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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I don’t really have to explain what’s happened any more, do I?
Those of you who are familiar with these posts know that you’re about to get another list rejected by the good folks at McSweeney’s, and you know there’s more of this sort of nonsense posted in Charlie’s Big List of Lists. Also, you know that another list will be on its way to McSweeney’s posthaste, to try and even the score.
“Eeyore Takes a Nap”
The rest of you probably don’t care much about any of that, and all of you are now wondering when the hell I’ll get on with the damned thing. So I will, right now. Here’s the latest loopy list you’ll see not in McSweeney’s, not in other zines or sites, and nowhere else but here. Better list next time, eh?
Leading Roles for Which Jim Carrey Will Someday Be Turned Down
“Quiet Dignity”
“Subdued in Seattle”
“The Way It Was: The Walter Kronkite Story”
“Being Ben Stein”
“C-SPAN: The Movie”
“Eeyore Takes a Nap”
“Aretha”
Permalink | 1 CommentQuick update on the site upgrade:
First, a big honking ‘THANKS!’ to the helpful folks who took a ‘sneak peek’ at the new layout I’m working on. Based on your comments, suggestions, and — astonishingly enough — a fair affinity for the current look and feel, I’ve changed directions just a bit. The final product will be a hybrid of my first (rather ambitious) idea and the current (rather comfortable) design.
Let’s just hope I took the good parts of each, and wind up with something elegant and intuitive. As opposed to complicated and broken. I had an aunt like that once — and trust me, it’s not a pretty combination.
At any rate, I hope to be able to roll the newfangledness out sometime over the weekend. So please excuse my continued scarcity until then. I hereby promise to revert to my daily drivel-dishing ways as soon as the new site is up and running. Or at least up and staggering; I’m willing to take what I can get.
Meanwhile, everyone in my office is moving into a new building this week.
(Yes, including me, thank you very little. This time, they even gave me the address. Hell, they even issued me a new keycard, to get me in the door automagically.
On the other hand, I’ve never seen a keycard made from corrugated cardboard before. Or an office building with an address like ‘123 Fake Street’.
Still, I’m sure it’ll all sort itself out once I run over to the new place tomorrow. Apparently, we’re moving to a suburb called ‘Suckerville’. Sounds nice. Maybe there’s a Denny’s nearby.)
“If anyone needs me, I’ll be popping my desk’s ‘drool cherry’.”
Today was ‘Packing Day’ for most of the people I work with. We were issued suitcase-sized crates into which to stuff our junk. Some people filled crate after crate with books, supplies, computer equipment, you name it. Crates stacked high and far, and strewn all over the office.
Me, I packed all my shit into one crate. With room to spare. I’ve been at this place for three years, just packed for my third move, and everything I’ve accumulated along the way still fits into a box barely bigger than an office trashcan.
Probably, there’s some profound message about my career in all of this. I choose not to look for it, on the grounds that it may make me never want to get out of bed again.
Still, moving in tomorrow should be fun. I toured the new building today — yes, the real new building; don’t leave those new business cards lying around if you’re trying to get rid of me, bitches! — and it’s pretty impressive. The place was erected just for us — eight shiny new floors of steel and tile and ugly carpet, just waiting for our crates to arrive so we can dirty the place up.
It’s a bit humbling, actually. Just think — when I go there tomorrow, I’ll walk in and sit in a chair where no one’s ever sat to work before. I’ll be the first one to spill soda on my desk, to pin lewd pictures to the corkboard, and leak drool onto the keyboard tray during a Tuesday afternoon nap.
The fact is, ever since the detailed plans for this place were drawn up, there’s been a cubicle with my name on it. Wow. That really fills a guy with a sense of pride and responsibility, and a spark of motivation to get in there and break that place in right!
Until, of course, I realize that it also means there’s been a trash can with my name on it from day one, too. And all my packed shit would probably fit into it. With room to spare.
Meh. Somebody wake me when it’s time for an afternoon coffee run. If anyone needs me, I’ll be popping my desk’s ‘drool cherry’. Gotta love that new cubicle smell.
Permalink | 2 CommentsI’ve been pulled out of town this weekend. The details of where and when and for what aren’t necessary here; the relevant points are simply these:
Luckily — for my wife, at least — I’m travelling solo this trip. Normally she flies with me, and generally does her best not to choke me with a bag of airline peanuts by the time our first flight leaves the ground. So far, she’s kept the murderous raging under control.
(She did once try to smother me with one of those airplane pillows. But really, as small as those things are, what chance did she have? I could have inhaled the thing and passed it hours later, without even noticing. Honestly, the overpriced earplugs you can buy at the airport drug stores are bigger than that. So I could tell her heart wasn’t really in it.)
“You want me to ‘be nice’, you get your ass out there and invent a teleporter, so I don’t have to share an armrest with Andre the Giant over here, while scarfing down month-old pretzels and trying desperately to not have a discussion about his lumbago treatments.”
I couldn’t really blame her for bonking me on the head and stuffing me in the overhead bin, though. I’m miserable to fly with; it’s true. There’s just something about being out of the comfort of my own house — and in a stale, fetid airport for three hours past the estimated takeoff, then wedged into an airplane seat between an offensive lineman and some greasy schlub from the ‘Professional Eaters Tour’ for a four-hour flight, while my ass sweat mingles with the juice of the thousand swampy asses that have sat before it — that gets me just a tad cranky. And Flying Spaghetti Monster help you if we’re flying together before noon. That’s a whole ‘nother ball of pissy wax you do not want to explore.
So, most of my travel time is spent trying to look as positively unpleasant and unapproachable as possible. My wife understands this, and generally leaves me to my sullen, sweaty-assed self. And if not — well, she does know where I keep my genitals while I’m asleep, so I have to at least be civil to her, lest I wake up singing alto some morning, in revenge for snapping at her during pre-flight check-in.
Other people on my flight, though — as well as all the other flights in the same terminal — can kiss my ass and call it cocoa. I’m not married to them, I’m not sleeping with them, and I sure as hell don’t owe them money, so there’s no reason for any of those people to speak to me. They’re only risking merciless bitching and bodily harm by engaging my attention; why on earth would anyone go there?
And yet, sometimes they do. It’s my own fault, I suppose. I try my hardest, I really do — I bury my nose in a book. I frown a lot, and furrow my little eyebrows any time someone gets close.
(In a scolding, disapproving way, of course. Not that cute way that makes those little dimples on my forehead. The other way, definitely. That fetching furrow, I save for the wife.
Well, and you, obviously. ‘Cause I know how you love it.)
Usually, that’s all it takes. My act — riiiiight, ‘act’ — of seeming detached and disinterested drives away any casual observers or would-be conversationalists. It’s the few that are left — oblivious small children, mostly, and unrepentant jabberjaws — that don’t get the hint, and dive right in talking. And there’s always one, on every trip. I must have tattooed ‘Come chat with ME!!!‘ on the back of my head, and forgotten about it. Either that, or they have some sort of ‘asocial radar’, and feel it incumbent upon themselves to pull me out of my self-imposed shell. Chatty fricking bastards.
That’s the only advantage to travelling alone, of course — with the wife safely tucked away at home, I’m free to go way further past the standards of ‘polite society’ to discourage these gabbing goons. Flying with her, I’m barely allowed a dirty look or swift kick to the shins before she’s scolding me to ‘Be nice!‘ Pfffft. Spouse, please. You want me to ‘be nice’, you get your ass out there and invent a teleporter, so I don’t have to share an armrest with Andre the Giant over here, while scarfing down month-old pretzels and trying desperately to not have a discussion about his lumbago treatments. When you’re ready to be part of the solution, honey, then we’ll talk. Until then, keep reading your Cosmo and just pretend I’m being civil, all righty?
So this trip, I’ve been free to use all the weapons at my disposal to shoo the Chatty Cathys and Talky Tommys away. Not making eye contact, answering in guttural grunts if at all, pretending to be deaf and mute — basically anything short of tweaking the offender’s nipples with a staple remover.
(Again, that’s not ‘in a good way’. Just for the record.
Unless they like it rough, I suppose. In which case, they’re probably not talking to me; I look about as likely to be into S&M as I am into D&D. Which is ‘not bloody likely, mate’.
All I really want is for them to stop the Q&A, so I can get some R&R, eat my M&Ms, and go back to thinking about T&A. Is that so much to ask?)
So far, I’m two-for-two. Two flights, including a connection, and the only people I’ve had to talk to were the flight attendants handing out snacks and sodas. That’s my kind of flying experience, folks. But tomorrow, I’ve got three legs on the way home, with substantial layovers between. I’m going to have to get my game face ready, if I want to reach my home sweet home unscathed. I’m going to eat sour lemons for breakfast, ‘forget’ to shave or zip my fly, and pack two staple removers in my carry-on bag, just to be safe. If that doesn’t stop those yap-happy yahoos, then I don’t know what will.
Permalink | No CommentsI’m not a smart man. And when you go through life not being the perkiest pair of nipples in the proverbial porno, you have a lot of crazy ideas. Crazy, dangerous, possibly illegal, certainly ill-advised, and often Commandment-breaking ideas. Many of these ideas involve small animals, power tools, or pressurized cannisters stored in places that are neither ‘cool’ nor ‘dry’. Sometimes all at once. And fire — always, always fire.
Now, as our household’s resident blithering idiot, it’s not my job to think of reasons why I shouldn’t do such outlandish and possibly eyebrow-frying nonsense. That’s left up to the wife, our close neighbors, and whoever it is at the local police station that enforces the rule against me operating small firearms. That’s a lot of people, and they’ve developed a highly efficient network to keep me from endangering the lives and property — and eyebrows — of myself and others. This keeps the house and neighborhood far, far safer.
But where’s the fun in that?
“I’d like to share with you some of my favorite techniques for rationalizing just about anything short of mass murder, global thermonuclear war, or Cleveland Browns football.”
So, I take it upon myself to find reasons why I should test my latest attempt at a microwave-powered lawnmower, or combination brassiere and nose hair trimmer, or parking the car on the front porch to keep it dry during blizzards. I know, if I really think it through, that such things are utter nonsense. They’ll never work, someone’s likely to get hurt, and everything we know about physics and automotive engineering and the flexibility of womens’ undergarments screams, ‘NOOOOOO!!!‘
But what can I tell you? Like I said, I’m not the wiggliest dildo on the nightstand.
But I need some reason — harebreined though it may be — to unleash my latest abomination on the world. And so, I’d like to share with you some of my favorite techniques for rationalizing just about anything short of mass murder, global thermonuclear war, or Cleveland Browns football. Next time you have a half-baked cockeyed scheme and a little time to kill, keep these thoughts in mind:
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
One of the weaker rationalization techniques, as it can only produce the desired effect if:
The very last thing you want to do on the cusp of misadventure is to actually consider the worst possible consequences of the events about to transpire.
But if you can ask the question, in private, and quickly shrug it off without thinking of the laws, restraining orders, or rare and delicate fine china you may be breaking in the process, then you’re golden. Rationalize away, and pull the trigger. The proverbial trigger, that is. Probably.
“______ should work just as well as _______, right?”
Ah, the joys of ignorant substitution! If ‘necessity’ is the mother of invention, then ‘desperate idiocy’ is surely the drunken uncle that smells of feet and doesn’t get invited to family reunions.
Just try not to think about that the next time you fill in the blanks in the question with options like:
‘rubbing alcohol’ and ‘gasoline’
‘acetylene torch’ and ‘pencil sharpener’
‘Brillo pad’ and ‘dental floss’
‘battery acid’ and ‘ketchup’
‘belt sander’ and ‘loofah’
The key is to convince yourself that if it looks like the thing you’d normally use — or smells like it, sits on the same closet shelf, rhymes with it, or starts with the same letter — then it’s a perfectly reasonable substitution. Anything’s possible, right?
“I saw them do this on the teevee once.”
Well, clearly, if those Hollywood yahoos can pull something off, then we can reproduce it in the comfort of our own home, dingy apartment, or double-wide trailer, right?
Note: This method is really only applicable when the feat in question was seen on one of those shows or ads with a disclaimer like:
‘Professional and clinically insane stuntpeople shown; don’t try this at home, or you could be killed, prosecuted, and/or excommunicated!‘
Because otherwise, what’s the point, really?
“When in doubt, ________ it out!”
This is a handy little tool, because it makes anything sound perfectly reasonable. It’s good not only for bathroom projects (‘When in doubt, grout it out!‘), truffle hunting (‘When in doubt, snout it out!‘), and distracting bears at Jamborees (‘When in doubt, Cub Scout it out!‘).
Simply remove the needless restriction for rhyming, and you can justify just about anything, in language recognized as bulletproof logic by the most jaded cynic. For instance:
‘When in doubt, burn it out!‘
‘When in doubt, hammer it out!‘
‘When in doubt, firehose full of tapioca pudding blast it out!‘
See? Perfectly reasonable.
“We’ve all got to go sometime, right?”
There are many forms of this rationalization, including ‘I never wanted to live forever, anyway‘, ‘At least people will remember me, if I get a Darwin Award for this‘, and the ever-popular and matter-of-fact ‘Today is a good day to die‘.
Whatever the form, this is one of the most advanced types of practical self-delusion. Basically, if you can answer the ‘What’s the worst that can happen?‘ question with ‘My impending and almost certain doom‘, and still continue punching, welding, flapping, stripping, shooting, burning, eating, or peeing, then you’ve got this rationalization thing down cold. Give yourself a pat on the back (assuming you still have hands, and a back), for a job well justified.
All that’s left now is to fish the camcorder out of the closet and get it on tape, so the rest of us idiots can see it, and try it for ourselves. Even if we don’t own a taser or have an oxygen tank handy — live jumper cables and a full keg of beer should work just as well, right?
Sounds perfectly reasonable to me.
Permalink | No CommentsHey, that was easy.
After a few weeks of not hearing back from the good folks at McSweeney’s about my latest list submission (and mercifully letting you forget about it for a while, too), I decided to resend the thing. Just a quick little ‘hello, haven’t heard back!‘ sort of note. Polite. Courteous. Needy.
And, less than twenty-four hours later, I heard back!
They weren’t interested, so much.
So, fine. As is my policy, if McSweeney’s doesn’t want it, then you get it.
(It’s not that I love you any less, mind you, not giving you first crack. It’s just that you haven’t posted a submission policy and made yourself a nice header image and tagline to look all official. And stuff.
Or maybe you have. If so, then yeah — I love you less. But only just a little. You can still sleep over, though, if you want.)
Anyway, a rejection note means but two things to me these days. One, the next bit of drivel is already speeding its way to the editors, even now. Very few moments will elapse when I don’t have a big bolus of nonsense in the hopper.
And two, the bruised, lonely, rejected fluff goes right here, so you can have a turn at it. And if you need more hot listing action, hop on over to Charlie’s Big List of Lists for more.
Enjoy the silliness, folks. Just — you know — be gentle with it. This baby’s been through a lot already.
Winnie the Pooh Catchphrases Considered by A.A. Milne Before He
Settled on ‘Oh Bother!’
‘How troublesome!’
‘Piglet poop!’
‘Fiddle faddle!’
‘Oh, the humanity!’
‘Well, piss on Kanga and call me Roo!’
‘Poopstain!’
‘Honeysuckles!’
‘DON’T YOU MAKE POOH SLAP A BITCH!’
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