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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
As an unrepentant smartass, I’ve gotten into more than my share of sticky situations. I’ve never actually been physically beaten for my insolence — though there were several times I probably should have been.
(Remind me sometime to tell you the ‘steelworker at the dive bar’ story. I’m lucky I wasn’t pounded with my own severed arm that night. Jesus, was he mad.)
“The bane of a young smart aleck’s existence, a spanking is the only real deterrent to running your mouth in clever and inappropriate ways. Until you grow up, of course.”
Of course, there was one form of beating from which I was not exempt — the spanking. The bane of a young smart aleck’s existence, a spanking is the only real deterrent to running your mouth in clever and inappropriate ways. Until you grow up, of course. As adults, we could get fired, slapped, arrested, divorced, fined, stabbed, sued, pistol-whipped, run over, or banned. Or worse, sent to ‘sensitivity training’.
As a kid, there were less serious repercussions. Though at the time, my father threatening to take off his belt was just as frightening as a cop today asking, ‘What did you just say, sir?‘ At least the cops don’t ask me to drop my pants and bend over their knee. Most cops don’t, anyway.
To be fair, my spankings were reasonably few and far between. I generally knew when I could get away with mouthing off, and when ‘sassback’ would lead to ‘sore ass’. And I’m happy to report that I was never spanked by the principal in school.
(Yes, that’s right. I was in school before they outlawed corporal punishment. We rode to class on brontosauruses, and learned about painting caves and controlling fire and how cool life would be if we ever invented something called a ‘wheel’. Eat me.)
With the family, though, I’d occasionally slip up. I remember one incident vividly, more than twenty years later:
I was about eleven years old. We lived just across the street from my elementary school, which also housed a baseball field. I was on a Little League team, and my father was also our coach.
(You’d think that would be a whole other set of horror stories, but Dad did a pretty good job of not putting me into uncomfortable situations with the other kids.
At least from my perspective. Maybe they all wanted to give me a big fat wedgie and hang me from the left field fence, but I thought we got along okay. Maybe he was paying them off in Three Musketeers or Slushie coupons, or something.
Back to the story at hand.)
Needless to say, we practiced quite a bit. Besides working drills with the team, I spent a lot of time throwing and fielding balls off the garage, or the front steps, or any wall I could find. We didn’t have one of those fancy balls-on-a-string that would come back to you for hitting practice, so I spent much of my youth beating the hell out of a large cherry tree in our back yard with an aluminum bat.
(The tree was fine; I took a little of the bark off one side, but the thing’s probably still standing today.
On the other hand, I developed an unfortunate reputation around school for ‘beating the cherry tree’ in my spare time. That took years off my social life.)
Like I mentioned, I was a big baseball fan, and I genuinely liked playing, or even practicing. Most of the time. But I was also a ten-to-twelve year old kid, with cartoons and toys and a brand spanking new Mattel Intellivision to play with. So I was lazy sometimes, too.
(Yes, dammit, I said ‘Intellivision’. I’M JUST THAT FREAKING OLD, ALL RIGHT? LET IT GO! Sheesh.)
One Saturday, Dad asked if I’d like him to pitch me a few balls over at the field. It was a generous offer, just the sort of thing every young ballplaying kid would want ol’ Dad to ask. It’s heartwarming, if you think about it.
Only, I was watching TV. Captain Caveman, maybe, or Speed Racer — the details are lost to the ages, but the fact was, I wasn’t much interested in practicing baseball just then. It was hot, it was humid, and how the hell were Scooby and Shaggy and the gang going to get out of this mess, anyway? No, thanks.
The next bit of time is a little fuzzy. Either he asked me again later, or I realized a good offer when I thought about it, or he made it clear that my butt was to get off the damned couch and pick up a bat, if I knew what was good for me. All I know is that twenty minutes later I found myself, sweaty and petulant, swinging at curveballs on a dusty baseball diamond.
Apparently, I wasn’t swinging very well, though. Why? I’d give it about fifty-fifty odds between ‘having a bad day at the plate’ and ‘acting pissy about being dragged out when I didn’t want to be’. Make that forty-sixty. Or thirty-seventy. I was eleven. Cut me some slack.
Anyway, after a couple of dozen balls, Dad decided to give me a little nudge. Now, my father is many things, and he has a number of talents. ‘Great motivator’ is not one of them. He yelled from the mound:
‘Hey, don’t hurt your arms flailing at those pitches, son.‘
The sarcasm dripped like the sweat down my back. I forgot where I was and who I was sassing to, and replied:
‘Well, don’t hurt that candy arm throwing them in here, Alice.‘
That pretty much wrapped up our baseball session for the day.
My dad gets quiet when he’s pissed. Very quiet. After a short, clipped sentence to let me know that was ‘it‘, we gathered the equipment in silence, and walked home. In silence. I went straight to my room. I don’t remember whether he sent me there, or I just figured it was the safest place I could be at the time. I even put the Intellivision away under the bed. You never want to be beaten with your own game console.
I’m pretty sure he never spanked me for what I came to call ‘The Incident’. But he let me sweat for a while, that’s for sure. He might — might — have spoken to me again by dinnertime, or bedtime, or sometime the next day. Things weren’t quite back to normal for another couple of weeks. And to his credit, he continued to coach, and — after a few days — work with me one-on-one, too.
And I never complained a word about baseball practice again. I think if I had, he’d have beaned me and left me on the field. And I wasn’t so sure about that ‘candy arm’ to risk it.
Permalink | 4 CommentsI’m always amused by the search terms that bring folks to this site. Certainly, I’ve laid down some odd combinations of verbiage and colorful turns of phrase, to put it kindly. Many people legitimately searching for all sorts of useful things have made accidental ‘pit stops’ here, before moving on to find what they were looking for.
Then, there are the pervs.
“When the majority of your waking hours are spent tracking down ‘Katie Couric butt shots‘ and ‘Bea Arthur nip slips‘, there’s apparently little time left for brushing up on your English homework.”
Those are my own fault, really. Those ‘colorful’ phrases and sometimes ‘salty’ language lead to all sorts of misunderstandings between internet search engines and the horny fourteen-year-old boys they’re apparently meant to serve. Also, I did this, which didn’t help. And this. And, lord help me, this.
(Look, it was my first week writing. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, okay?
Not like, say… now. At least if I wrote that today, I’d improve the punctuation.)
Anyway, let’s just agree that any site with an entire category devoted to “Potty Talk” is likely to attract a few patrons from the seedier side of the interweb.
What amazes me is how few of the horndogs have learned to spell.
I suppose it’s understandable. When the majority of your waking hours are spent tracking down ‘Katie Couric butt shots‘ and ‘Bea Arthur nip slips‘, there’s apparently little time left for brushing up on your English homework.
(Oh, you laugh now. But within a week, some poor misguided twerp is going to come here looking for ‘Bea Arthur nip slips’. One week. Guaranteed.)
I’ve already discussed the most popular pervy malapropism around here:
‘penal implants‘
That’s in the logs at least once a day. I imagine these are the same people suffering from ‘e-rectal dysfunction‘ and ‘premature edumacation‘. They should probably find a better dickshunary.
But there are others. Whether true misspellings, misunderstandings, or typos caused by having only one hand free with which to type, these not-quite-right search terms are everywhere. And since I’m here to help — and to make fun of jerks — I’ll explain to the horndogs who will inevitably find this page later on where they’re going wrong.
With regards to spelling only, of course. I’m not touching the rest of that train wreck. Let’s get to the search terms:
‘hot stroppers‘ — I’ve never really thought of my barber in that way before. But come to think of it, he’s pretty handy with those pinking shears. And the man gives good neck shave. Oh, baby.
‘porno monkey shots‘ — I’m only assuming this is a typo, because I’ve never heard of any porn movies titled ‘Bobo Does Boston‘ or ‘Bi-Curious George‘. But maybe I’m just leading a sheltered life.
‘mail member pictures‘ — A request for weenie shots, or for photos of unionized letter carriers? You make the call!
‘sadie massichism‘ — ‘Well hello, and what’s your name? Sadie? How pretty! And your last name? Oh. Oh, my. How unfortunate for you. Dear me.‘
‘big dill does‘ — I’m not sure I get it. A big pickle does what? Or are you referring to large sour female deer? Because the pickle seems hotter, somehow.
‘leather fetas‘ — Personally, I like my cheese with crackers, or maybe on a nice Greek salad. But sure, a bit of nicely prepared cow skin could probably work, too.
‘nipple slops‘ — This one pretty much speaks for itself. But now I can’t get the image of a Bea Arthur breastfeeding mishap out of my head. That’s gonna leave a mark.
You know, maybe I was wrong. Maybe there aren’t a gaggle of fumble-fingered heavy breathers out there at all. Maybe it’s just a bunch of folks legitimately searching for sexy barbers, dirty chimps, mailman snaps, some poor girl named Sadie, huge pickles, Greek cheese recipes, and info on messy breastfeeding techniques.
Now I can’t decide whether I should be more frightened, or less. Eep.
Permalink | 2 CommentsIt’s that time of year again, when moms and dads across the country yank their kids out of summer camps and swimming pools and migrate south to that Mecca of kids-at-heart and rodent fans everywhere, Walt Disney World in sunny Orlando, Florida.
“I got your ‘Fantasyland’ right here, grandma!”
But not all visitors to the Land of Hokey Rides and Nine Dollar Soda Pops is guaranteed a good time. Just as the families flock in, like swallows cruising to Capistrano, so too return the college kids and recent grads, looking for summer jobs in the Magical World of ‘At Least It’s Not Epcot’. Some of those kid-loving go-getters — future homeroom teachers and assistant principals, no doubt — earn the honor and the burden of wearing the Disney mascot costumes. Behold these plucky young souls, trading their summer fun for six-hour shifts, their luaus for lunch breaks, and their skimpy bikinis for full-body felt suits and a fake animal head reeking of week-old corn dogs and someone else’s scalp sweat. What would it be like to get a glimpse into their thoughts and impressions as they wander the park, in search of children to delight?
It might be something like this…
Friday, June 30th
Dear Diary —
I’m so excited! Can you believe they actually picked me to be the next Mickey? OMG!!!
Sure, I’ll be sad to leave the other girls at the Space Mountain ‘Happy Vertigo’ Infirmary, but what an opportunity! Now I’ll get to see children’s happy, smiling faces all over the park — not just the queasy ones who stumbled off the ride. So many dizzy kids!
Anyway, I start tomorrow, and I’m sooooooooo excited. This is going to be better than the time Tommy Kaplan had us cheerleaders over to his house and his parents were totally not there. Putting on that big Mickey head tomorrow will be even more intoxicating that Tommy’s mom’s Kahlua! I bet I don’t sleep a wink tonight! Kisses!
Saturday, July 1st
Dear Diary —
Wow, what an exhausting day!
You wouldn’t think a mouse suit could be so heavy — but boy, you’d be wrong!! I must have sweat a whole five pounds off in that suit today; guess that cotton candy won’t go right to my thighs after all! LOL!
And how rewarding was it, seeing all those kids out there? Like, very. It’s too bad the really little ones cry sometimes. They told me to expect that, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it; it just tears your heart out! And I don’t blame the older ones for kicking at my big mouse shoes — they’re just scared, is all. I’m sure we’ll be sharing Mickey-sized hugs by the weekend!
I wish they could do something about Mickey’s head, though. It smells a litle like moldy cheese inside, and… something else. Like rotten eggs, but more ‘gamey’. Or sweatsocks, only muskier. Whatever it was, it made me a little light-headed (HAH!), but I’m sure I’ll get used to it. Maybe I can hang an air freshener from one of Mickey’s ears! ROFL! Yay Disney World!
Sunday, July 2nd
Dear Diary —
Two days in the mouse suit, and I’m exhausted. An hour out in this heat, and all I wanted was an ice bath and a cigarette. But the Mickey show must go on, I guess. That’s what they showed me in my contract during the lunch break, anyway.
The kids didn’t seem to mind the heat — they were everywhere today. I’m still waiting for the kicking to stop, but at least it beats the ear pulling, hehehe. I guess I’m like a big old teddy bear for them to play with. I just hope I don’t get the stuffing knocked out of me!
It’s only seven pm, but I’m hitting the sack. Tomorrow’s another day in the ‘felt fortress’, and I’m even too tired to eat dinner. Maybe if these meal vouchers were good for something other than hot dogs and onion rings. I’ve never eaten so much ketchup in my life! But don’t worry about me, diary; I’ll hang in there. For the kids’ sake.
Monday, July 3rd
Dear Diary —
Ouch. I made a trip to the park infirmary today — a ten-year-old kid took a swing at me and hit me right in the stomach. What kind of kid would punch Mickey Mouse? Has the whole world gone crazy? And where were the kid’s parents? Probably stuffing their fat faces with waffle cones and Pinocchio pizzas. Sooooo hungry.
I was able to get back out on the pavilion in the afternoon, but after my ordeal, I was a little gun-shy. Whenever a kid came over to hug me, I cringed and backed away. I even accidentally smacked one little girl — shut up; it was a reflex!! — but I passed it off as a muscle spasm. I felt really bad, but the parents said they wouldn’t sue, and the kid is fine, anyway. There was barely any swelling at all, and she can still see out of that eye. She’d look a lot worse if that ten-year-old had gotten hold of her.
Tuesday, July 4th
Dear Diary —
So. Many. Children.
Honestly, diary, I’ve never seen so many kids in one place before. And while I’m used to the abuse now — it helps if you just retreat into yourself and go numb — couldn’t they at least stop during the firework show? That’s thirty minutes you’re supposed to be looking at the skies, not half an hour of ‘stomp on Mickey’s feet’, for Pete’s sake. It’s the fourth of fricking July! ‘Wonder and magic’ — soak it up, you little retards, and leave me the hell alone.
I’m starting to wonder whether I could sneak one of those ‘beer hats’ into the costume. I bet I could fit a bottle of vodka under each mouse ear, and enjoy a nice slow drip all day long. Boy, that’d pass the time.
Wednesday, July 5th
Dear Diary —
Back to the infirmary again. Some little brat bowled me over backwards into the drink at the Toontown Fair. I would’ve been fine, but I’m not allowed to take off any part of the costume in public, so I had to mouse-paddle around and look cheerful until somebody came to fish me out. You ever tried to ‘look cheerful’ with two leg cramps and thirty pounds of soggy felt weighing you down? It’s no fricking picnic, diary, let me tell you.
While I was getting checked out, I asked the nurse if she knew what happened to the last Mickey actor. Apparently, a couple of sugar-crazed kids rushed him with popsicle sticks over by It’s a Small World, After All. I’d been wondering what those jagged slits in the bottom of the suit were. The nurse says he’ll be up and walking around in a few days — but they’re pretty sure he’ll never be able to have kids again. Lucky bastard.
Thursday, July 6th
Dear Diary —
The little shits almost got me today. A bunch of kids left a cute little ‘huggy’ girl as bait in Tomorrowland, and jumped on me when nobody was looking. They almost had the Mickey head ripped off of me before I could get my gloves on one to fight back. I ear-butted the biggest kid to get away, and retreated to Frontierland for a victory smoke in the bathroom. All the women who came in giggled when they saw the mouse feet under the stall door, but I don’t care. They can suck my big black plastic nose. Breeders.
When I left the bathroom, I stuffed a couple of bars of soap into each big glove. Let’s see if those wannabe head-stalking pipsqueaks come back for more now. Do I look like Goofy, bitches? This is one mouse who’s not going down without a rumble.
Friday, July 7th
Dear Diary —
Free at last, free at last!
I finally couldn’t take any more in the Mickey prison, and started Mouse-mooning little old ladies in the park. I got your ‘Fantasyland’ right here, grandma!
The Disney people spun it as a new ‘dance’, and settled the crowd down pretty quickly. Then they shuffled me out of the suit and over to Animal Kingdom, where they’ve got me shovelling gorilla droppings in the safari area. Eh, it’s still a job — and it still smells better than that nasty Mickey head. These monkeys can fling all the poo they want; I’m in heaven now! Let someone else be the Mickey punching bag for a while. Color me B-I-T-T-E-R M-O-U-S-E.
Permalink | 2 CommentsToday, I found that I have a very special skill. I can put my pants on with one hand.
Now, never mind why I only had one hand available this morning when it came time to pants up for the day. I’m sure you can think of a reason far more tawdry and scandalous than the truth, so just go with whichever scary mental image you prefer.
(And come to think of it, could it be that much worse than the truth? No matter the details, walking around pantsless with one hand full is ‘tawdry’, to some degree. It probably wouldn’t help to explain that what I was holding was a big fistful of pocket change, either.
We just hit ‘scandalous’, didn’t we? Dammit.)
“Could I lace my shoes with only one hand, too? Or put on deodorant blindfolded? Pull on a pair of socks with my teeth?”
Anyway, looking back on the life I’ve led so far, I’m amazed this talent hasn’t surfaced sooner. Not because I’m sans pants more often than the average bear; it’s more surprising that I haven’t lost a hand by now in some unfortunate accident. It’s probably a good thing I opted out of shop class in high school.
I’m not afraid to say it, either — I put those pants on like a one-handed champ. The technique was impeccable. I stepped into the leg-holes, held my balance — barely — and shimmied the shorts up one side at a time. The button was a challenge, but the zipper and belt fell into place with ease. It was like I’d been dressing all my life with one hand tied behind my back. Why did I never try this before?
Now I’m wondering what other similar talents I might have, sitting dormant until I test them. Could I lace my shoes with only one hand, too? Or put on deodorant blindfolded? Pull on a pair of socks with my teeth? Needless to say, I’ll be finding out soon.
It might seen a bit silly, but remember — I’m a homeowner now. There are all sorts of ways for a klutz like me to lose a limb or three working around the house. Unclogging a drain — there go a couple of fingers. Lighting up the grill — bye bye, feet. Loading towels into the dryer — I could lose an eye if I’m not careful. I need to find out what the quality of life’s going to be like when the inevitable finally happens. I just hope I’m as good with the TiVo remote as I am with my pants.
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