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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!

In a State of Uncertainty (And Anticipated Bureaucracy)

An Equal Opportunity Annoyer (EOA).

Ay, chihuahua.

I’ve been writing for two days straight. This whole ‘get the 100 Things About Me done before 100 blog posts‘ is tough shit, man! I’m usin’ up ideas left and right, and my typing is going all to shit. I’m making progress — I’m up to 53 at last count, with eight days to go, but that means I still have 48 more to do in those same eight days. Plus eight ‘real’ posts here on the main page. Shit. Whose dumbass idea was this, anyway?

Okay, enough bitching. I need a topic for the day. A new topic, that is. I had a topic earlier, but I decided not to burden you with it. See, I’m not much on the personal attacks around here. Oh, sure, I talk about morons and stupid drivers and have probably put down most of humanity at one point or another. But those are all nameless, faceless assholes. The topic I came up with earlier was to bust a real someone’s ass. Name names, and all that. Someone who really used to piss me off, and who’s now closer to the public eye. And still seems to be the same smarmy dickwipe he was when I knew him, or at least knew of him and had to deal with his decisions. Fucker.

But it’s not really that kind of blog. I like to keep it light, and entertaining where possible, and so I’m gonna just let this guy go. He’d never read this, anyway, and you folks don’t care about him, or the new asshole I’m interested in ripping him. So I’ll just take a deep breath… and move on to something else. Whew. That’s better.

(Okay, that all seems pointless now. I should just erase those last couple of paragraphs, or tell you more. But I don’t want to get into the whole mess, so I’ll just tell you this: the dickwipe in question was the president of my college when I was there. I started thinking about him while writing this post, and describing how I’d razz him in the school paper. I got all worked up about him (again), and felt like tearing into him again. But it’s not worth my time. If you’re interested, though, his name is Michael Adams. He used his fundraising and schmoozing skills at my school to springboard his way to Georgia, where he’s had a very checkered six year tenure. Very checkered, indeed. And now more people think he’s an asshole. And irresponsible. And soulless. And take that, and that, and that! Prickwipe jackass!

Okay, now I really do feel better. Just remember, folks — I berated him first.

(Unless someone at Pepperdine beat me to him.) Now let’s move on to happier pastures, shall we?)

So, what to talk about? I’ve got to admit, I really didn’t do much at all today. This is how a holiday Monday is supposed to work — I left the house for about three minutes today, and only because the dog looked like she was gonna explode and spew crap all over the walls. Apart from that little trek, I wrote (a lot), and watched TV, and ate, and grilled jerk chicken (hey, I left the house for that, too, technically — go me!), ate that, and played an oddly fascinating and addictive online video game. Here, I’ll give you the link… where the hell was that? Oh, right, on J’s Notes. And here’s the game — Defend Your Castle.

(Warning: may cause violent antisocial behavior in…um, well, just about anybody, I would think.)

Well, clearly my activities today aren’t gonna give me any fodder for discussion. What else we got?

I guess I’ll see tomorrow whether the state Department of Employment and Training will continue sending me my unemployment insurance pittance. A couple of weeks ago, they sent a letter saying that I needed to attend some ‘career counselling’ seminar, or they’d cut my benefits off. They left me a loophole, though, saying that if I was already working with another career counselor, I could work something out. So I called up the DET (and wrote about the nightmare that ensued) to find out what I needed to do. I had my counselor fax a letter to them, as ordered, and have since heard… nothing. Radio silence from our friends in the local gubment.

Which could be a good sign, but I have my doubts. I’m fully expecting to log in to claim benefits tomorrow and be summarily escorted from the web site by big burly guards with guns and radio earplugs. This tawdry ‘high life’ I’ve been living lately may come crashing to a horrible, grinding halt. Oh, the horror. However shall I survive?

(Actually, given the paltry pennies the state’s willing to pony up, having the cash flow shut off really wouldn’t make that big a difference. I might have to start buying store-brand orange juice again, and peanuts still in the shell, but that’s about it. I shouldn’t have to resort to more drastic measures, like buying mustard by the fifty-gallon drum or anything like that. Unless I want to, of course. And now that I think about it, that much mustard could really come in handy for an awful lot of things.

For one thing, I can use it to touch up the yellow paint in the living room. Ooh, and Hallowe’en is coming up — I’ve always wanted to go Trick or Treating as a canary.

(Of course, I’ve always wanted to be mustarded and feathered, too, but that’s for an entirely different reason.) Hey, and if it’s brown mustard, I can go as Mr. Hankey instead. ‘Hiiiiii-de-hooo!‘ Oh, and mustard is the best for pranks. You can dab a little on your ears, like it’s dripping out, and pretend you can’t hear anyone. Or hold it in your hand and cough into it, then show it to people. That’s always cool. But my favorite is to dump a few ounces in the toilet and ‘forget’ to flush. Then you just wait for the next person to come along. ‘Aaughh! What the hell have you been drinkin’, boy?‘ Yeah, that’s the best. Good times, good times.)

Anyway, where was I? Oh, my disappearing benefits. Of course.

So, we’ll find out tomorrow whether the man’s gonna hold me down, or whether the faxed letter did the trick. I’m sure I’m screwed, though. They’ll come up with some shit — the letter wasn’t signed by a notary, or sent in triplicate, or delivered in a sheepskin envelope. They’re always coming up with something to beat the little guy down. I just have to hope I’m too small a fish for them to bother jerking around. Otherwise, I can kiss that $12.41 a week goodbye. *sniff* Piddly-ass government susbidy, we hardly knew ye!

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  #11: My Spelling Bee
  #35: My Spring Break
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