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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Sometimes, my douchebaggery knows no bounds. Often, like today, little morsels of witlessness layer over each other, like a big fat dogpile of douchebagginess. To wit:
On Monday afternoon, I started a load of laundry, mostly colored rugbies and tees and such. I was very proud of myself, for helping out around the house like a big boy. I even treated myself to a cookie. And there was much rejoicing.
On Wednesday evening, I realized that I hadn’t actually transferred said laundry to the dryer. Upon further investigation, I found the clothes to be sitting — nay, soaking in eight inches or so of two-day-old water in the bottom of the washer. Douchebag move number one. Oops.
I then proceeded — as any clueless, brutish, non-metrosexual man might — to cover my mistake by (finally) loading the laundry into the dryer. I’ve had the standing water problem with the washer before, and found that slopping the mess into the dryer is always the easiest thing to do.
(No, I didn’t say the ‘best’, nor the ‘brightest’, nor even the most ‘energy-efficient’. I said easiest. See section on ‘clueless’, ‘brutish’, and ‘non-metrosexual’ above. And maybe add ‘slack-jawed’, for good measure.)
So, two douchebag moves down, one to go. This morning, I scooped up the ‘clean’ laundry, looking for a rugby to wear to work.
(Again, see ‘non-metrosexual’, if you have any questions here. ‘Clothes horse’, Charlie ain’t.)
I slipped one of my favorites over my head… and nearly passed out from the smell. Apparently — surprise, surprise! — festering in dirty funk water for two days is bad for clothes. It turns out that laundry can ‘sour‘ — which my mother told me about, but I thought it was just an old wives’ tale to make me clean up around the house more often. You know, like ‘pet dander’, or ‘dust bunnies’, or ‘plague rats’.
Anyway, I managed to get the shirt off without actually losing consciousness… and tried another one. Yes, from the same clothes basket. Look, at nine o’clock in the morning, the old brain doesn’t work too well. I hadn’t quite pieced together the chain of douchetasticness yet; I thought maybe the dog had, I don’t know, died on the first shirt overnight. In the middle of some sort of ammonia-induced bowel movement, apparently. But when the second shirt offended as well, I amended my theory. After all, we’ve only got one dog.
So, I pitched all of the rugbies from that load into the dirty clothes pile, in an effort not to continue down the path of douchebagitude. I chose a shirt from the closet — yes, I do occasionally hang a shirt up, ladies — and I was in the clear.
Or so I thought.
Next — no, really, like right away — I slipped on a pair of jeans. From the basket. Same one I’d just purged the shirts from. And, since I didn’t actually pull the pants over my head, I didn’t notice that they were funk-afflicted, too.
(See, if I’d been up at eight, instead of nine, I might have accidentally pulled them over my face, trying to put them on. I’m telling you — the brain, she don’t wake up so early. In this particular case, a little less lucidity might have helped. Looks like a case of ‘dumbed if you do, dumbed if you don’t’. Bitches.)
It wasn’t until I got into the car — bringing my knees significantly closer to my schnozz — that I realized my pants smelled like ass all over. I suppose that there’s always a small portion of my pants that smells like ass — specifically, my ass. But since that part of the pants is actually next to my ass — and because I’m not a fricking contortionist carny freak — I don’t ever worry too much about that little bit, or even know about it. And, since I don’t often get — or give, for that matter — fully-comprehensive lap dances from ankle to waist, the rest of my pants are generally ass-smell-free.
(Of course, if my pants were to be ‘assed up’ by an all-over lap dance, they still wouldn’t smell like ass, right? Vanilla body spray, maybe. Glitter paint, perhaps. Stripper sweat… hopefully. But not ass. Those ladies keep a thick sheen of parfum and baby oil between themselves and their ‘rubbees’ at all times.
From, um, what I hear. Ahem. Moving on.)
So, long story ever-so-slightly-shorter, I’m now tooling around the office in a pair of jeans that smell like they’ve been bleached in buttermilk and passed through a moose. I’m not saying which direction they were passed through the moose — but I’m not sure either way is ‘good‘. Moose ass then moose breath, or moose breath then moose ass; which would you choose? These are questions that haunt us all.
And, of course, I’ve been in two meetings so far, with another two on tap. Of all the days I’d prefer to hide from the world and wallow in the stench of my pants, and it’s chock full of interacting with others. What’s next? Is it ‘Sniff Your Neighbor’s Knees Day‘ today? ‘Everybody Trade Pants Day‘ at the office? ‘Lick-A-Thigh Promotion Night‘ at the ball park? Meh. Me and my stinky pants are out of here.
Permalink | 7 CommentsSeriously, what more could you want? And it’s all below, in the hodgepodge of random crap running through my noggin this Hump Day. Enjoy.
We have a weekly meeting at my office, every Wednesday at nine o’clock. That’s in the a.m., ridiculous as it sounds. That’s what happens when you have MDs setting the meeting schedules. Those docs are used to getting up at the ass-crack of dawn every damned day. Got to make those tee times, I suppose.
Anyway, today we had a speaker at the meeting. I was a few minutes late, but I was there for most of her talk. And what did she say? No idea. I was too preoccupied with her name. She had one of those names that’s impossible to say without ‘wee’ in front of it. You know the kind — like ‘Wanda Wheeler’, or ‘Wendy Whistler’. Or ‘Wilma Winkler’, maybe.
(Not that it was any of those names exactly, of course. The last thing I frigging need is to have our guest speaker Google her own name, and get me in a world of unemployed hurt because I wasn’t focusing on her talk this morning.
But hell, what do you expect from me at nine thirty in the morning? It was all I could do not to giggle like a frisky stripper at the thought of this woman hooking up with Willy Wonka in Walla Walla, Washington. Or wobbly Weebles at Wally World. Or Wee Willie Winkie for some… well, ‘willy winkling’ was the first thing that came to mind. I nearly upsnorted orange juice on my boss. Yeesh.)
At any rate, that’s three-quarters of an hour that I’ll never have back. I hope she didn’t say anything important. Meh.
Speaking of women I don’t listen to often enough, I’d like to take a moment to poke gentle fun at my wife. Of course, normally I wouldn’t ridicule her in any fashion, public or otherwise. For one thing, I love her dearly. Plus. I have the utmost respect for my ‘better half’. Mostly, though, she knows where my testicles live while I’m sleeping. So, I have to be careful.
Still, when you run a comedy site — and you’re often out of shit to write about — there are some things you simply have to mention. And one of them is this: our dog requires a daily pill.
(For what? It’s not important — and frankly, you don’t want to know. But it’s not for ‘keeping her fat furry ass off our couches’, I can tell you that.)
So, my wife gives the dog the pill most days. When I end up doing it, it’s a painless process. Throw the dog a couple of untainted jerky bits, then smoosh the pill into one and toss it at her slobberer. By the time she thinks about what might be in her mouth, it’s all over.
<– insert obligatory nasty joke about blowjobs here –>
But the wife does things just a bit differently. First, she tried encasing the pill in a fresh Snausage. That worked for a while, but she makes the mistake of handing the pill package to the pooch. I figure, if you throw it at her, then she’s either got to swallow it or get smacked in the nose with it.
<– insert much nastier obligitory joke about blowjobs here; I’m not goin’ there –>
Anyway, after a few weeks, the dog started turning her nose up at pill-packing Snausages. So the wife broke down, and started stuffing the pills in American cheese. After a while, the dog got tired of that, so she switched to white American cheese. Then it was cheddar, then mozzarella. And now — get this — now the dog gets her pill every day in a little ball of Muenster cheese slathered with peanut butter. What kind of nonsense is that?
And why does the dog have it so damned good? When I need a vitamin or aspirin pill, do I get it buried in a candy bar, or dissolved in a beer, or stuffed in a kielbasa, dipped in Cheez Whiz, and wrapped in bacon? No. No, I don’t. I’m starting to see where I am on the household food chain, dammit. And I’m not fricking happy about it.
Finally, speaking of women that I do listen to, I have to ask: has anyone else seen that TV commercial that’s been out recently for… well, I don’t know what it’s for, exactly, come to think of it. Some sort of satellite or cable network, I think. DirecTV, maybe? Dish Network? Who knows.
What I do know is this: the commercial features two women discussing at length just how much one lady’s television sucks. As in, literally sucks things to it. It’s all quite clever, I’m sure — at least for a bunch of assbag ad monkeys. It goes something like this:
Woman #1: What’s that?
Woman #2: Oh, just my TV. It sucks.
Woman #1: Your TV sucks?
Woman #2: Yeah. It sucks.
Woman #1: Wow. It sucks hard.
Woman #2: Yeah. There’s lots of sucking going on.
Woman #1: Look at all that suckage.
Woman #2: Yup. Sure is suckerific.
Anyway, now I have this love-hate thing going on with this ad. I can’t stop watching, but I’m always disappointed by the end, when they actually get around to pushing whatever service it’s advertising. It’s not that it’s a bad commercial, per se — except that they apparently haven’t drilled home to me what it’s fricking for, of course.
Mainly, though, I just think that if they’re going to show us closeups of two women saying ‘suck‘ so often, then I want to see some damned action. Honestly, I’ve watched womens’ prison porn with less suggestive dialogue. If you’re not gonna get naked for your product, at least pony up some open-mouthed kissing, or something. This is cable, people. You want me to remember more than ‘sucktacular‘, then you’d better get biz-zay. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.
Permalink | 2 CommentsMan, is there anything better than a three-day weekend?
(That’s a rhetorical question, of course. But, for you ultra-literals out there, the answer is: ‘Yes. Three things are better than a three day weekend.
That’s it. Just the three. If there’s anything else you think is better than a three-day weekend, then you’re mistaken. Get with the program, sparky.
Of course, like most people, I can only vouch for two of the three personally. I mean, really — how many of us have ever had a free lobster dinner and case of beer? Sheesh.)
Anyway, where the hell was I? Ah, the three-day weekend. Peachy.
Not so damned peachy that it’s about to be over, though. I’m not sure how I’ll adjust tomorrow, frankly. I’ve grown accustomed to my new schedule, what with the waking up at ten, and the showering at noon, and the… well, that’s all there was, really. Some eating, and some dribbling that you probably don’t want to hear about, but mostly sleeping and sitting on my ass. And it was tremendous.
But now, it’s all over. Tomorrow, it’s back to the grind — horrific stuff, too. Out of bed at eight thirty, for crissakes. And in the shower by nine. Nine! Nine thirty at the latest. Barbaric, ain’t it?
At any rate, all the lounging around has apparently turned my brain to mush. I got nothing tonight. So, I hope you had a nice, relaxing, lazy, long weekend. With lots of sleep, and free beer, and chocolate-covered lobster sex. Or whatever it was I wrote ten minutes ago. I can’t be bothered to look it up again. I’m on vacation, dammit. I’ll catch you later.
Permalink | 2 CommentsYikes. Looks like the kiddies are back for school. I had to navigate through a sea of fake ID-carrying kiddies — and their parents, and their moving vans, and their crappy furniture exactly like the crappy furniture I used to have — to get to work and back. And I wasn’t even allowed to hit any of them! Bitches.
(Slightly more on the topic over here.
What? It’s not like this is the only place I’m allowed to write, dammit.)
Speaking of writing elsewhere, ‘Moving Day’ for the colleges means it’s September 1st. And that means there’s another issue of Zoiks! on the virtual newsstands. And that means that I get to post tonight without really trying. Which is cool, because dodging all those matriculating little… well, matriculators today has exhausted me. So see below for my last Zoiks! piece, and head over to Zoiks! for the very latest. I’m out.
My Parachute is Black and White
A lot of people have asked why I’m interested in getting into writing. The truth is, it’s a perfect vocation for a guy like me. But to really appreciate the logic, you need to know exactly what sort of person I am. I’m a complicated man, with all manner of qualities tailored perfectly to the life of an author.
First, there’s the prodigious laziness. While my particular brand of ‘not doing anything’ would be detrimental — even debilitating — in many lines of work, it’s no real impediment to writing. I’m new to all of this, but from what I understand, a good writer can spend ninety percent or more of his or her time not actually writing. It’s a pretty sweet gig in that regard, if you think about it. Could a banker spend most of her day not banking? Could a truck driver get by with sitting on the couch all the time, not trucking? Could a management consultant keep his job by… well, by not doing whatever the hell it is management consultants do? Quite possibly the last one, but that’s not the point. The point is, in most professions, you actually have to do something, most of the time, to work your way up the ladder. With writing, not so. A feverish night or two of scribbling down nonsense every once in a while can keep you slacking for weeks or months at a time. Plus, there’s no real chance for career advancement. The ‘corporate path’ for authors is less like a ladder, and more like a doorstep. No pressure there.
Writing also offers a myriad of opportunities to exercise my procrastination skills. Those ‘feverish nights’ of writing I mentioned? For an author, those usually occur just before a ‘drop-dead’ deadline — or often, soon after. That’s the beauty of a ‘drop-dead’ deadline in this business; if a writer is late, no one actually drops dead. That’s why writers make lousy air traffic controllers, or ambulance drivers. Or hostage negotiators, come to think of it. Better to write about such things, than to put keisters on the line.
Another skill not necessarily required to be a good author is fine attention to detail. This was another big plus for me — many days, I couldn’t tell you for certain whether I’m wearing my underwear inside-out or not. ‘Dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s’ are not my strong points, by any means. But why should they be? That’s what word processors are for. Besides, there’s no real problem if a writer misses a few details here and there. If an architect forgets a couple of beams, a building drops or a bridge falls into a river somewhere. If a doctor mails it in one day, then maybe a patient goes home with a glove inside them, or the wrong leg cut off, something inconvenient like that. But if a writer misspells a word or misplaces a semicolon, it’s no big deal. The really good writers have editors to ferret out those sorts of problems. And for the rest of us, it’s just a typo. Unfortunate, yes, but not life-threatening — unless we’re writing copy for a CPR training manual, maybe. Nobody wants you pressing on their ‘rub cage’, or blowing air into their ‘moth’, no matter how sick they are.
Finally, I’m into writing because it really helps to exercise my imagination. Not for the subject matter, of course — there’s no time for creativity when you’re barfing two thousand words an hour onto a screen to beat a deadline. No, the imagination comes into play for what might happen next: will I ever make any money writing this drivel? How many lawsuits am I eventually going to be slapped with? And where do umlauts come from? These are all questions I hope to answer some day, but for the moment, I write. And dream. I can even imagine somebody out there will read this nonsense. Ah, it’s good to be a writer.
Permalink | No CommentsHey, kids. Not a lot of time tonight, so just a quickie before bedtime.
(I know, I know — you’ve been waiting your whole life to hear me say that. Get your chaps on and saddle up, honey; I’ll be with you in a minute.)
Meanwhile, here’s a bit of fluff. It’s the:
Top Ten Ways That Watching My Standup Act Is Like Having Sex
Well, that was fun. If I’ve missed any, feel free to send ’em along. And hey — I was just kidding about those chaps, kiddo. Go hose yourself down, you cheeky little monkey, you.
Permalink | 2 Comments
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