasty biscuits’, if you’re uncomfortable with that sort of thing. Just stick to the light biscuit / fluffy biscuit script, and that’s plenty enough. We’ll leave the debate as to the tastiness of my biscuits to posterity. Maybe I can even get my biscuits remembered as having ‘hearts of gold’. Bonus!)