About ThisAbout Me
Email Me
Bookmark
Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Baseball first. Over at Bugs & Cranks, the latest Atlanta goodies can be found in:
Of Braves and Benjamins — Sometimes, money matters.
Now on with the show.
It seems the porn spammers are getting creative.
I took a quick spin through my ‘Bulk Mail’ folder today, and saw a bunch of sex-peddling messages with subjects apparently designed to fool their way past the spam filters. The latest trick seems to be inserting a random letter into each word, so the subject lines look something like this:
Hgorny schoolxgirls gettisng hjot ankd wibld!!
Szteamy lesbqians in tyhe btathtub!!
Ekstelle Gettwy tankqed ancd toplgess — opnly $9.9d9!!!!
“I spent a good hour convinced some girl named Angelique wanted to show me her ‘pleurisy’.”
Now that’s very clever and all — but it doesn’t seem to be working. None of these cryptic little gems actually made it into my inbox. I had no idea my mail filters looked for words like ‘kinkjy’ and ‘fbunbags’, but I guess they do. Truly, these are heady times in which we live.
Even if some of these messages slipped through, I’m not sure they’d do anyone much good. All those extra letters make things hard to decipher. One of the subjects went on at some length about wild uninhibited ‘coled’ chicks. And I wondered:
‘Cold? Does it really matter if they’re cold? How is that relevant to their wildness or uninhibitionness? Is frostbite hot these days?‘
Eventually, I figured out they meant co-ed chicks, which made a lot more sense. But that didn’t make the other emails any clearer. I spent a good hour convinced some girl named Angelique wanted to show me her ‘pleurisy’.
(That didn’t sound like much fun, but I ponied up the twenty bucks to watch, anyway. Anything for the cuase of medical research.)
Even the legible messages are creepy, though. Read a couple of those subject lines aloud. I tried that, and it freaked me out. I felt like I was about to be bedded by Mushmouth. Not so hot. Terrifying? Yes. But hot? Not so much.
Now I’m waiting to see whether it’s a whole Fat Albert thing the spammers are trying out. I’m half expecting the next batch to feature pictures of women naked except for ‘Dumb Donald’ caps pulled over their faces with eyeholes cut out, or screaming in the message line:
‘HEY HEY HEY, IT’S TRAAAAAAAANS-SEXUALS!!‘
I’m pretty sure I should just stay out of my spam folder for a while. And stop watching old cartoon shows. Somewhere down the line, one or the other’s going to get me into trouble some day.
Permalink | 3 CommentsUp top, it’s another Braves communique over at Bugs & Cranks:
Braves, Marlins Play Series in Bizarro World — Whatever could go weird, did go weird.
And down bottom, it’s more of the usual silliness. Bon appetit.
Sometimes, being blind as a bat without corrective lenses can be a real pain in the ass. Or in this case, the forehead.
I was stumbling through my morning routine today when I reached the bit where I put in my contact lenses. The general idea is to glom one onto each sticky eyeball, then wrangle them around until they’re more or less covering the bits of my eyes that do the actual seeing.
(I realize for you non-contact wearers, that’s some pretty technical optometrical jargon. See what we have to live with every day?)
“I can’t remember all the curse words I know at eight-thirty in the morning, but washing a contact down the sink will conjure up an awful lot of them.”
Occasionally, the procedure doesn’t go as planned, for a variety of reasons. Sometimes — due to lack of humidity or proper sleep — my eyeballs aren’t quite as adhesive as usual, and the contacts fall right off. A little water on the lenses usually takes care of it. I suppose a dose of Elmer’s in the eyeball might work, too — luckily, we don’t keep the glue in the bathroom, or I’d have probably tried it by now.
Sometimes, there’s a bit of lint or fuzz or dog dander on the lens, so when it gets properly centered, flames of throbbing teary ouchies shoot up my optic nerve into my tender brain. Then I stand at the sink, blinking furiously and waving my little hands around like a six-year-old who’s just heard the ice cream truck. I don’t think any of that helps, per se, but after a few minutes the pain subsides enough to get the stupid thing off my eyeball and clean it up.
Then there’s the thing that happened this morning. Sometimes, I drop the lens. The dropping part is inevitable — at that time of the morning, we’re all a little clumsy and shaky and mostly hungover. And after twenty years of wearing — and fumbling — contacts, I’ve learned a lot about how to compensate for droppage and not lose the lens. For the past few years, I’ve been careful to hold and apply the lenses only over the sink, to avoid spending an hour on all fours in my underpants, sweeping my face back and forth three inches from the tiles of the bathroom floor.
(I do quite enough of that already, thank you. See ‘mostly hungover’ above.)
And for the past few months, I’ve also made sure that the trap on the sink is closed, so that when I do drop a lens, I don’t have to watch it blurrily circling the basin and *whoosh*-ing down the drain. I can’t remember all the curse words I know at eight-thirty in the morning, but washing a contact down the sink will conjure up an awful lot of them.
Still, these precautions don’t protect me from the most dangerous part of dropping a contact lens — the looking. My searches are largely confined to the sink these days, but when you can barely see past your eyelashes, that’s plenty enough room to get yourself into trouble.
Like this morning. I grabbed a lens, raised it a few inches towards my beady peepers, and lost it somewhere in the sinkal area. I leaned in close to peer at the porcelain, looking for any sign of the lens on the lam. Out of the corner of one eye, I thought I saw a glint, and quickly jabbed my head over and down to investigate.
And rammed the center of my forehead into my electric toothbrush. Hard.
I found the lens, and managed to finish getting ready. But do you know how hard it is to explain angry bristle bruises on your face to a set of coworkers? I do. At first, they were ready to call in the cops — they thought my wife had been beating me with a hairbrush or broom or something. Finally, I convinced them that I’d been in a pet store last night, and had an unfortunate run-in with a hormonal hedgehog.
I just hope they bought it. The last thing I need is for the cops coming around and punching holes in my cover story. I might have to make up a new tale about falling under a street sweeping machine. Or sell out my wife and say she really did beat me. Anything’s better than the truth. Jesus.
Permalink | 1 CommentBraves baseball fans will find the following tidbit over at Bugs & Cranks:
Smoltz-Glavine III: Sunday Showdown — a detailed in-game look at a battle between two probable Hall of Famers.
Fans of the show 24 may find the following piece entertaining.
And people who don’t like baseball or action T.V. shows are pretty much out of luck tonight. So sorry. I’ll try and do better next time.
The following takes place between 1:00 pm and 2:00 pm. Events occur in real time.
1:00:21 – Jack approaches the parking lot of a local supermarket. Sensing danger, he avoids the lot and double-parks across the street, leaving a handwritten sign reading ‘CTU: OFFICIAL BUSINESS’ on the windshield. He spots a man in an apron and khakis pushing shopping carts toward the store entrance — obviously a terrorist masquerading as an employee, planting a dirty bomb among the unsuspecting shoppers.
Jack zigzags between minivans, surprising the suspect from behind. With a well-placed blow from the butt of his pistol, Jack subdues the suspect and stashes him under a pickup for further questioning. The perimeter thus secured, Jack proceeds into the store.
1:08:05 – Inside, Jack takes stock of the situation. Seven cashiers. Sixteen people waiting in line. One very shifty character manning the Salvation Army basket near the door. All of them suspects. And a manager’s office near the express lane with the door closed — likely harboring more terrorists. Or hostages. Or a diabolically crafty double agent.
Jack pats down a shopping cart, checking for hidden explosives, contraband, or his habitually-kidnapped daughter. Finding none of these, he pulls the cart into the first aisle and begins to shop.
“Nearby, a scruffy young punk with thirteen items is trying to talk his way through the express lane. Probably a runner for a terrorist cell.”
1:11:53 – Jack warily enters the produce section. At the far end, a woman is holding an object to her ear and tapping it gently. Assuming her to be a rogue agent setting a bomb timer, Jack takes cover behind a Juicy Juice display and levels his pistol sights on her forehead.
“Ma’am, I’m with CTU. Put down the device.”
“What?”
“I’m a government agent. I will shoot you if I have to — now put down the device!”
“Oh god, don’t kill me! IT’S JUST A CANTELOUPE!!”
The melon falls to the floor, breaking into a squishy mess. Jack holsters his weapon and assures the woman that she’s performed a great service for national security. He tosses a head of iceberg lettuce into his cart and wheels away.
1:24:44 – Waiting in line at the meat counter, Jack notices a butcher with a large knife exchange words with a customer. He only catches the customer saying, “A half-pound of roast beef”. Clearly, it’s some sort of code; Jack needs answers from this ‘butcher’, and he needs them fast. Innocent lives are at stake.
Jack backs into the cereal aisle and guts several boxes of Mueslix to create a diversion. As the cleanup crew descends on the mess, he slips behind the meat counter and pushes the butcher into a back room.
“What does ‘a half-pound of roast beef’ mean? An airplane attack? A subway bomb? Thermonuclear devices in the freezer section? Talk!”
When the butcher claims innocence, Jack threatens to torture him. Nothing. Jack tortures him. Still nothing. Jack stops torturing him and delivers a long grim monologue about duty and sacrifice and the horrors of war. The butcher breaks immediately.
“I swear I don’t know anything — I’d tell you if I did — but please just stop talking! Have mercy!”
Satisfied, Jack leaves the butcher shackled to a ham slicer and reemerges into the store. The ‘customer’ is still at the counter, asking, “Hey, where the hell’s my roast beef?”
Jack considers more torture, possibly even a poignant soliloquy. He thinks better of it, picks up a lamb shank and two pounds of boiled shrimp, and stalks away.
1:46:30 – Shopping completed and the world saved several times over, Jack steps into a checkout line. Nearby, a scruffy young punk with thirteen items is trying to talk his way through the express lane. Probably a runner for a terrorist cell. Jack pays for his groceries and slips behind the troublemaker, holding a cocked pistol to the kid’s temple. The girl at the register shrieks in panic.
“Ma’am, I’m with CTU. Trust me. You have to trust me. Please, just trust me.”
With that, the punk faints and slides to the floor. The clerk stabs at an alarm, and sirens wail throughout the store. Seeing that the terrorists have gained the upper hand, Jack snags his cart of groceries and bolts for the car.
1:57:03 – As he clears the sliding doors, Jack dials CTU and requests an air strike on his current location. Putting his own life at risk is the only way to eliminate this terrorist threat — big surprise. Jack speeds across the parking lot, trailed by three security guards, the store manager, the checkout girl, the canteloupe lady, and the knife-wielding butcher.
When Jack reaches the curb, his cart’s electronic sensor activates, locking the wheels and sending Jack, his lettuce, a lamb shank, and several dozen boiled shrimp flying. Jack struggles to his knees as the mob from the store and three L.A.P.D. squad cars close in. Overhead, the whine of jet fighter engines grow louder.
1:59:58…
1:59:59…
2:00:00.
Permalink | 4 CommentsTwo bits about baseball over at Bugs & Cranks:
They’re Not Saying Moooooooo-vers — Are they cheering, or jeering? Just what are you hearing?
and(!):
Another 48 Hours — Two days could make a big difference in the N.L. Ease. Or not.
And now, a long bit about short pants. Enjoy.
With a long, damp, and chilly spring so far, today is the first day of the year I’ve been able to wear shorts. Usually, the short pants season starts much earlier for me; I like to get these pretty knees out in front of the public as often as possible. If you had patellas like mine, you’d understand. They’re breathtaking.
No, not really. The only way my knees could be considered ‘breathtaking’ is if I jammed one of them into someone’s solar plexus. Which I’m not likely to do, whether they’re covered in long pants or not. They may not be pretty, but they’re delicate — and they’re the only knees I have.
“I like to get these pretty knees out in front of the public as often as possible. If you had patellas like mine, you’d understand.”
At any rate, I usually get a chance to test-drive the old shorts earlier in the year. One sunny day in March, or a brief warm spell in February, and I’m all about shedding the blue jeans in favor of something shorter. That’s when I know summer is around the corner. Forget what the calendar says; when the sun is shining and the breeze is tickling your knees, it might as well be June.
Of course, the adventure every year is to see how the shorts are going to fit. This time, they seem to have shrunk a little in the drawer over the winter. Either that, or the swelling from my gimpy ankle has migrated to my waist temporarily.
(Yes, I know how ridiculous it sounds. But I’ve had these shorts for three years, and I’ve always fit into them before. So it can’t have anything to do with me. Or that enormous plate of pasta from the restaurant last night.
No, you’re crazy. Hush up, you.)
Plus, it’s not like I’m going to buy new pants — and certainly not in a larger size. I’ve finally hit the point where my age equals my pants size, and I’m not going back. When I hit the ‘big four-oh’ in a few years, it’ll be because there are candles on the cake, not a new milestone for the waistline. I don’t care if I have to grease up my ass with WD-40 and shoehorn it into a pair of Levi’s. The size number on that tag doesn’t change.
On the bright side, these shorts today aren’t that tight — just a little snug. I’m pretty sure no seams are going to pop, no stitches will give way, and nothing’s going to rip open and burst. For that matter, it looks like the pants will probably hold up, too. So that’ll be nice.
But just in case, I’d better get these shorts out into some sunshine, while it lasts. These New England spring days have a way of turning chilly and wet in a hurry. And nobody wants to see these pretty knees of mine all shrivelled up and pruny. I know I don’t.
Permalink | No CommentsBaseball things first. Before we get to today’s nonsense, wander on over to Bugs & Cranks for the latest Braves update:
Whither Willy? — It’s not about what you think it’s about. Really.
Now let’s rock.
The nasty weather this past weekend reminded me of the recent travel-related fiasco that led to airline company JetBlue concocting their Customer Bill of Rights. I suppose an angry gaggle of soggy and uncomfortable passengers will lead a company to some rather extreme public relations backpedalling.
“Plop your perky peepers on this piece of Pilgrim public relations propaganda.”
I also suppose it’s not the first time something like this has happened. And digging through a few musty old archives here in Olde New England, I found proof.
Or I made it up. Either way, here it is. Plop your perky peepers on this piece of Pilgrim public relations propaganda.:
The Mayflower Passenger Bill of Rights
The Mayflower Naval Expedition Company (‘the Company’) exists to provide superior service to all folk, righteous Puritan or otherwise, (‘the passengers’) seeking refuge in the New World. In order to reaffirm this commitment, we set forth this Bill of Rights for our brethren passengers. These rights will always be subject to the highest level of safety and security for our passengers and crew members, the will of the Almighty Lord permitting.
INFORMATION
The Company will notify passengers of the following:
CANCELLATIONS
All passengers whose voyage with the Mayflower Company is cancelled will, at the passenger’s option, receive a full refund or reaccomodation on an alternate vessel at no extra charge or fare. If a voyage is cancelled due to inclement weather, severe leakage, or the will of Almighty God, the Company will provide the passenger with a voucher for future travel in a dank cubbyhole beneath the leaky rafters of the next available seaworthy vessel.
DEPARTURE DELAYS
OVERBOOKINGS
The Mayflower Company routinely and severely overbooks its voyages. Passengers will endure the cramped and filthy conditions on their voyage to religious freedom without complaint, or passengers will be tied to the mast and lashed.
It is the Company’s position that any inconvenience, illness, or untimely demise caused by these inhuman conditions are the preordained will of God; the Company takes no responsibility for these Judgements of the Lord against your soul, but assures each of its passengers that we’re really rooting for you to survive the trip.
GROUND DELAYS
For passengers who experience a delay in disembarking for more than 6 weeks after sighting land, the Company will take necessary action to clear the shore of wild beasts, hostile natives, and Satan’s demons so that passengers may disembark. The Company will also provide passengers experiencing a delay with bread and beer, access to Bibles, and, as necessary, leeches and bloodletting treatments.
The Mayflower Naval Expedition Company enters the above sacred covenant with its Puritan and heathen passengers alike; the Company shall abide by these conventions at all times, excepting where they interfere with prayer time, the holy Sabbath, or the whims of Almighty God. Passengers are encouraged to relax and sleep through as much of the journey as possible; you’ll need to be hardy and well-rested on arrival, where brutal winters and accusations of witchcraft and heresy await any survivors. Welcome aboard.
Permalink | 2 Comments
![[Subscribe]](/blog/images/subscribe.png)
