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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I have a dog. Because I have a dog, I know a lot about what happens to inedible surface parts of pigs and cows after they die. A lot. Like, way more than anyone not named ‘Heifery Dahmer‘ or ‘Hamibal Lechter’ ever should.
If you also have a dog, then you probably understand why this is. And you’re in the same sick twisted boat. If you don’t have a dog, then no amount of verbal jockeying will ever adequately convey what it’s like to browse your local pet food store for dog treats. Imagine Charlotte’s Web meets Saw or the Chik-Fil-A cows run through the wood chipper in Fargo, and you get a glimmer. Except it’s much, much worse. For the animals, at least.
“Back in the day, who knows? Maybe prehistoric wild boars fought for their lives against packs of vicious sabertooth poodles.”
First, there’s the astonishing variety of dismembered porker parts and paraphernalia presented for purchase. Should you be so inclined, you can feed your dog toughened strips of pig skin. This is not so shocking, of course — we have footballs and pork rinds and ‘Chicken’ McNuggets made from the very same material.
But the porcine carnage doesn’t stop there. You can also buy lopped-off pig ears — very tasty for the terrier crowd, apparently. Pig hooves, as well, and even pig snouts. I shit you not, cat fanciers and ‘goldficcionados’ — us dog owners pay people to kill a pig, cut its holy effing dead face off, and then we feed it to our pet. Whiskers and all.
Yeah. So you come back to me and argue cats are better than dogs when your tabby’s lunching on pork boogers. Until then, you keep it in the litter box, weirdo.
Never mind that pigs and dogs — so far as I know — are not natural enemies in the wild. Or in domestication. Maybe in the Thunderdome, but otherwise, not so much. Pigs don’t have the fangs to bother dogs too much, and dogs would have a pretty hard time taking down a two-hundred pound lump of bacon. My dog would, anyway. She’d be happy to lick a hoof for a while, and then curl up and pee in the slop trough. My mutt’s more what you’d call a ‘head gamer’ than a killer.
Back in the day, who knows? Maybe prehistoric wild boars fought for their lives against packs of vicious sabertooth poodles. But in modern times, the only pig most dogs get comes in a shrink-wrapped package, and from some cured carcass that was likely factory killed, maimed, dismembered and lightly salted to taste. And there’s a hell of a lot of it.
But not as much as cow.
They use a lot of unspeakable beef parts, too. Ears, occasionally. Bits of tail. ‘Knuckles’, which are in actually some joint that I don’t want to know where it comes from, what it bends, or who stuck their hands in there to rip it off the body. And, of course, bully sticks, aka cow weiner.
(That’s Longhorn dong. Holstein holster holders. Shetland schlong. The Guernsey girth. Angus wangus. Jersey junk.
Don’t make me keep going. I’ll do it.)
But the majority of cow in your average puppy treatery will be in the form of rawhide — treated strips of dead moo skin, ready for snarfing up and scarfing down by hounds from coast to coast. You might think that delicious leathery near-steak treats would be just the thing for dogs, unadulterated in their natural beefy state.
You would be mostly incorrect.
Because while you can certainly find the odd bag of simple peeled-off bull hide, most of the product is rejiggered in some way to add additional flavor. My pooch’s favorite, for instance, is something called ‘Free Range Peanut Butter Flavor’.
I don’t know how they get the peanuts to ‘range’, exactly. Maybe a strong breeze or fan of some kind. Or probably the name is a play on words on another flavor by the same brand: ‘Free Range Chicken Flavor’.
I’m happy the chickens that were squeezed for their flavor juices were allowed to roam free before their nasty fate became my dog’s stinky treat. But the bag doesn’t say shit about the poor cow who just got her back hacked with an industrial cheese grater to make it happen. Even the peanuts have a better life than that.
These skin foods come in all sorts of sizes, shapes, colors and flavors. I knew this. But what I didn’t know — until the store recently ran out of ‘free range peanuts’ to make my mutt’s favorite, that is — is that there’s a purportedly useful kind of rawhide treat, as well. There, on the shelf next to the usual nightmares, was a row of bags proudly proclaiming:
‘BREATH FRESHENING RAWHIDE GOODIES‘
‘Cleans their teeth and improves breath while they chew — guaranteed!‘
I figured what the hell. They’re out of her favorite. I’ve seen her eat poop. And these are still made from delicious murdered beef creatures. If I can bring a little Listerine action into that dog’s maw, I’ll have done the world a solid. So I bought a bag.
The good news — the dog loves them. So far as I can tell, she knows no difference from these Crest-covered cowhickeys and her usual Skippy-ized beef parts. The bad news?
They STINK.
Holy god, I thought the plain ones reeked. The peanut butter ones, at least smell like peanuts a little. The chickeny ones, also stenchy. But the ‘breath fresheners’? A hundred times worse. Like they rubbed the cow against a rotting skunk before they skinned it, and then soaked it in turpentine. I can barely open the bag without fainting.
And did I mention? The dog loves them.
In a sense, I suppose they’re working. Anything I might have smelled on the mutt’s breath before these monstrosities is but a distant memory — replaced by the insistent, gloomy funk of whatever they treated these pukeskins with. They ‘freshen’ breath in much the same way 17th century perfume ‘cleaned’ filthy courtiers — by masking the repulsive odor with something infinitely more overpowering.
The worst part is, this bag is huge. It’s the only size they had. We’ve been shoving these things down the dog’s throat for three weeks, and there’s still half the pile left. She’s going to come out of this with the cleanest canine canines on the planet, or we’ll be gassed out onto the street before we’re done. I never thought I’d long for peanut-slathered cow skins. But I do. For the love of the Toothopolis and the Cavity Creeps, I do.
Permalink | No CommentsMy parents are coming to visit this weekend. We have a guest room in the condo, but it can get pretty warm — especially in the bathing-in-solar-flares weather we’ve been having lately. So I was only mildly surprised when a package arrived this weekend and my wife informed me it contained an air mattress.
‘Aw, that was sweet of you,‘ I said. ‘But do you think they’ll be comfortable on it?‘
‘Oh, it’s not for them.‘
Poop. Stupid solar flares.
So we unpacked it and had a gander at what might be our sleeping balloon for a few days this weekend. If push comes to sweat, we’ll give the ‘rents our mostly-cool room, and the missus and I will camp out under the stars. By which I mean the industrial-strength ceiling fan in the living room. I hope there’s s’mores. Or at least good Archer episodes.
Meanwhile, we had to decipher how this big zeppelin pillow worked. It came with an air pump — and thank goodness, because while I’m obviously full of nonsense, I usually keep my damned fool mouth shut about it. And I don’t know how long it would take to type four thousand cubic inches of hot air, but I know I don’t want to find out. I’ll leave that exercise to the political bloggers.
“I made the requisite ‘double nozzle’-related jokes, and an hour and a half later, we proceeded to try inflating the thing.”
So we rolled out the mattress and had a look. There were two places for the pump to attach, and two attachments on the pump that seemed to fit. I made the requisite ‘double nozzle’-related jokes, and an hour and a half later, we proceeded to try inflating the thing. The filling went just fine. I’m sure the neighbors wondered what we were doing running a lawnmower in our TV room at ten thirty at night — because that pump is loud — but otherwise, we were soon treated to a bouncy, puffy fully-blown mattress equivalent. We hopped on for a quick test-lie.
Now, you might think this is the place where the mattress sprung an explosive leak, dumping us to the ground and maybe shooting the pump off the end and through a window, or deflating like a kid’s balloon, sending us flapping through the room like a drunken flying carpet. But those things didn’t happen, of course. Real life isn’t quite so predictable.
(Plus, the thing is waiting until we need it for that shit. My money’s on Saturday morning, at about three o’clock. I can feel it scheming, as we speak.)
Instead, we scrambled on, lay our heads to rest, looked at each other and said:
‘Gah, this thing stinks.‘
And it does. In very much a ‘you are what you’re made of’ kind of way, it reeks of rubber or plastic or whatever petroleum-firing byproduct was used to construct it. It’s not a strong smell — until you put your face on it, as though you were, oh I don’t know, sleeping. Then it smells like you’re lying on a new garden hose. Or an enormous condom.
(Which makes me very happy we decided not to get one that was pre-owned. Rationally, I could tell myself that I’m not trying to get shuteye on top of someone else’s used Trojan. Instinctively, I think I’d wind up sleeping in the bathtub.
At least I know what’s gone on in there.)
To be fair, the box didn’t make any claims that it would be ‘like sleeping on a cloud’. But it didn’t have a huge warning sticker saying it was ‘like sleeping on a Whoopie cushion’, either. Where are the FDA regulations when you really need them, eh?
We’re hopeful that the odor will subside by the time we actually need to sleep on this thing. Putting sheets on it will help. Bathing it in Febreze is another option. As is sleeping with oversized binder clips on our noses. Mostly, I’m praying for rain and a cold air front, so we can stash this smelly thing in the basement and sleep on a box spring and mattress propped above the floor — the way that our lord and savior Joe Sealy-Posturpedic intended.
But I’m keeping the pump, and putting it in our own bed. Loud double-nozzled hot-air action in the bedroom is gold, Jerry! Gold!
Permalink | No CommentsI mentioned — and proved, frankly — in my last post that my ImprovBoston sketch class assignment to write a ‘strong woman character’ didn’t go exactly as planned.
So I took another shot at writing a sketch featuring a female character. This time, one without the Bubonic Plague, if at all possible.
I managed that. But I did put her in a trailer park. Susan B. Anthony will no doubt be pantsing me when I make it to hell.
Meanwhile, here’s the ‘other’ sketch. Also with a woman (though that wasn’t really the point any more; I know when I’m licked). And also featuring a parody of a television show that I am — or probably should be, at least — mortified that people now know I watch.
I’m not sure this qualifies as ‘suffering for my art’, exactly. But mostly because it’s probably not ‘art’. The ‘suffering’ is all too real. Happy weekend, kids.
ROADSHOW SURPRISE
[Open on wide shot of Etta and Dirk, sitting at opposite sides of a small table. On the table are a number of small figurines and a shiny cup.
A few yards behind the table is a line of people waiting to have items appraised. The murmur of the crowd is plainly audible. Among the people shown are: a woman with an inflatable beach ball, a man with a rolled-up carpet with shoes sticking out the top, a family wheeling a shopping cart containing a sleeping old man, a young woman with a car fender, and an old man in bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirt leaning on a crude wooden crucifix.
Close shot of the table, with the crowd noise fading to background. On the right is Dirk, in dapper attire and with an air of expertise. On the left is Etta, an older woman wearing a rumpled ugly ‘grandma’ sweater. Etta speaks with a faint Southern twang.]
DIRK: Please, tell us what brings you to the Roadshow today.
ETTA: Well, last Saturday I was trawlin’ at the flea market — that real nice one over at the Big Lots; you been to that one?
[Dirk purses his lips and shakes his head ‘no’, with obvious disdain. Etta takes no notice.]
ETTA: Anyhow, I know most of the fellas who set up shop over there. But last week, there was this new stall — over by the Goodwill dumpster — and it had some real nice trinkets and such. So I wanted to come see if I got a good deal on anything.
DIRK: Electrifying, yes. Can you tell us what exactly you bought that day?
ETTA: Well, sure, hon. First off, they had this whole collection here of the cutest little tuxedo teddy bear figurines.
[Close shot on the figurines, which are ‘grandma kitschy’ and otherwise as she describes.]
ETTA: Here’s one driving a car, and one in a daisy patch, and here’s one figure skating, and… ooh, my favorite, look — they’re all playing cards. See how the poker chips are all little honeycombs?
“Congratulations, Etta. We’ve just made the world a slightly better place.”
DIRK: Quite. Tell me, Etta, what did you pay for this collection of… what must be a dozen or more figures?
ETTA: Well, they sold me the whole set for a hundred and six dollars. I whittled ’em down from one-forty, too. Took some doing, too, I’ll tell you.
DIRK: I see. Well, what you have here are several examples of a series of figures known as ‘Bear Formalities’. Are you perhaps familiar with this particular set?
ETTA: Naw. I just thought they’d look real adorable on my doodad shelf.
[Closeup on Dirk as he speaks. An overlay appears for a few seconds at the bottom of the screen, reading:
DIRK VAN HALVERSON
SOTHEBY’S, NEW YORK
As he continues, the camera pans across the various figurines.]
DIRK: Naturally, yes. Well, I can tell you something of the history of these ‘Bear Formalities’ pieces. The company that produces them is called the Heavy Mining and Petroleum Processing Concern of Greater Shandong Province, in mainland China. These figures are formed from contaminated mining slag and crude oil byproduct, using enormous molding robots running around the clock. They spit out thousands of these abominations every week, which are then trucked to their figurine headquarters, where underaged orphan workers spend eighteen-hour days shackled to easels in their art studio sweatshops. The company routinely bribes local officials to look the other way on human rights violations, smuggling charges and the presence of dangerous carcinogens in these, as you say, ‘real adorable’ little bears. They’re ubiquitous, cheaply made, morally reprehensible, _extremely_ unattractive and quite possibly poisonous to touch. These figurines are, simply put, an affront to God himself.
ETTA: Well, gosh. I had no idea. But… what are they worth?
[Dirk holds a stylus near one figure, as though he’s about to point out some feature.]
DIRK: May I?
ETTA: Sure.
[Dirk reaches around the collection and with his arm swipes the figures off the table and into a trash can.]
DIRK: I’m afraid their maximum value lies at the bottom of a landfill. Congratulations, Etta. We’ve just made the world a slightly better place. Now let’s talk about your other piece here, the cup. How did you come by this, exactly?
ETTA: Well, it was at that very same flea market booth. I’ve been needin’ some new cups, and this one had a red sticker, which meant it was just a dollar. So I threw it in with the… uh, the reprehensible bears there.
DIRK: One dollar. I see. And this was meant for your ‘doodad shelf’ as well?
ETTA: Oh, no, it’s much too pretty for that. I like the way those baubles and such on the side sparkle in the sunlight, so I keep it on the windowsill in the kitchen.
DIRK: And have you had it appraised before? Any idea at all of its value?
ETTA: Well… old June in the next trailer over said she’d give me a carton of Camels for it. But I said ‘no sale’.
DIRK: No?
ETTA: Nah, I like the way it shines. And anyway, I only smoke Lucky Strikes.
DIRK: Of course. Well, Etta, it would seem that your choice of cigarette is a ‘lucky strike’, indeed, as this cup is actually quite an interesting find.
[Close shot of the cup as Dirk describes it and points out features.]
DIRK: For starters, this piece is very old. As you can see, it’s covered in 24 karat gold leaf, but this was added many years after production. If we turn it up to see the bottom, like so, we find the original fired earthen surface. Given the technique here, the material, and the style and shape of the piece, we can date this cup’s manufacture to somewhere around the first century AD, give or take a few decades.
ETTA: Oooh.
DIRK: Oooh, indeed. Furthermore, it turns out that these — ahem, ‘baubles and such’ that you mention are, in fact, hand-carved emeralds, rubies and high-clarity diamonds. You see them here around the lip, here on the handle, and here, at the base.
ETTA: That’s good, right?
DIRK: Oh, we’re just warming up, dear. If we look back at the base, here we see a small firer’s mark. The name of the artist is lost, unfortunately, but these initials here are in Aramaic, which places our cup’s origins firmly in the Middle East region. And if we look carefully inside the rim, here near the red discount sticker, we can faintly make out an inscription made by an early owner, nearly faded over time. That inscription, when translated, reads, “PLEASE RETURN IF FOUND: PROPERTY OF JOSEPH OF ARAMITHEA”.
ETTA: Oh. D’you think he wants it back?
DIRK: Well… uh, no. Joseph was a Biblical figure in whose tomb Jesus was said to be buried. Legend has it that Joseph collected blood from Jesus in a cup — or ‘grail’, very much like this one. That cup became one of history’s most sacred artifacts. Men have searched for it for hundreds upon hundreds of years. It formed the basis of much of Arthurian legend. Etta, I’ve conferred with my colleagues and we believe that this cup — your cup — may indeed be The. Holy. Grail.
ETTA: Whoa. That’s good, right?
DIRK: Some would say so, yes. I’m not sure how to properly convey this, but — look. This stain here in the bottom of the cup. This could be the _actual_ blood of Jesus himself.
ETTA: Nah. That’s Sanka.
DIRK: Excuse me?
ETTA: Well, I’ve taken to drinking my morning coffee out of this mug. And… you know, sometimes the dishes don’t get done right away.
DIRK: I see. Sanka?
ETTA: Well, I put it through the dishwasher. But that stain just will _not_ come out.
DIRK: [Momentarily stunned] Bu… All right, Etta — just one other thing. Traditional legend holds that the receiver of the Grail must first prove him- or herself with a test of worth and honor. Was any such test administered when you purchased the cup?
ETTA: Well… now that you say it, I *did* find it odd that he insisted to know if I was a Sam’s Club member.
DIRK: Sam’s Club?
ETTA: Yep, had to show him my card and everything. He told me to be real careful with the cup. And not to use it in the microwave.
DIRK: [Again stunned] …
ETTA: Which I most certainly have *not*. So that’s good… right?
DIRK: [Recovering] Uh… sure. Yes. Don’t microwave the Grail. Okay. Well, Etta, it’s pretty clear that what you have here is indeed the Holy Grail of Biblical, popular and modern legend. It’s difficult, certainly, to estimate a dollar value for one of the most famous and priceless artifacts known to mankind. It’s not in what we’d call ‘mint’ condition, of course, and there’s been some restoration work done, which could affect the value. Maybe? We’ve sold several other goblets and chalices from this era, but nothing as elaborate or… um, sanctified as this. It’s a rough estimate at best, but I’d say at auction, this piece would probably… incite a holy war among nations and religious sects clamoring to possess it. You might serve humanity best, frankly, by changing your name, moving to a trailer far, far away, and continuing to enjoy your morning Sanka from it.
[Closeup of the Grail, with ‘treasure chest’ overlay underneath reading:
THE HOLY GRAIL:
$ INCITE A HOLY WAR
Wide shot of the table and people in line, paying little attention to Dirk and Etta. The usual crowd murmur is audible. Dirk scrutinizes the Grail while Etta digs in the trash can, recovering her figurines.]
Permalink | No CommentsAs promised yesterday, I have a sketch to share featuring a strong female character. Or a female character, anyway. She’s probably female. We’ll get to that.
Speaking of ‘strong female characters’, though, I’m squeally to report that the Mug of Woe collection, in which a story of mine plays a small part, is now available and ‘In Stock’ on Amazon! Many thanks and congratulations to ‘strong woman characters’ Jenn and Kyle for making it happen, and putting together a terrific crop of tales of mortifying embarrassment. Go have a look. You Woe you want to.
And speaking of ‘tales of mortifying embarrassment’, here’s that sketch I mentioned. Bon appetit.
GIRL MEETS GRUEL
“There are lots of ways to add ‘zing’ to your evening mush, without breaking into the tithing purse.”
[Scene opens on Marga, tending a huge kettle set over a crude stone fireplace. Marga is thirty-ish, barefoot, with shabby tattered clothes and matted hair. Her face and hands are grimy with soot and dust, and she’s missing numerous teeth. A few feet away is a waist-high block of roughly-cut wood, upon which sit crude wooden bowls and utensils.
Marga turns away from the pot to face front, waves with her stirring paddle, and speaks cheerfully.]
MARGA: Hello, and welcome to ‘Girl Meets Gruel’. I’m your host, Marga Kettleblack, and today I’ll show you how to spice up your boring old gruel with some fun and zesty alternatives. The pot’s nearly boiled, so let’s get grueling!
[As Marga walks to the butcher’s block, Igor, a shabbily-dressed hunchbacked man enters opposite, holding a small wooden spoon and plate. He bangs the spoon against the plate vaguely rhythmically as he speak-sings in a rough, raspy voice:]
IGOR: It’s Girl Meets Gruel!
Don’t be cruel!
Give Marga a whirl!
She’s the grueling girl!
[Igor shuffles offstage, wheezing painfully.]
MARGA: Ladies, we’ve all been there. It’s time for the daily meal. Your husband and surviving children have worked all day in the lord’s manor, and they’re starving. Maybe literally. And your plain watery gruel simply won’t satisfy their serf-sized hunger.
Not to worry. There are lots of ways to add ‘zing’ to your evening mush, without breaking into the tithing purse. Let’s have a look.
[Marga carries a large bowl back to the hearth.]
MARGA: Now, this kettle’s boiling nicely. It’s ready for our meager handful of smashed millet or groats.
[Marga takes a small handful of grain from the bowl and tosses it into the huge pot.]
MARGA: But why stop there? This is a perfect time to add a few secret ingredients, and infuse your dish with wild and exotic flavors. A healthy pinch of sand, for instance, will really bring out the earthiness of those grains, and provides a satisfying crunch. I’d recommend harvesting from roadsides or fallow fields. You generally want to avoid sand from stable areas or anywhere near your local tavern — those sands tend to be too bitter and pungent for this particular application.
[Marga tosses sand from the bowl into the pot.]
MARGA: If you have meat lovers in the family — and I know I do — you can yank it up a notch for them, too. Now, chances are you don’t have any actual meat, or money to buy meat, or animals of your own to kill for meat. You could try stealing one of the master’s, I suppose — if you want to feel the wrath of his lash, right, ladies? That’s not delicious! No, sir!
Instead, I suggest collecting loose hairs and fur from a species you find particularly delicious. [Marga pulls a large wad of matted hair from the bowl.] It could be pig, or cow or dog; horse fluff works quite nicely here, as well. You can often find tufts rolling near slopping troughs or kennels, or for choicer clumps, you might consider lying with a trapper or groomsman. This tasty morsel comes straight from the mane of one of the field oxen. Mmm-mmm, tangy.
[Marga drops the hair into the pot. Igor limps back onstage.]
IGOR: *ahem* *cough hack hrm* M’lady. An inquiry, if you please.
MARGA: Ah, is it viewer feedback time already? How delightful.
IGOR: Indeed, m’lady. One of th’ sotted wenches along th’ back wall has asked about rats.
MARGA: Rats?
IGOR: Precisely. Rats.
[As Marga speaks, Igor shuffles near the butcher’s block, wiping his nose on his sleeve.]
MARGA: Well, that’s a very important question. As we know, rats are all too prevalent around the kitchen. They bite, they spread filth, and they spoil and sully whatever larder supplies they touch.
And you’ll never get enough fur from one to taste in a pot this large. Instead, I recommend cutting the tail off any carcass you find, and steeping three to five of those together in a mug of slightly brackish water overnight to make a nice refreshing tea.
[Marga lifts a mug from the butcher’s block, with several stringy tail-like objects hanging over the edge. She hands it to Igor.]
MARGA: It’s bold and peppery, with just a hint of gamey vermin. Once you’ve tried this, I guarantee you’ll never go back to plain sand tea again. And the old village crone says it even wards off the Black Death. Why, Igor here’s been chipper as a jester since he’s started taking it.
[Igor takes a deep sip and tries to say ‘yuuuuum’ while violently coughing. He bows awkwardly to Marga and shuffles offstage with the mug. Marga takes a ladle and plate from the butcher’s block and heads for the kettle.]
MARGA: Now let’s see how that gruel is doing. Normally, you’d boil this for several more hours to marry the flavors and achieve the right consistency, but with the magic of cooking shows… voila!
[Marga scoops gruel from the kettle with her ladle and dumps it on the plate. The gruel is in all ways completely indistinguishable from plain water, except that it may have a clump of fur floating in it. Marga turns deadly serious for a moment as she considers what she just said.]
MARGA: It’s not actually magic. I swear on the Book, I am not a witch. Please don’t dunk me again.
[She cringes, waiting to see if she’ll be carried away by an angry mob. When she isn’t, she continues in her usual cheery manner.]
MARGA: …No? Fabulous! Well, all that’s left now is to garnish and serve. You can add a sprig of scrub grass or turnip leaf for color, sprinkle more sand or small field stones to taste, and serve with rat tea or a huge tankard of mead.
[While Marga delivers the next line, she produces an enormous gross tumbleweed of matted fur in all different colors and places it on the butcher’s block. She channels her inner ‘Marga Stewart’.]
MARGA: And for an extra festive touch, you can fashion your stock of cooking fur into a unique and tasteful centerpiece. It’s a gruel thing.
That’s all the time we have for today. Tune in tomorrow for our special “Oat-stravaganza”, where we explore all the ways to prepare your raw oats for gruel. Should you crack them or stomp them? Beat them or bite them or soften them with ox spittle? We’ll tell you next time, on ‘Girl Meets Gruel’.
[Marga waves goodbye to the audience with her stirring paddle, while Igor returns and bangs on a plate with his mug of rat tea, coughing and hacking instead of singing any jingle lyrics.]
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