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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I missed out on the hot dating trends of the past few years. I latched onto my wife over fifteen years ago, and we’ve been married for nearly ten, so I haven’t had the need to check out how the kids get together to get their freak on these days.
But the hookup hype is hard to avoid. It’s everywhere — on radio ads, internet sites, woven into sitcom storylines. And it seems to this highly-successful Romeo — married for ten years, did I mention? — that you single people are spending way too much effort in finding a body with which to bump uglies.
Take ‘Eight-Minute Dating‘, for instance. Sure, it sounds quick and easy, but eight minutes is a long time in today’s fast-paced world. That’s longer than many people’s lunch breaks, longer than a trendy ab workout, even longer than the latest craptastic Kelly Clarkson croon.
(I know, I know — the songs seem to last forever. But seriously, start a stopwatch next time one comes on the radio. It’s only, like, four minutes of hell. Five, tops. You’ll be surprised.)
I’m confident that evaluating a potential mate shouldn’t take anywhere near that long. Back in school, my buddy Joe could hit on — and strike out with — every girl in the bar, during one ‘TV timeout’ in a football game. The dude was Barney from ‘How I Met Your Mother‘, while Doogie was still in diapers.
(Speaking of which — am I the only one who noticed (a slightly stylized version of) the Replacements’ Skyway playing during the ‘airport goodbye’ scene in Monday’s episode? Catchy, appropriate, and a nod to one of the coolest bands of my generation.
The show I started watching because Alyson Hannigan makes me tingly inside is getting better all the time. Just an observation.)
“Wow, she’s really secure with her own looks. Which is amazing, given the glass eye and that ass and those things on her chin.”
In an effort to help you not-yet-paired-up people out there — and in the spirit of Joes and Barneys everywhere — I’m offering you a tremendous time-saving idea. Forget ‘Eight-Minute Dating‘; all you really need are eight answers. Eight simple answers, to eight yes-or-no questions. One set for dudes, one set for chicks. If the yesses keep coming, then you’re on your way to cockle-warming, heart-swelling, lip-locking bliss — or as close as you’re likely to get, anyway.
So gather ’round, lovesick lads and lasses, and soak up Charlie’s Eight-Question Dating Guide. Just be sure to have an open bar at the wedding you’ll eventually invite me to. Don’t go skimping on your Cupid, baby.
Charlie’s Eight-Question Dating Guide
Hooking up with a hottie has never been easier! Simply choose the appropriate set of eight questions below (‘For Her’ or ‘For Him’), depending on the gender of your latest lust, and fire away. If your tawdry target answers ‘yes’, that’s a good sign; move on to the next question. If the sultry senor or senorita says ‘no’, then move on to your next potential pucker partner. Life’s too short to spend yakking with incompatibles. Time is money! Love is in the air! Get in there and woo your ass off!
Eight Questions for Her:
1. So… you come here often?
If she answers ‘NO’: What, she thinks she’s too good for this shithole? Harrumph, sister — you ain’t all that. Bzzzzzt!
If she answers ‘YES’: So she spends as much time in bars as you do. There’s one thing in common already!
2. Can I buy you a drink?
NO: In a bar, but she won’t take a drink? So she’s a snooty broad, a pro, or else your fly’s unzipped. Move on.
YES: Nice play, playah. You’ll look even better after her next G&T. Allllll right.
3. I like stuff. Do you like stuff?
NO: Jeez, who doesn’t like stuff? Stuff is great. Why would she say that? Are you sure your fly’s not down?
YES: She likes stuff, too? What, were you separated at birth or something? She could be your soulmate, man!
4. Our waitress sure is pretty, isn’t she?
NO: Ah, there’s the ugly head of jealousy, reared again. That could have been pointed at you someday. Get out now, while you still can.
YES: Wow, she’s really secure with her own looks. Which is amazing, given the glass eye and that ass and those things on her chin. Either that, or she’s hot for the waitress, too. Keep an eye on that threesome, baby.
5. Do you like this shirt? My mom picked it out.
NO: Pfffft. Well, mother would never approve of her, then. Best to excuse yourself and lick your wounds back in mom’s basement. Maybe she’ll make you some nice cocoa.
YES: Damn, this girl sounds too good to be true. You’d better test her to see if she’s for real, dude.
6. Boy, watching football and drinking beer kicks ass, huh?
NO: Not into pigskin and keggers? When would you ever see each other, then? NEXT!
YES: Don’t buy it, dude; now she’s just playing you. You’d better get to the bottom of this.
7. Are you one of those desperate, clingy, needy girls who agrees with everything, but eventually turns into a raving psycho bitch?
NO: Liar! That’s exactly what a raving psycho bitch would say! Run away! RUN AWAY!!!
YES: Well, at least she’s honest. Just break up with her before all hell breaks lose. How hard could that be, right?
8. So… do you put out on the first date?
NO: The worst kind of psycho bitch is the prude kind of psycho bitch. And you know you’re not getting that threesome with the waitress now. Wrap it up!
YES: Bingo! You’re gettin’ some desperate raving psycho boo-tay tonight, brother! Check, please.
Eight Questions for Him:
1. Do you believe a relationship is about being partners?
If he answers ‘NO’: Great. He’s one of those Neanderthal ‘woman’s place is in the kitchen’ types. Unless you’re into scrubbing floors and ironing wifebeaters, tell him to take a hike!
If he answers ‘YES’: Aw, he’s the sensitive type. Now let’s just hope he’s not a mama’s boy.
2. Do you like children?
NO: What kind of ogre doesn’t like kids? And why didn’t you notice his hump and green warty skin before? Say goodnight, Gracie; this troll’s not for you.
YES: Well, isn’t he sweet? And look — he’s only barely slurping his beer, too. This one’s got potential, honey. He might be a keeper.
3. How about animals?
NO: What would your kitties Mister Precious and Whiskers Magee say about him, then? They’d say he’s a big poop, wouldn’t they? Yes, they would! Oh yes they would, those widdle wascals!
YES: Well, that’s great. Just so long as he doesn’t have one of those big sloppy slobbery dogs, anyway. If anyone’s going to do any drooling in this relationship, it’d better be him!
4. Would you be comfortable meeting my family?
NO: He’s obviously afraid of commitment, then. He would have freaked out the first time you left your toothbrush in his bathroom. So not spongeworthy.
YES: Sure, he says that now. Just wait till he meets your nitpicking mother and ex-Marine dad. Still — nice gesture on his part. Ten points!
5. Will you be understanding when I invite my girlfriends over?
NO: So it’s fine for his cigar-chomping poker buddies, but you can’t have a wine and movie night with the girls? Kick that jerk to the curb!
YES: He’s really got all his bases covered, eh? Just so long as he doesn’t hit on your sister while they’re making the popcorn, everthing will be just fine.
6. How about when I want to explore my own interests?
NO: Oh, a domineering type, eh? Well, in case you haven’t heard, mister, sisters are doin’ it for themselves these days! Waggle your neck at the chump and let him talk to the hand.
YES: Damn, this guy sounds too good to be true. You’d better test him to see if he’s for real, girl.
7. Are you just telling me what you think I want to hear?
NO: Lord, he is a mama’s boy. You want a life of PG movies, meatloaf nights and man-on-top missionary? I didn’t think so.
YES: Wow. I wasn’t expecting that. No guy has ever answered ‘yes’ to that before. Heeeey, waitaminit, buster…
8. Have you been adding ‘in bed‘ to all of my questions in your head?
NO: Then he’s clearly no good in the sack. Who does he think he is, not thinking about sex when you’re talking to him? Ciao, loser!
YES: That pig! Animals?! Your FAMILY!?! Ewww! Still, he is honest. In this day and age, a truthful pig is about the best you can hope for. And at least he’s not hitting on that cute waitress. Grab on tight, girl, and don’t ever let go!
Permalink | 2 CommentsA few months ago, I posted a few metaphors for life, more genuine and realistic than that ‘box of chocolate’ / ‘river flowing to the sea’ bullshit you usually hear.
By now, I fully expected a few of these obvious improvements to catch on. I figured we’d be have late-night infomercials with motivational motormouths telling us ‘Life is like a stint in juvie‘ or ‘Life is like milking your cat‘. I thought the phone calls would roll in, with movie producers clamoring to build Forrest Gump II: The Golden Years around the line:
‘Mama always said life was beautiful but thorny — like a stripper wearing a cactus G-string.‘
“When you get a little further along, you’ll end up eating nasty things like buffalo sphincters or goldfish testicles, possibly on a bet.”
The calls, I’m sad to report, have not rolled in. And none of the informercials I’ve been watching have gotten on board, either. There are plenty of get-rich-quick hucksters, uberslick life counselors, sincerely earnest fitness consultants, and some huckster hawking this boogery-looking gunk that’ll apparently clean hot fudge stains off your sheets like magic. You filthy horny perverts, you.
But nowhere among the homilies and adages, the fast talking and the philosophizing, do I hear any of these yobbos telling us what life is really like. Instead they push prefab pablum like, ‘Life’s what you make it.‘
No. An omelette is what you make it. Life’s different than that. And usually has less bacon.
‘You have to grab life by the horns!‘ they shriek.
Sorry. The last time I grabbed something ‘by the horns’, I spent three days in the infirmary with an ice bag tied to my crotch. And that was just a baby goat at the local petting zoo. There’ll be no more ‘horn grabbing’ in this life, thank you very little.
It seems the point hasn’t yet gotten across. No one’s spouting the real truth about life, like: It’s too short. It’s sometimes frustrating. And exercising every day may make you feel better, but it won’t necessarily make it last any longer.
Fine. To hammer it home, here are a few more things that life is really like. Save that ‘box of chocolates’ for Valentine’s Day, chumley. The adults are talking now.
‘Life is like hunting for truffles.‘:
You’ll spend all your energy looking for rare, beautiful treasures, only to find that you’re surrounded by filthy brown-nosed pigs most of the time. You may find it’s best to cut your losses, give up your dreams, and merely strive to look good by comparison, by keeping your own snout out of the muck.
‘Life is like a game of nude Twister.‘:
It’s never quite as titillating as you think it ought to be. And the more interesting things get, the more likely you are to hurt yourself. Plus, it seems that every time you turn around, some guy’s showing his ass. Also, when it’s over, we’ll all end up naked and sweaty and smelling vaguely of cheese.
‘Life is like a liposuction treatment.‘:
Gradually, you’ll transform from chubby and happy to skinny, grumpy, and sore. You won’t quite know how or exactly when it happened — and truth be told, you really don’t want to know. It’s nearly impossible to get through it unscarred, and at the very end, you’ll likely find yourself in a drafty hospital gown, wondering whose bed you’re sleeping in and when they’re bringing that damned applesauce.
‘Life is like an episode of ‘Fear Factor’.‘:
Early on, you’ll do a lot of stupid things involving speeding cars, water skis, and falling out of airplanes. When you get a little further along, you’ll end up eating nasty things like buffalo sphincters or goldfish testicles, possibly on a bet. By the end, you’ll revert to your fast-driving, risk-taking careless ways — just before you realize that the people prettier than you are the ones making all the cash. And all the while, some piggly little Italian dude will hang around, making fun of you and pinching the women’s asses.
‘Life is like the shorts in the NBA.‘:
In the beginning, you’re wispy and flimsy and too short to serve any real purpose. People will often laugh and point, while trying not to look directly at you. You gradually grow, but eventually you turn saggy and floppy in all the wrong places, and look just as ridiculous as before. And people still laugh and point — but at least you’re worth a lot more money now. There’s a silver lining for your elastic band, sparky.
‘Life is like walking through a car wash.‘:
At first, you’re filthy and miserable and in need of a bath. Then you’ll get soaked, sudsed up, slapped around, and blown. But not always in that order. And certainly not in the ways you’d like to be. By the end of it all, you’ll be left messy and exhausted, with wax in orifices where it really doesn’t belong. But if you’re lucky, you can get some kid to towel you down for a dollar. So that’ll be nice.
‘Life is like French kissing your grandma.‘:
No matter how little you flap your lips or wag your tongue, it always seems to be too much.
‘Life is like having a really small penis‘:
It’s too short. It’s sometimes frustrating. And exercising every day may make you feel better, but it won’t necessarily make it last any longer. Also, no matter how nice you are, women will probably snicker at you behind your back.
See? How hard was that? Get out there and spread the word, people.
(Not the ‘small penis’ thing, either. You know what I mean. Don’t make me start a rumor about your granny-Frenching. I’ll do it.)
Permalink | 3 CommentsLast Tuesday, the group I work with moved to a new office. The rest of the week was largely spent pretending to set up all of our machines and equipment, so we could get back to work. In reality, we spent most of our time popping bubble wrap and making faces through the windows at the jerks in the next building. Making friends whereever I go; that’s me, all right. Luckily, the boss is not so technically inclined, so we could always cover our tomfoolery with:
‘Gee, I’d love to get you that report, ma’am, but the network guys say my adapter needs a new FireWire dongle before I can access the SubEtha network again. Sorry… but wanna drop water balloons on the jerks in the lobby with us?‘
(Apparently, she doesn’t read Douglas Adams, either. Her loss. And our running ‘Peril-Sensitive Sunglasses’ joke at her expense. Heh.)
But all good jackassery must come to an end, so this week we’re back to work. And it seems I’ve been cursed with that most common of all cubicle-switching cockups — the Funky New Chair.
The guy next to me, he did it right — he ignored the ‘NO OLD CHAIRS’ posted policy, slapped a moving sticker on his raggedy-assed beat-up chair, and left a note on the seat saying:
‘MOVE THIS CHAIR, PLEASE!!
I have the permission of my boss, your boss, your mother, and whichever god you happen to believe in. MOVE THE CHAIR, AND NO ONE GETS FIRED, SPANKED, OR SMOTE!‘
So, he’s got his chair from the old place.
“Either I’ve been watching way too many kung fu movies lately, or I’ve got to lay off the pho noodles right before bedtime.”
I tried to convince him that the movers probably did unspeakable things to the armrests involving canola oil and a pair of large Siberian nursemaids, but he’s not buying it. And why would he? He’s got a place to sit that actually fits his ass. They could’ve left a greased-up babushka hanging from the height adjustment knob, and he’d still be happy.
Meanwhile, I’m left to grapple with one of the new ass-contraptions, and it’s no fun whatsoever. It’s not that the chairs aren’t as good as our old ones — frankly, they’re far more solid, with knobs and adjusters and levers galore. But how could a brand new chair approximate the cheekdentions I worked so hard to cultivate in my last one? Where are the crevasses to squinch down into? That rough bare patch on the frame I could use to scritch my back? The broken armrests we used for swordfights? Or the ‘lumbar support’ sac we ripped out and turned into a makeshift whoopee cushion? All gone.
And there’s just no getting comfortable in this high-fangled, new-falutin’ thing. It’s not a chair; it’s a deathtrap! I tried adjusting the armrest, and accidentally punched it into my kidney. The height adjuster slammed me so low, so fast I think I bruised my tailbone. I may need some sort of coccyx sucker to kiss it and make it better.
Of course, that’s nothing compared to what happened when I found the ‘Attitude Adjustment’ knob. I thought it meant ‘attitude’, as in ‘angle of leaning’, or some such thing. But the mechanisms on these chairs are would pretty fricking tight — so when I pulled the knob, the chair lurched forward, and bonked my head on the monitor screen. What if I worked overlooking a balcony — I could’ve been killed!
So now I’m thinking it’s the other kind of ‘attitude’ adjuster. I can almost picture a whip-wielding slavemaster standing behind me now:
“Hah! You find attitude adjuster! Now your attitude is ‘Time to quit playing with chair and get back to work!’ Di di mau! DI DI MAU!!”
(No, I don’t know why my slavemaster would be a cruel Vietnamese caricature, either. Either I’ve been watching way too many kung fu movies lately, or I’ve got to lay off the pho noodles right before bedtime.)
Needless to say, I’m not thrilled with the new seating equipment. For now, we’ve called a truce — the chair’s agreed not to launch me at any more hardware, and I’ve agreed not to chuck it out an open window. But things aren’t comfortable for either of us. I’ve been stepping and tripping on its rollers all day, and I won’t stop raising and lowering its armrests. It’s got to be sore by now. As for me, my back gets stiff after twenty minutes in the thing, and I haven’t been able to feel my left asscheek since early this afternoon. I’m a little afraid to get up, for fear I’ll bump my snoozing half-a-hiney into cubicles and walls and various cleaning personnel on my way out the door. I’m pretty sure that’s no way to say: ‘Hello! Welcome to the building — we’ll be seeing a lot of each other!‘ Nobody likes to be ass-rubbed when they’re just trying to do their job.
(Okay, maybe a bouncer at a strip joint. Or a Victoria’s Secret photographer. But that’s it.)
I’ll have to see how this saga turns out. Will the chair lead me down a path of back pain and posterior pins and needles? Or will my ass win in the end, imposing its will — and its curvature — on the supple fabric before it has a chance to wreck me first? Only time — and a lot of strategic cheek-squishing — will tell.
Permalink | 1 CommentIf you’re reading this, then you’ve reached the new home of Where the Hell Was I?. Welcome. Have yourself a snort of that ‘new server smell’.
Many things have changed around here with this update — a beefier machine, updated software, new features, and an overhauled design. Clearly, no one but me cares about most of the details — but I will point out a couple of new perks you may find helpful.
In the ‘Check It Out Now!‘ Department:
And in the ‘Coming Soon to a Weblog Near You!‘ Department, there’s much more — keywords and tags, more standup clips, multiple categories per entry, post quotes, and more.
“You can’t make me turn the site fuchsia or stop using words like ‘douchepoodle’, but apart from that, it’s all fair game.”
I’ve also got a big honking list of other unfinished cosmetic and functional improvements to make, but it’s time for the new edition to see the light of day, so here it is. Take a few minutes to explore — there aren’t a lot of new features (yet!), but maybe you’ll find something you hadn’t seen before. There’re plenty of musty old rants, diatribes, and ill-conceived mutterings that have been unearthed in this move. Why should I be the only one scarred by re-reading them?
Also, I’d love to hear what you think about the new place. Let me know what you like or don’t, what looks wonky, suggestions for features or improvements, problems with the site, or anything else, really. You can’t make me turn the site fuchsia or stop using words like ‘douchepoodle‘, but apart from that, it’s all fair game. Your wish is… well, something that will be taken under careful advisement, at the very least. That’s more than you’ll get at most places these days.
That’s all for now; it’s time for a rest from the heavy construction work before the fine-tuning and jibberish-flinging begin. Hope you like the new digs, and — hey! What, have you been walking around the whole time in those filthy shoes? This carpet is brand new! Jeez, there’s always one.
Permalink | 5 CommentsThis is the spot where I collect posts and tidbits I’m especially proud of, for one reason or another. Maybe I got good feedback, or they made me giggle, or seemed particularly clever at the time. Or maybe it’s a feature or standup clip you might like, if you’ve only got the time to check out one or two. This is the cream, relatively speaking, risen to the top of my buttery milk jug, lovingly scraped off and presented for your perusal. Dig right in; don’t be shy.
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