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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
In my kitchen, there’s a teapot. I don’t use it much for making tea, but still every morning it sings the teapot song most of us learned as children:
‘I’m a little teapot, short and stout.
Here is my handle; here is my spout.
When I get steamed up, hear me shout:
“Tip me over, and pour me out!”‘
This is, of course, annoying as hell. It’s six am, and I’m trying to sleep. Meanwhile, there’s a piece of crockery crooning in the kitchen at the asscrack of dawn, keeping me from my beauty rest. Many mornings, I’ve had half a mind to run down there with a hammer and put an end to that teapot’s whistling, once and for all.
“I could sense the tide turning. The cabinets sealed themselves shut, the food processor growled menacingly, and the stove glared at me with burners aglow.”
But I haven’t. The teapot was passed down to my wife from a great-aunt or something. I’d be sleeping in the car for weeks if I damaged it. And while it might be quieter out there, the sleeping’s not much better. You ever tried to nap with a gearshift in your privates? It’s no freaking picnic.
So, I tolerated the teapot. And to be fair, the song only lasts a few seconds, so it’s not such a burden. Once it’s over, the kitchen goes back to the peace and quiet it usually enjoys.
At least, it used to.
It seems the pot’s predawn piping was just the tip of the harmonizing iceberg. Now the other kitchen appliances have gotten into the act, and feel the need to serenade me when I come calling. Used to be, I could grab a beer from the fridge in peace. Yesterday, when I got near the thing, it belted out:
‘I’m a refrigerator; plain and white —
Freezer on the left, and chiller on the right.
You’ll never see my insides without a light;
Drainin’ your electric bill day and night!‘
Great. All I wanted was to relax with a nice brewski, and now I’m tense and twitchy about the utility bills. Thanks a boatload, Amana.
I thought maybe I’d make some dinner, to take my mind off things. Since the fridge was already yapping away, I grabbed a TV dinner from the freezer. As I walked over to nuke it, I heard:
‘I’m a microwave oven, cool and fun!
Inside me is a magnetron gun.
You haven’t repaired me since two-thousand-and-one,
So I’m filling your air with radiation!‘
I backed slowly away from the microwave, leaving the frozen dinner to thaw on the counter. Maybe the oven was holding a grudge over that fork I accidentally heated in there, after all. Suddenly, a nice sandwich seemed far safer. I made my way to where we keep the loaves of whole wheat.
‘I’m a filthy breadbox, made of wood;
You never clean me as well as you should.
I don’t know what that gunk is under my hood,
But it’s on your Wonder bread, and I bet it ain’t good.‘
Great. I’m being taunted by a breadbox. If that’s not ‘rock bottom’, I don’t want to be conscious when I get there. The mold on the bread’s not so bad, though — a little heat should burn that right off. Uh-oh…
‘I’m a toaster oven; never in use;
Now you waltz over here with moldy abuse.
Why, I oughta wiggle my power cord loose.
An electrical fire would cook your damned goose!‘
I could sense the tide turning. The cabinets sealed themselves shut, the food processor growled menacingly, and the stove glared at me with burners aglow. There was no one to turn to in my own kitchen, no friend to offer sustenance in my time of need. Except… my old pal, teapot. I knew his song already, and it had nothing to do with costing me money or offing me in my sleep. I snatched a handful of teabags from the thankfully-silent pantry and stuffed them in. Just as I placed the pot on the crackling stovetop, it sang out in a loud, clear voice:
‘I’m a little teapot, short and stout.‘
Ah, the old standby. That song has never sounded so sweet.
‘And you’re a big fat insensitive lout.‘
Uh oh. I don’t think I like where this is going.
‘Unless you want a snootful of steam from my spout,
You’ll get out of this kitchen, and stay the hell out!‘
Eh, screw it. Those bastards can have the kitchen, and warble till they choke. From now on, I’m sleeping with a pillow over my ears, and I’m eating at McDonald’s. That McCrap might McKill me, but at least it won’t sing to me first.
Permalink | 6 CommentsMy wife’s been a bit under the weather this week. It seems she’s picked up a ‘summer cold’, which has her coughing and sniffling despite the warm weather.
I’m all about the helping, so I went digging through the medicine cabinet, to see what we had left over from the last cold ‘n’ flu season. The picking were fairly slim; apparently, we assume that we’ll be fever- and phlegm-free for nine months out of the year. We’re not really into the ‘contigency planning’ concept around here.
(You should see our retirement fund. I’m not sure how we’re going to manage in our ‘golden years’ on three dollars and a Netflix coupon. I assume it’ll work itself out.)
“All I knew was that it didn’t obviously make people sleepy, agitated, cranky, woozy, or taste like the saliva of a large antlered mammal. So it went on the ‘maybe’ list.”
There were a few curative candidates in the medicine cabinet, but most were vetoed by my sniffly missus. There was a swig of NyQuil (‘It makes me groggy!‘), a couple of Contacs (‘Those keep me awake!‘), and the last dregs of a bottle of Robitussin (‘It tastes like minty moose spit!‘).
I didn’t have the heart to ask how she knows what minty moose spit tastes. Maybe when she’s feeling better. I don’t recall her going on any Canadian ‘wildlife toothbrushing’ excursions, so I’ll be interested to hear the story.
(It’s not like she’d have to go all the way to Canadia for that kind of thing, anyway. There are squirrels here in our own back yard with rancid acorn breath. She could at least start there, and work her way up.)
Anyway, most of the analgesics and expectorants — or is that anti-expectorants; I always get those confused — were rejected. That left one lonely bottle of scary purple Tylenol Cold something-or-other, gathering dust in the back of the cabinet. I can’t say how long it’s been there; maybe it came with the house when we bought it. Or even when it was built, a little over one hundred years ago. All I knew was that it didn’t obviously make people sleepy, agitated, cranky, woozy, or taste like the saliva of a large antlered mammal. So it went on the ‘maybe’ list.
I investigated further, and opened the bottle. There was a cap liner, which should — as the name implies — have come off with the cap. It didn’t. Instead, the cap liner was glommed onto the mouth of the bottle, clinging for dear liner life and keeping me from having a look at the contents.
I tried to pry the plastic liner up — when this happens on most bottles, you can *pop* the liner right back off. Not on this bottle, though. On this bottle — of medicine, formulated to cure people — the liner disintegrated like a Kleenex soaked in gasoline. Whatever’s in that bottle had, over time, degraded the plastic coating into a mushy, sticky lavender lump.
I showed the bottle to my wife, explaining that I feared for her safety should she ingest any of the contents. She grabbed it from my hand sniffed it, and took two deep gulps. She paused for a second — checking her own vital signs, I imagine — and explained:
‘If whatever’s in that bottle can do that, then it’ll sure as hell kill whatever damned bug I’ve got. G’night.‘
Here’s hoping her logic holds. Not to mention the lining of her stomach. Still, if she’s right, she should wake up tomorrow purple-tongued and fully cured. And if not… well, on the good side, if she’s swallowed any plastic in her life, she’ll finally have it digested. That’s something, right?
Permalink | 3 CommentsI play billiards in a weekly league, at a pool hall near Fenway Park. I’ve been playing there for a few months now, and I’ve come to realize something about myself:
I can’t beat the nice guys.
Luckily, there aren’t a lot of people in the league — or the world, for that matter — who are obviously, genuinely ‘nice’ at first glance. And I do okay against those other people. I don’t always win, but I hold my own. I think it has something to do with motivation. Let’s take a trip through the opponent list; I’ll show you what I mean.
“Hey, buddy — that encyclopedic knowledge is nice and all. But it can’t make that cut shot in the side pocket for you. How unfortunate.”
The old guy who thinks he invented the game: He expects to make every single shot, and leave the cue ball within millimeters of his intended target. I’m sure he’s played — or at least read about — all of the various pool, billiards, snooker, and bumper pool variations. It just makes it that much more satisfying if you manage to put him and his ego away. Hey, buddy — that encyclopedic knowledge is nice and all. But it can’t make that cut shot in the side pocket for you. How unfortunate.
The in-game trash talker: He doesn’t seem to think he’ll make every one of his shots; he apparently just doesn’t expect you to sink any of yours. His favorite digs are, ‘Unbelievable!‘ and ‘You lucky son of a bitch‘. The most fun you can have with a guy like this is to play along if you’re winning. I like to grin after every shot and say, ‘Garsh, I didn’t think that would actually go in!‘ One good asshole deserves another.
The shifty-eyed sandbagger: In our league, we have a rating system. the higher your rating, the more concessions you have to give to lower-rated opponents, to even the playing field. Players are periodically evaluated, and moved up or down depending on how their game compares to their current rating. One jackhole has used this to his advantage and gamed the system by finagling a low rating. In a normal game, he plays about as well as the rest of us — which means he usually wins, because of the chips stacked against his higher-rated foes. When the league people come around to watch, he’s a whole different player. He ‘can’t’ make a shot, forgets when it’s his turn, and half the time, he uses the wrong end of the cue stick. I’m surprised he doesn’t strap on a safety helmet and a pair of pot holders, and aim for an even lower rating. I think he knows he’d probably get a cue ball up the hoohah if he fleeces the rest of us any further.
The bored boyfriend: This guy’s obviously too busy chatting with his lady friend to pay attention to a silly game like pool. Never mind that he’s in a pool league, or that it’s been his turn for the last ten minutes, or that he can’t remember whether he’s solids or stripes. Thankfully, when he finally deigns to grace the table with his presence, he usually misses his shot. That’s good for everyone involved — he can go back to chatting, I can play the damned game again, and the guys on my team can go back to staring at his girlfriend’s ass, now that her man’s otherwise occupied again. Sweet.
The shark in sheep’s clothing: Ours is a co-ed league, and many of the women attending are quite good. Many of them are also quite attractive. (Or so my unmarried friends tell me.) So it stands to reason that there are a few ‘ladies of the cloth’ who are both. Some of these girls spend their off-league nights playing — and hustling — pool on the very same tables. There’s no shame in losing to them, because they’re very good — except if you do, you’ll feel like a sucker just taken for fifty bucks by a pretty smile and a two-rail bank shot. And I didn’t come to a pool hall to feel all dirty. Not that kind of dirty, anyway.
The guy with the fancy gear: Most of the people in our league bring their own cue stick. There’s nothing wrong with that. I personally don’t own my own cue, because I think there’s a level of proficiency you should reach before you lug personal and paid-for equipment to a sporting match. Most people in the league certainly rate bringing a cue stick. But this one guy goes way further; he’s got a whole ensemble going. The cue stick, the case, resin for his hand, his own chalk, a fancy shooting glove — I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got special ‘pool shoes’ and comes to league night wearing a cup. The best part is — he’s not really very good. I’ve seen people with sweaty palms and detox shakes beat him using the crooked house cue sticks. He’s not exactly getting what I’d call a ‘return’ on his investments. Maybe he’s wearing that cup too tight.
All of those people — many of whom are much better shooters than I — provide ample motivation during a match. I don’t ‘hate’ any of them, per se — but for a couple of hours every Tuesday night, I have no trouble pretending. And with a little luck, things may turn out in my favor.
Then there’s: The nice guy.
I hate playing the nice guy. His angle, his strategy, his whole approach is just so… insidious. He makes jokes. He shakes my hand before the match. He even asks how my week has been. The scoundrel!
And then we play. We seem to be fairly evenly matched. We make a few, we miss a few; every game is neck-and-neck and down to the wire. But who wins?
He does. The nice guy. Every. Single. Time.
There’s no way to get motivated to beat this guy. It’s just not possible. His ironclad, bulletproof defense is that you can’t hate him, not even a little bit. If I’m ever going to beat him, I’ve got to find some chink in that armor. Maybe I’ll hire a private detective to dig up dirt on him. If I knew he cheated on his taxes or doesn’t separate his recyclables, then maybe, just maybe, I could work up a competitive lather and kick his ass.
Probably, though, the P.I. would come back and tell me he volunteers at a soup kitchen and donates half his paychecks to an orphanarium. And then where would I be? Isn’t a pool hall supposed to be a haven for shady asocial misanthropes? You know — like me? Who is this fricking guy?
Permalink | 1 CommentBeing a smartass is great fun, but you’ve got to know the limits. There’s a time and place for snappy sass, and then there are situations where your smart mouth may get you beaten, expelled, arrested, or worse. Mostly, the level of lip you can get away with depends on your audience. So to help you burgeoning backtalkers out there, I’ve compiled a list of people with whom its better to turn the other cheek, rather than be cheeky. You cheeky little devils, you.
Law Enforcement Officers
The obvious first choice, as many of the men and women in blue carry firearms, billy clubs, tasers, deep-seated social grudges, and other weapons capable of inflicting serious boo-boos. I’d also include the somewhat less obviously ‘dangerous’ legal officials on this list, such as:
Generally, it’s best for smart alecks to avoid law enforcement at all costs, under any circumstances. And for the love of god, if you’re ever subjected to a breathalyzer test, don’t make the ‘*zzzzzzzzttttttt!*‘ party favor noise when you blow into the little tube. Sassy, drunk, and beaten into submission is no way to spend a night in the slammer, son.
High school principals
“Your kid’s either been pulling fire alarms, putting IcyHot into the cheerleaders’ pompoms, or turning the ‘Mathletes’ on to smoking pot and Super Mario marathons. If you make a smartass comment in the face of that, it’ll be obvious from where the problem arises.”
As kids in school, we generally know better than to screw around with the principal of the joint. We might get the occasional dig in on our home room teacher, or banter with Lunch Lady Doris over the origins of the ‘mystery meat’. We might even screw a quarter to the floor in shop class, and bust our sides laughing as the teacher scrabbles at the loose change for his next coffee. But the principal is different. With him or her, not only will our insolence not be tolerated; it will go down on our permanent records.
Never mind that those ‘permanent’ records lasted until maybe graduation day, if even that. Or that the contents of said records were about as influential on our future as whether those nasty pancakes we made in Home Ec. were actually edible or not. The idea of that ‘permanent record’ was always hanging over our heads, keeping us in check.
As adults, the only people who deal with principals are the ones with kids in their schools. And if the situation has escalated to meeting wtih the principal, then there’s likely little room for parental sass, either. Your kid’s either been pulling fire alarms, putting IcyHot into the cheerleaders’ pompoms, or turning the ‘Mathletes’ on to smoking pot and Super Mario marathons. If you make a smartass comment in the face of that, it’ll be obvious from where the problem arises. And you might both get sent to detention hall, to think about what you’ve done.
Coaches
There is no level of athletic competition at which backtalking your coach is beneficial. As a pro, that sort of thing is labelled ‘conduct detrimental to the team’, and gets your pay docked. As a kid, your sass will cost you some laps, a few dozen pushups, or pulling laundry duty on ‘jock strap washathon’ weekend.
(And if your coach is also your dad, it might just get you the silent treatment. You do not want the silent treatment. Trust me.)
As an amateur in college, high school, or elsewhere, that same bit of lip will get your smart ass chewed out, and then benched. The thing to remember about coaches at that level is that they’re often bitter, angry old men, unable to play the game or derive any real joy from seeing their players succeed on the field. They long ago gave up their dreams of achievement and stardom, and now can only hope to justify their interest with an encyclopedic knowledge of the game’s esoterica.
In other words, they’re like the rest of us, only they get paid to wear sweatpants to work. And that still doesn’t make them happy. So don’t screw with them; they’re obviously not right in the head.
Bosses
Another obvious group to avoid offending, but it bears a mention. The key to not letting your boss know of your smart alecky tendencies is to be sure you never let a dig or crack slip around anyone else you work with, whether the boss is around or not.
Why is that? Because all those other employees would run right to your boss with a direct quote of your rude manners, and you’d land in hot employment water, that’s why. Never forget that all of your officemates are:
So snarking on the boss to your coworkers is out. It is, of course, perfectly acceptable to snark on your coworkers with other coworkers. In some offices, it’s nearly a sport.
Toll booth operators
Granted, mouthing off to a toll monkey isn’t likely to get you shot, jailed, benched, or fired. They’re generally a peaceful, harmless lot, ready to take your pocket change, fix you with their bored glassy stare, and wave you through to your destination.
However.
Remember that these are people with a lot of free time on their hands, and very few options available in the way of entertainment. Also remember that they are in sole possession of the button or lever that will raise the toll gate to let you pass. So if you jokingly offer to pay with pennies, or ask if they ‘come here often‘, or wonder aloud whether there are any cookies in the ‘toll house’, consider yourself screwed.
You’re now a captive audience for whatever the hell they want to rant about, very probably including what a miserable unoriginal douchebag you are. And the salt in the wound is, they can keep you there as long as they want, and all of the people in the cars snaking into line behind you will think that you’re the jackass causing the problem.
Which, indeed, you are. But only indirectly. Just try explaining that to a semi driver giving you the finger at seventy miles an hour. Go on, try it.
Professional boxers
Consider the following catcalls:
‘Hey Oscar de la Hoya! I heard your CD, man. I hope your cross is better than your crooning!‘
‘Hey Lennox Lewis! Don’t they make china called Lennox? What are you, fragile?‘
‘Hey Mike Tyson! I heard you didn’t mean to bite that ear; you were just trying to steal an earring to sell on eBay to cover those debts. Is that true?‘
Saying these things in the presence of one of these pugnacious pugilists is a phenomenally bad idea, and could result in you being reduced to a small greasy stain on the sidewalk or carpet.
On the other hand, it’s quite possible for the daring smartass to taunt an amateur boxer, if one plans the encounter carefully. These non-pros are far less likely to have hangers-on readily available who would be willing to chase you down and hold you while steel-fisted retribution is delivered. Also, these amateurs can’t be that scary, or they’d have gone pro by now, right? They’re probably punchdrunk and slow-witted already.
Just remember, if push comes to boxing glove — bob left, weave right, and run like hell. But probably not in that order.
Morticians
You wouldn’t think sassing an undertaker would be especially dangerous. But it’s always the quiet ones.
Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I tend to watch what I say around people who don’t get out very much, work long hours, spend their days with dead people, and know several ways of draining all of the blood from a human body. I mean, look at Norman Bates, just as a ‘for instance’.
Let’s not even get started on the creepy makeup or the ‘buried alive’ possibilites, should you piss one of these guys off. Just address all undertakers as ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’, keep your nose clean in the funeral parlor, and get the hell out of there as fast as you can. *shudder*
Truck stop waitresses
This one’s not so much for your physical protection as for your mental and emotional state of mind. It’s fairly unlikely that a truck stop waitress is going to hurt or maim you, should you step into her diner with your sassy pants on. She probably won’t even spit in your scrambled eggs.
Instead, she’ll destroy you.
These truck stop servers and bartendresses are lethal smartasses. They’ve worked there for thirty years or more, have seen it all, and eat punks like you for breakfast. You can’t shock ’em, outsmart ’em, or get a step ahead. And if you try, they’ll have you blubbering in your Sanka before you can say ‘life preservers with a side of joe’. Steer clear, or thou shalt be schooled.
So how many of these lessons did I learn from personal, painful, and potentially permanently scarring experience? I’d rather not say. Let’s just say that I’ve run an awful lot of laps in my time, never use the turnpike any more, and these days I eat my hash browns in my own kitchen, with a bruised ego and a side of orange juice. Lessons learned, my friends. Lessons learned.
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