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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!

Is Your Pocket Ringing… Or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

Erk. That hurt.

I just got a phone call from my wife. It made me hungry for ice cream.

(That’s not the painful part. That’s the random-association, short-circuited brain part. Just accept that part, and let’s move on. There’s nothing anyone can do about it now.)

Anyway, ice cream and phone calls. I hung up with my wife just as I was getting the ice cream out of the fridge. I was downstairs in the kitchen, but using the cordless phone from upstairs, so I wanted to be sure to remember to take it with me. But — as any ex-ice cream shoppe employee worth his rock salt knows — the proper scooping technique requires two hands.

(Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve seen even an improper technique that requires only one hand. Not one that also includes a little metal scooper, anyway. I suppose just glomming into the thing with your fingers counts as scooping, and you can do that with one hand, though, so it’s possible.

But at that point, why bother with a hand at all? If I’m in that kind of a hurry, I just cut out the middle man, stick my head in there, and lick around the sides. Sure, I get some on my nose, but it’s quick, tasty, and a bucketful of fun, too!

Um…I’m sorry. I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but somewhere in there, I stopped thinking about ice cream, and started thinking about, um, foreplay. I apologize. I wish I could at least pinpoint the exact moment when it happened, so I could tell you which bits you can safely read without getting the willies.

Sadly, though, I’m not quite sure. Looking back, it all sounds dirty to me now. So sorry.)

All right, back to the damned point. I couldn’t hold the phone and scoop ice cream at the same time, but I wanted to remember to tke the phone with me when I came back upstairs. So, I slipped the phone into my pocket. That’s right front pocket, for those of you scoring at home. (Or even if you’re by yourself… man, that never gets old. Thank you, Keith Olberman!)

Anyway, phone in pocket, I scooped out the ice cream, plopped it in a mug, and plodded back upstairs. Somewhere along the way, again thanks to my malfunctioning brain, I forgot that I had a massive eight-inch rod of plastic in my pants.

(Oh, go ahead. Please. You can have that one — it’s just too easy. Go on, take your best shot.)

So, I set the ice cream down, pulled my desk chair out, and plopped into it… in the process, ramming the phone antenna deep into that tender fleshy tummy region between the naughty bits and the waistline.

(I’m sure it has a name — it’s not quite the ‘nether region’ proper, but maybe it’s the ‘near-nethers’ or something. The ‘groin porch’? ‘Gateway to the genitalia’?

I dunno. I’m just entertaining myself here. You can tell me when to stop…

The ‘babymaker foyer’, maybe? Ooh, ooh, how about the ‘north forty on the ol’ pube ranch’?

Yeah. You’re probably right. That’s just about enough, huh? Okay. Moving on.)

Anyway, whatever it’s called, let me assure you that jamming a three-inch plastic antenna deep into it hurts like hell. (Even if that sentence is starting to sound like foreplay again. Yeeks!)

I think I may have busted an intestine, or squooshed my pancreas, or something. Another coupld of inches to the right, and I could have taken out my own appendix with the thing, kebab-style. A pleasant experience, it was not.

So now, now that you feel my pain and I have your sympathy, I have to ask:

Any boo-boo kissers out there in the crowd today? ‘Cause I could use a little peck or two to make this feel better. It still hurts like a bitch. Who’s gonna help me out over here? I promise I won’t think of foreplay. Really. Not much, anyway — just keep the ice cream scoop and the phone antenna away from me, and I’m sure I can keep it clean. Mainly.

Aw, c’mon — nobody? Look, I’m just asking for a boo-boo kiss on the groin porch here. (Yeah — isn’t that your favorite one, too?) Anyone?

Nothing? I’m not even asking for any tongue over here, or anything. Come on, it really hurts! Where’s everybody goin’? Hey! Hello?

Rats. Looks like I’m gonna have to smear peanut butter on it, and find the dog. Again. You people are no fricking help, you know that?

Permalink  |  7 Comments

7 Responses to “Is Your Pocket Ringing… Or Are You Just Happy to See Me?”

  1. Jeff A says:

    damn dude, I was reading and having a great time and thinking up so many cool things to say and then I got to the boo boo kissing part and let out an audible yelp and my mind in it’s panic’d state emptied out everything and said “this is a mental image we could do without”

  2. HR Lady says:

    *Shaking head*: Sadly, somehow I knew you’d be resorting to that poor tortured doggie.

  3. Busy Mom says:

    If you ask me, the cat should have to take a turn. Poor doggie.

  4. Jon says:


    right on the porch?

    I’m afraid I’ll have to forgo the boo-boo kissing, it’s probably illegal, and frankly, I’m scared.

  5. susan says:

    i’m sending a virtual boo-boo kiss through the atmosphere – your reward for making me laugh, often. when you catch it, place it anywhere that needs it. thanks for my interview email – i’m working on my answers and will post them as soon as i’m happy with them.

  6. Jenn says:

    “Boo-Boo Kissing on the Groin Porch”

    Isn’t that a country song? I am sure I heard George Strait singing that one at the rodeo last year. Hmmm, don’t remember anything about a dog though. Maybe that is the backwoods version.

  7. Jaded Angel says:

    I’m pretty sure I don’t know you nearly well enough to be kissing anything let alone your groin porch. Hope the puppy likes the PB, just make sure to keep things under control, last thing any dog needs to get a hairball from licking the “north forty on the ol’ pube ranch”!

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