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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
It seems much of the scientific community is up in arms over Pluto’s recent reclassification as a planet non gratis. There’s a hue and cry over the dubious benefits of the exclusion, the arbitrary criteria used, and the absence of notable luminaries in the astronomy field at the deciding vote.
Boo frigging hoo.
When I failed the President’s Fitness Test in sixth grade because I couldn’t do exactly eleven chin-ups, did anybody scream ‘arbitrary’ then? Did they debate the effects it might have on my self-esteem and body image later in life, not to mention my permanent record? Was there outrage that Jack LaLanne and Andre the Giant weren’t on the ‘chin-up’ subcommittee to set the mark at ten, which would have let me pass the stupid thing?
No. So Pluto can go suck a comet tail. My heart is as cold and dead and rocky as the surface of our new non-planet. Don’t come orbiting to me with your sob story, chumley.
However.
I do feel for the children in all of this. Won’t somebody think of the children?!
“Any solar system mnemonics ending in ‘pachyderms’, ‘popsicles’, or ‘poo’ — and what good mnemonic doesn’t end in ‘poo’, I ask you? — is out the celestial window.”
For years, schoolkids everywhere could use the same ‘memory helpers’ to remember the order of the planets, using their initials. And now a group of frumpy old telescope-gropers have taken it all away. Any solar system mnemonics ending in ‘pachyderms’, ‘popsicles’, or ‘poo’ — and what good mnemonic doesn’t end in ‘poo’, I ask you? — is out the celestial window.
That’s where I come in. I’m here to help, and accordingly, I’ve come up with a few new mnemonics you can use to remember our new set of planets. Without Pluto.
No, don’t thank me. I’m just trying to give back. I’m still making up for that last stupid chin-up, back in grade school. Let’s just move on, and look at a few mnemonics:
Milli Vanilli ‘Entertainment’ Makes Joe Satriani Upchuck Noisily
Most Vampires Enjoy Moo Juice Sucking, Unlike Nosferatu
Molestation Vote Expected; Michael Jackson Shuts Up Neverland
Muddy Vixens Entertain Men Jiggling Singles Under Noses
Militant Vietnamese’s Excellent Mary Jane Soothes United Nations
More Viewers Expect ‘Malfunction’; Janet Says, ‘Uh… No’
Maxed-out Visa Explained; Mexican Jailbait Stripper Uncovered Nethers
My Valet Enjoys Masturbation; Jetta Stains Unbelievably Nasty
Nice talk, eh? That last one will keep me awake at night, but I’ll never forget Mars-Jupiter-Saturn again; I’ll tell you that.
How about a few more, for those of you who like to start from the other end. You know who you are.:
Nosy Uncle Sam Just Might Eavesdrop Voice Mails
Nonstop Unfettered Sausage Jerking Might Eradicate Vision, Man!
Newman Unhands Seinfeld’s Junior Mints; Elaine Voraciously Munches
Naughty Uncensored Sex Jokes Make Embarassed Virgins Mad
‘NattyLight’ Usually Satisfies Jesus; Moses Expects Vodka Martinis
Nubile Uninhibited Swedes Jumpstart My Engines Very Much
News: Uptight Star Jones Messily Eats Van Morrison!
Never Underestimate Strip Joint’s Most Entertaining Virtue: Mammaries
Well, that was a hoot. I never knew astronomy could be so much fun. And just wait until these ‘helpers’ start showing up in kindergarten classes worldwide. That’s plenty enough reward for me.
Permalink | 2 CommentsBox #1894: On the Wings of Love (Photo)
Large, flightless fowl seeks same for companionship, spelling lessons, and possible nesting with the right bird. Must be open to sharing relationship with large, furry, and possibly imaginary third party. No fat chicks, please.
Box #1937: Let Me Serve You! (Photo)
Me: meek, submissive, into Robin, Mr. Smithers, and various other sidekicks and toadies. You: strong, dominating, not afraid to show me the discipline I crave. I’ll gofer you; will you go for me?
Box #1946: Don’t Let the Pointy Teeth Fool You (Photo)
I’m mysterious, continental, and I’ve been single for one… two… three… four… for too long, now. I don’t vant to suck your blood; I just want two to tango. One… two. Two. Can I count on you?
Box #1983: Lots of Me to Love (Photo)
“Give this big cuddly monster a try. OR I WILL EAT YOU!“
I’m a BBB (big, beastly, and buggy-eyed) monster looking for my soulmate snookums. I can sing, cook (usually not people), and most of my exes who survived the first date say I’m a great kisser. Give this big cuddly monster a try. OR I WILL EAT YOU!
Box #2018: I Wouldn’t Joke About Romance (Photo)
Straight-laced reserved patriotic sort seeks same for a lifetime of quiet dinners, conservative values, and sleeping in separate nests. Sense of humor and adventurous spirit not important; knowledge of arcane U.S. history trivia a plus. Must be okay with bald guys; only serious inquiries, please. Very serious.
Box #2052: I’ve Been Hurt Before (Photo)
Young, impressionable and cautious Romeo looking for new life partner. My ego was bruised in my last relationship — also, I was squished, poked, flung, crushed, and set on fire. Multiple times. Handle my heart with kid gloves, please. Meep.
Box #2056: Love, the Final Frontier (Photo)
Being a famous astronaut and doctor doesn’t leave much time for the ladies. But now I’m earthbound and my phaser’s set to ‘Love’. Let’s blast off on a new adventure together. No porkers, please.
Box #2120: Be My Snickerdoodle? (Photo)
Me no speak very well, but me shower you with kisses and macaroon crumbs forever. If black and white can get along in cookie, why not us? If we feel spark, me double-stuff your Oreo with love!
Box #2165: Bork! Bork! Bork! (Photo)
Bork buh bork bork bork bork? Buh bork! Borky bork bork bork, bork buh bork bork. Bork bah bork? Bork! No Norwegians, but would I bork a Bjork? You bork!
Box #2217: PRETTY GIRL!!@1 (Photo)
HELLO, PRETTY GIRL! ARE YOU A PRETTY GIRL? DON’T BE SCARED, PRETTY GIRL! CALL ME NOW — WE HAVE GOOD TIME. GOOD TIME WITH PRETTY GIRL! AAAAHHHH!!
Box #2239: Think You’re Miss Right? More Like ‘Miss Blight’! (Photo)
Discerning older gentleman seeks female with similar interests, which include… nothing. I enjoy nothing, no effort is ever good enough, and everything these days is pure crap. If you’re a crotchety old biddy with a bad attitude, give me a call and we’ll spend our golden years taunting idiots who think they have talent. Morons.
Box #2344: Your Wildest Dream Come True! (Photo)
Gorgeous, famous, and svelte — that’s right, svelte, you cretin! — starlet of stage and screen is willing to grace you with her presence… on a few conditions. You must shower moi with love, compliments and expensive gifts, and support moi in my many spectacularly successful ventures. Also, you must paint your entire body green and answer to the name ‘Kermie’. It’s a small price to pay to live in the shadow of my radiance. Why? BECAUSE I SAID SO, BUSTER!!
(Note: All image references are to the tremendously thorough and comprehensive Kermitage Muppet Show Character Guide. Check it out!)
Permalink | No CommentsAt a softball game last weekend (which miraculously wasn’t rained out), I slid into third base on a close throw from the outfield.
(I wasn’t expecting the throw to come to third, so I hadn’t prepared to slide as I lumbered toward the base. So it’s probably less accurate to say ‘I slid into third base’ than to say ‘I awkwardly fell to the ground at full sprint and rode on an asscheek boat into third base’. Just in case you’re scoring at home.)
I was rewarded for my troubles with a long, bright red ‘strawberry’ on my right undercarriage, just above where the legs of my shorts reach the thigh. In the days since I left bits of my ass on the infield, I’ve become reacquainted with the various painful stages of stupidity-induced backside abrasions. Which I’ve now decided to share with you. Don’t try and stop me; my mind’s made up.
Stage I: All the World’s an Ouchie
For the first three days post-skinning, there is no activity you can possibly perform involving your ass that won’t hurt.
(I’d like to retract that statement immediately, before the inevitable flood of smartass emails listing activities in which you could conceivably enroll your ouchied ass without discomfort. Because while such things might not cause your rear end any pain, they’re guaranteed to keep me awake at night. And not in a good way.)
Let me say this instead: for three days after an ill-advised slide, activities such as lying on your back, reaching for your wallet, running into furniture, or sitting will be very uncomfortable. If you’re considering doing ‘The Bump’ at this stage, you’d better have a high tolerance for pain or an assful of novocaine. And both wouldn’t hurt.
“If you’re considering doing ‘The Bump’ at this stage, you’d better have a high tolerance for pain or an assful of novocaine. And both wouldn’t hurt.”
The worst part about Stage I is that you know something like, say, sitting in a desk chair is going to hurt. But what choice do you have? None, that’s what choice. You’ve got work to do, and the work’s at the desk, so that’s where your ass has to park, butt boo-boo or no butt boo-boo. You just have to suck it up, sit gingerly, and think fluffy thoughts until you reach…
Stage II: You Again!
After a few days, you forget that you’ve scraped your sitter, and you may neglect to ‘turn the other cheek’. This is Nature’s way of letting you know that you’re a plodding slow dumbass, and should have stopped at second base.
(Note: Depending on how you developed your strawberry, Nature may be telling you something slightly different. Like, ‘Slip ‘n’ Slides need water to actually work, jackass‘ or ‘Maybe halfpipe skateboarding’s really not your bag, sport‘. Nature works in mysterious ways; your message may vary.)
This is the ‘gotcha!‘ stage, when your bum bum only hurts when you forget that it’s sore in the first place. So maybe you’re grocery shopping, pulling rock-hard burritos out of the frozen food aisle, and absent-mindedly *bump* the freezer door shut — sending a wave of skinless rump pain shooting through your nervous system and a package of skinless chicken breasts spilling out of your shopping cart.
(I’m not saying that happened to me, mind you. But I wouldn’t eat the cacciatore at our house for a couple of weeks, if you know what I mean.)
This ‘stealth stinger’ phase lasts for a few more days, until most of the posterior pain has subsided for good. This lands you in the even more insidious…
Stage III: What’re You Lookin’ At?
It’s a well-known fact that mostly-healed abrasion wounds tend to itch. Scraped knees, skinned elbows, you name it — there’s something about scabby skin that makes you want to scritch it.
If said wound is located on one’s hiney, then one finds one’s self in an unfortunate predicament. Spend the day with an itchy ass? Or scratch that moneymaker out in public where all can see and gawk?
Personally, I chose the latter. My moneymaker’s never earned me much cash, so I figured I had nothing to lose. Three days of scritching later, it still hasn’t generated any dough. But at least I’m walking without a hitch in my step any more. Which means I’ve careened right into…
Stage IV: History Repeating
If you’re like me, you never learn. Not from your mistakes, not from others’ mistakes, and not from those scary educational films they showed you in high school. So as soon as your injury heals enough to bother you no more, you’re going to go out and do it again.
My rear end’s feeling pretty good again these days. No pain, and I haven’t felt so much as a tickle back there since the weekend. And I’ve got another softball game on Thursday. Assuming the game’s not called on account of tornadoes or plagues of locusts, I’ll be back out there again, running willy-nilly around the bases and sliding like a crack-addled ostrich with a bad case of vertigo. I’m virtually guaranteed to come out of it with another boo-boo. Maybe this time I’ll take pictures. Multimedia is all the rage these days, right?
Permalink | 2 CommentsLast night, I went out with a friend to a bar, to watch the Red Sox play lose to the Yankees finish flushing their season down the toilet.
(Bitter? Pffffft. It’s like we’ve got a bullpen full of Bill Buckners out there. Don’t even get me started.)
“People like me are why we can’t have nice toilets, you know.”
The place in question is a pretty simple Irish pub nearby. The food’s not bad, the waitstaff’s friendly enough, they pour a good Guinness, and there are plenty of TVs in both bar rooms on which to watch a game.
(Or in this case, on which to peek at a game between your fingers because you can’t bear to look directly at the carnage. Didn’t I say not to get me started?)
At some point, I made my way to the rest room for the first trip of the night. The urinals were occupied, so I moved over to the stall to take care of business. Just as I’d unzipped and was preparing to let fly, I heard a voice directly behind me. A female voice, saying:
‘Well, Bob, that’s what he does best, now, isn’t it?‘
I’m not too proud to admit that I was shaken by this sudden outburst, for several reasons. First, I didn’t see a woman in the bathroom when I walked in. And there aren’t exactly hiding places in there where one might lie in wait for unsuspecting bathroom-seeking men. Unless she was hiding in the trash can or stuffed inside the paper towel dispenser, I don’t see how I could have missed her.
Secondly, she seemed to be just a few feet behind me, and to my left — away from the other men in the bathroom. That could only mean that she was talking about me, and how this is what I do best. That gave me pause.
I’ve never considered myself a champion whizzer. Proficient, sure. I almost never miss the bowl, and only rarely hit the ceiling. But to suggest that this is what I do best was troubling, to say the least. I always thought I was a good whistler, just for instance. And I can juggle. And saying I’m better at peeing than writing? Ouch, baby. Very ouch.
Chiefly, though, I was concerned about this ‘Bob’ fellow, and why he was so interested in the reports of what I do ‘best’. If this ‘Bob’ character wants to study men in the act of urination, there are plenty of YMCA whirlpools out there where he can conduct his research. Leave me and my tinkler the hell out of it.
Finally, of course, the situation clicked. I remembered that this bar has gone to the trouble to put televisions in the bathrooms, to make sure you don’t miss a minute of the action. The woman I heard was a baseball announcer, talking about some player doing what he does best. A pitcher getting a strikeout, or a batter getting a hit, or Johnny Damon getting his sideburns shaved off because he sold out to the Evil Empire.
(Dammit, look — you got me started!
There’s always next year. Grrrr.)
See, the bar’s trying to provide a ‘value-add’ service. Heaven forbid the game should turn on a play while you’re shaking twice and zipping up, so they’ve conveniently placed a TV in the rest room for you. Behind the stall. Away from the urinals. In the back of the room.
Clearly, they didn’t think this out all that well. Sure, if you were to sit in the stall, you’d have a fantastic view of the ballgame. That’s just peachy, assuming this is the sort of place where you’d take a seat on the toilet.
This is not the sort of place where you’d take a seat on the toilet. Not if you could possibly help it, anyway. There’s way too much foot traffic going through there constantly; you’d never feel comfortable. Not to mention the jackholes like me who forget the TV is on and startle during their number ones. People like me are why we can’t have nice toilets, you know.
So the placement is all wrong. To see the television from a urinal, you have to lean back and turn nearly all the way around. Hardly a position conducive to keeping your shoes dry during a bladder purge.
And for the person in the stall — at best, it’s like a radio broadcast of the game to pass the time. At worst, it’s a disembodied personal commentary on your bathroom skills, or lack thereof. If that announcer had instead said, ‘Ooh, looks like that one doesn’t have the distance, eh, Bob?‘, I might’ve broken down in tears. That would have been unfortunate. Because we all know, there’s no crying in bathroom.
Permalink | 2 CommentsThis morning, it rained just early enough, just long enough, and just hard enough to rain out our late-morning softball game. By the time the game was scheduled to start, the clouds had parted and the sun shone on a breezy, temperate New England summer day. This is at least our fifth rainout of the season, and the third in which brief, isolated showers have struck with pinpoint precision to wash us out. I have thus come to the only logical conclusion:
Our softball team is an affront to god.
“For every popup I hit, I’ll sacrifice a live chicken. If that seems to work, I may consider crafting voodoo dolls using hair pulled from the umpire’s back.”
The problem is, I’m not sure which god we’re offending. Who knew any deity was watching so closely, anyway? Or that supreme beings would get their robes in such a knot over poor fundamentals and anemic hitting? Shouldn’t these clowns be out judging mortals or bestowing enlightment or something? Did I miss the commandment about, ‘Thou shalt not miss the cutoff man on thy throws from right field‘?
Now we’ve just got to figure out how to appease whichever hostile holy spirit we’ve huffed up, so we can play some damned games. At this point, I’m guessing a commitment to solid defense and a trip to the batting cages isn’t going to cut it. We’re a little strapped for time this late in the season, so I’ve decided to cover as many bases as possible. Here’s the plan:
Our catcher will practice blocking balls in the dirt for an hour a day. Also, she’ll tithe ten percent of our team beer fund to the Catholics. No word yet on whether she’ll agree to wear the schoolgirl uniform.
Our pitcher will throw a simulated game on odd-numbered days. On even numbered days, he’ll meditate on the sound of one hand clapping and contemplate the oneness of his curveball with the rest of the universe.
Our first baseman will practice hitting the ball the other way, scooping throws out of the dirt, and following the ways of the Noble Eightfold Path. Also, he’s going to be a lot nicer to cows.
Our second baseman and shortstop will be working for three hours every morning on turning double plays. In the evenings, they’ll shave their heads and hand out flowers at the airport.
I play third base. I’m taking ground balls and working on my swing. For every popup I hit, I’ll sacrifice a live chicken. If that seems to work, I may consider crafting voodoo dolls using hair pulled from the umpire’s back.
Our corner outfielders will be shagging fly balls all afternoon, every day. When the bench coach / imam says it’s time, they’ll put down their rugs and pray. On our off week, they’ll take a jaunt to Mecca.
Our center fielder has it tough. She’s working on baserunning fundamentals, but she has to give ninety percent of everything she owns to Pat Robertson. Just in case.
The bench players will mostly run laps and work with the hitting coach / shaman, and work various other angles. We’ll have a guy wearing hemp and hugging trees, another sporting a ‘Zeus Kicks Ass!‘ T-shirt, and a third smoking blunts and braiding his hair in the parking lot. Which we can’t seem to keep him from doing anyway, so let’s hope it helps for once.
Also, if we can find a volcano, we’re strongly considering sacrificing our utility middle infielder into it. She’s no virgin — but hopefully, she’ll do.
Somewhere in that cauldron of religious fervor, we’ll hopefully get the gods back on our side and we’ll be able to play some softball. Of course, with our luck, it’s some lesser god we’ll never get to — or some punk bitch like Zuul — and we’ll be facing rainouts and hailstones and plagues of frogs on game days forever. Or at least until Armageddon of some kind or another. You think they have sandlots in the afterlife?
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