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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Well, that’s cool.
Recently, the traffic-tracking service that I use for this site has added a new feature. Now, they try — and usually succeed, as far as I can tell — to determine what city an incoming visit is coming from. So while I still can’t associate a who with some of the more interesting search requests that bring people here, I can at least imagine a where. For instance, in the past fourteen hours or so:
Hey. CW is back. Good times.
And, as a mini-tribute to the first ‘real’ post of his return — and only barely because I was going to post about this topic anyway — I’ve prepared the following words. If you read his post, then mine may seem, on the surface, to be entirely contrary to his point. That’s okay. Mine’s probably a satire, or some other kind of tongue-in-cheek clever thing like that. As far as you know, anyway.
At any rate, it’s sort of related. So, welcome back, CW. Here’s the post. Have fun, kids.
So, I have a new favorite word. And this time it’s not assbag. Or porksmitten. Or boobered, or any other ridiculous word that I’ve managed to cook up. This time, it’s something you can actually look up in a dictionary. My new favorite word is: ‘nevertheless‘.
Why ‘nevertheless‘? Why, because it’s so versatile of course. Regardless of the discussion or situation, a well-timed ‘nevertheless‘ says, clearly and distinctly:
‘I hear you. You’re making a calm, coherent, intelligent argument. Your logic may well be air-tight. And frankly, I don’t give a somersaulting rat’s nut what you think.‘
It’s spectacular. It’s unstoppable. It’s the one-word equivalent of ‘La la la la — I can’t hear you — la la la la!‘ And, if used properly, it’s the last word in any argument. Allow me to demonstrate.
Say you’ve made a suggestion about how to improve morale around the office. But the boss is being a big poopy-head about it, and cramping your style. Or copping your buzz, or licking your muffins — but not in the fun, pants-optional way that you were just thinking. This isn’t about you, ya muffin-mongering pervert. Let’s just imagine the conversation:
You: But, what’s wrong with free stripper massages on Tuesdays? Give me one good reason not to do it.
Boss: Fine. It’s sexist. It’s in bad taste. The feminists would boycott us. There’s the legal liability. And — if I’m reading this proposal correctly — given what you want the strippers to massage you with, it’s highly, highly unsanitary. And quite possibly illegal.
You: Nevertheless!
See? That’s all you have to say. You can’t argue with ‘nevertheless‘. How do you come back from that? It acknowledges everything just said to the contrary, and blows a big fat ‘*tthhhpppbbbttttt*!‘ right back in its face. It’s beautiful.
Let’s try again. I’ll show you how I use my new toy on my wife. Hey, hey — mind out of the gutter, dammit. I’m talking about ‘nevertheless‘ here. Keep it clean, sicko.
Her: Holy hell, have you been sitting on that couch all day?
Me: Well… yeah. I guess I have.
Her: You’re just a mess. Lazy. Shiftless. Useless. I can’t imagine how you ever convinced me to marry you.
Me: Perhaps. Nevertheless!
Her: Awwwwwww. That’s so cute!
That’s all it takes, baby. One little word to hold the marriage together. Feel free to use that one, guys. And gals, for that matter. You’ll never lose an argument again, sort of. It’s wonderful. You can thank me later.
And the only thing better than using ‘nevertheless‘ to end an argument is using it while your opponent is still making his or her case. That’s simply delicious. Imagine using it in, say, a courtroom. Maybe during your own sentencing hearing.
(What? This scenario hitting a little too close to home for some of us? Hee.)
Judge: Sir, you have displayed a history of shenanigans and mischief. There’s a clear pattern here of disrespect for authority, and —
Me: Nevertheless!
Judge: — and I can think of no plausible reason not to throw the book at you in this matter —
Me: Never! The less! Nevertheless!
Judge: — and sentence you with the harshest penalty allowed under the law, given —
Me: (in Cartman voice) Nevahthaless!
Judge: — your utter disregard for your fellow man and the justice system.
Me: (in Monty Python ‘nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition’ voice) Nevahhhhhh! Theless!
Judge: Oh, screw it. Pay the fine, and go home, fer crissakes. Next case!
So, there you go. Keep ‘nevertheless‘ in your back pocket, and you’ll never be wrong again. You may be shunned, you may be sued, and you may spend a few lonely nights in jail. But you’ll never be provably wrong again.
What? Still skeptical? Nevertheless!
Yeeeeah, bitches. That’s what I thought.
Permalink | 2 CommentsSo, I mentioned yersterday that I’d be having dinner at a nice — sorry, that’s ‘Nice‘ — restaurant. And I did. And found, in the process, that these places aren’t as ‘Nice‘ as they’d have you believe. Or possibly, I found that they can spot ‘not-one-of-us’ from a mile away, and they just like to give us shit. Either way, here’s what heppened:
Eight of us met at the restaurant. Actually, most of us met at one of our houses first, to have a couple of pre-dinner drinks. Because, as we all know, a cold beer fresh out of someone’s fridge tastes much better than a twelve-dollar glass of merlot. And three or four of those cold beers? Priceless.
Anyway, we got there, and made it through the drinks, salad, and dinner without incident. The waiter was a tad snooty, but nothing overt. A disapproving shake here, a quick ‘tsk‘ there — that sort of thing. No worse than I get from the family when I go home for Christman. Then, it was time for dessert.
Now, I’m not much of a desserter, myself. I saw the writing on the wall a long time ago — or is that ‘the sugar on the cone’? — and realized that I could either keep eating sweets or keep drinking beer, but not both. Not unless I wanted the fire department coming by to winch me out of the tub every time I took a bath, at least. And I never had that much of a sweet tooth to begin with, so desserts are pretty much off my menu. I’ll make exceptions for a nice Snackwell cookie, or some low-fat ice cream, or… well, anything that’s boring and tasteless enough to not really be ‘dessert’ any longer. You get the idea.
So, when the dessert menus come a-calling, I usually go one of three routes: I abstain, I have another beer or glass of wine, or — in recent years, as this New England poshness grows on me — I’ll try a dessert wine of some sort. Last night, the place was swimming in ports and brandies and the like, so that’s where I headed. Two of the guys along on the trip had the same idea.
It was around that time that I remembered something I’d seen on the pre-dinner wine list:
‘We also offer port flights. Ask your server for more details.‘
For those of you unfamiliar with flights, it’s just a ‘sampler’. Or a set of ‘tasters’, if you like. Essentially, they’ll bring you tiny thimblefuls of different kinds of wines — or rums, or tequilas, or hot mustards, depending on what sort of high-faluting place you happen to be in. So, assuming you can manage to splash a little on your taste buds before the samples evaporate, you get to try a few different varieties at once, rather than shelling out fourteen bucks a pop and finding that you don’t particularly like mustard made from buttermilk and duck guano. In theory, it works out well — particularly if you’re not terribly familiar with what you’re trying. Like us guys at the table, with port. So this flight thingy described on the menu seemed like a capital idea.
(You have to say shit like ‘capital idea’, if you’re going to drink port, you know. Pip-pip and all of that. They won’t serve you unless you seem pompous enough to appreciate the stuff.)
So, we took the instructions on the menu to heart, and asked our ‘server’ for ‘more details’. Here’s how that went:
Us: So, what can you tell us about the port flights?
Semi-Snooty Server: Port flights?
Us: Yes, the port flights, mentioned on the menu.
Semi-Snooty Server: I’m afraid you may be mistaken. I don’t know of any port flights.
Round one to the waiter. Did we really see it on the menu, or were we a bunch of drunken, hallucinating idiots, stuffed into nice clothes and trying to pass ourselves off as classy gents and broads? Well, I was leading the charge, so the answer was pretty obvious. Like I said, Waiter 1, Drunken Idiots 0.
Us: You know, we’re pretty sure we saw it. It wasn’t very specific, but it was there, we think.
Semi-Snooty Server: Well, I’ve been working here quite a while…
Us: Yes, and we’re all very proud of you. Could we just see the menu again, please?
That tied the score. Waiter-man led with haught, and we didn’t fold. We even had him scrambling to find the alleged evidence. Waiter 1, Drunken Idiots 1.
Semi-Snooty Server: Well, here’s the menu, but I don’t —
Us: See? Right there. ‘Port flights‘. ‘Ask your server‘. ‘More details‘. It’s all there in fancy script.
Advantage, us. Seems Sir Snootykins didn’t know everything about the menu, after all. Waiter 1, Drunken Idiots 2. Your move, garcon.
Semi-Snooty Server: Well… we don’t have those. Sorry.
Ouch. Well played, sir. Even in the face of irrefutable evidence, the stiff upper lip and icy stare never wavered. Doesn’t matter what the menu says — your server says it doesn’t exist. Push me again, and I’ll pretend we’ve never heard of chocolate mousse, too. Don’t fuck with the waiter, boys. Game, set, and match to the serving staff. Bitches.
Of course, it all worked out. We each had a different glass of port, passed them around with our grubby drunken fingers, and tasted them all, anyway. And then we had a good laugh about how ‘ask your server for more details‘ really means ‘look like an ass asking for ridiculous shit you’re never actually going to get‘.
Restaurant Patron: Excuse me, the menu says to ask you for more details on the free glass of champagne with every appetizer.
Server: I’m sorry; the ‘more details‘ is that it doesn’t exist.
Restaurant Patron: Oh. Well, how about this ‘caviar and thousand dollar bill salad‘?
Server: No. You’re not getting that.
Restaurant Patron: I see. What can you tell me about the ‘blowjob with hollandaise sauce‘ listed here, then?
Server: Sir, just eat your gruel and slink away from my table. Don’t make me sneer at you again.
So, we drank our port, mocked the restaurant, and stiffed the waiter on the tip. Now that’s a night on the town, people. Let’s eat!
Permalink | 3 CommentsJeez. Leave it to me to screw up a ‘site improvement’ project.
I finally got off my kiester and made a couple of adjustments to the old blog that should bring smiles to your happy, shining faces. Mostly, the drivel will just load a little faster. Nothing too earthshattering. Still — speedy, efficient drivel is better than long, slow drivel, no? This isn’t sex we’re talking about here. Or baseball.
Most of the improvements aren’t so interesting. A few of the lists on the sidebars are hosted through BlogRolling, which is long, slow, and needlessly painless. (So hey — maybe we are talking about sex, after all.)
Anyway, I moved all of that stuff to the right sidebar. Does it still take forever to load? Yup. But at least now the main section — you know, with all the drivel — loads first. So you can get your nonsense fix while the linkies load. Better.
Also, I finally hooked up — and, of course, butchered the link for — the Cliche-O-Matic, over there at the top left. So, I re-linked it. Far be it from me to get my own fricking link right the first time. Douchebag, thy name is ‘Charlie’.
Finally — last and anything but least — I hooked up a script whipped up by my new friend Gordon (who prefers to remain mostly anonymous, at least for now), which serves up the Simpsons quotes (available in human-edible form on this page) and random taglines that you see at the top of each page. Previously, all the quotes and tags were imbedded in the page. And there were just over 400 of them, combined. So that should speed things up as well — and encourage me to get off my ass, again, and add to those lists more frequently, now that I don’t have to rebuild the whole frigging site to get new ones to show up. Thanks a million, Gordon! You’re the coolest.
Apart from that… eh. I got nothing, really. I’m just distressing over this dinner the wife and I are going to tonight. Not that dinner won’t be a good time — we’re just out with a few friends, so it should be hootly — but it’s at a ‘Nice‘ restaurant. Capital ‘N’. And italics. I heard them when my wife told me this morning. Here’s what she said:
Wife: ‘So, dinner’s tonight, don’t forget. And I don’t think they have a dress code, but it’s a ‘Nice‘ restaurant. So… you know, try to dress appropriately.’
Yikes. ‘Appropriately‘. I don’t like the sound of that. I mean, I live in shorts and rugbies. If you’ve ever watched any of the standup clips I’ve posted — that’s not some sort of far-fetched, ‘no-fashion-sense-guy’ costume. I go straight from work to most of those gigs — which tells you how many weekend shows I’m asked to do, dammit — and I don’t consult my wardrobe consultant in between. So ‘dress appropriately‘ — or even the more realistic ‘try to dress appropriately‘ — strikes fear into my ghetto-fabulous-on-a-good-day heart.
Plus, fancy restaurants are always confusing, what with the nine forks and the proper manners and the ‘no slurping’ rules. How do rich people ever finish their bowls of soup? I ask you. Besides that, I’m still a little traumatized from the last nice place we went to. A couple of courses into the evening, I needed to use ‘the facilities’. Because you can’t ask a snooty waiter, ‘Yo, Jeeves — where’s the john?‘ Or even ‘the little boys’ room‘. It has to be a proper term, like ‘the facilities’, or ‘the washroom’, or ‘the lavatorium’.
Well, in this particular establishment, there were two bathrooms. Were they labelled ‘Men’ and ‘Women’? No. Too easy. How would they keep riff-raff like me at bay with clear markings like those? Was it ‘Gentlemen’ and ‘Ladies’? Nope. ‘Pointers’ and ‘Setters’? Too crass. ‘Mars’ and ‘Venus’? Too cute. ‘Lords’ and ‘Ladies’? Too pompous — but just barely. ‘Chickies’ and ‘Dickies’? Decidedly not.
As a matter of fact, they apparently couldn’t find any labels that suited the ambiance of the place, because the bathrooms simply weren’t marked. I walked down the hall, to the left, as instructed, and stood staring at two blank green doors. Had I gotten the directions wrong? Were these broom closets? Storage pantries? On-site slaughterhouse rooms for the veal calves?
There was no way to tell. And the light was fairly dim, so I leaned in close to one of the doors, looking for any hint or clue that maybe I’d missed. Maybe there was a huge ‘M’ on one of the doors in braille. Or a motion-activated recording that would chime, ‘You are now entering the Mens Room. Enjoy your stay!‘ I didn’t know. So, I inched close and peered at one of the doors, reaching out to feel the surface… and a woman opened the door.
A large woman. Well-dressed. Old. Haughty. Opened the door, and almost ran into my out-thrust nose and grabby fingers. That was a little embarrassing. She ran off in a huffy cloud of *harrumph*s and ‘I never!‘s. And I used the other bathroom, and only found out later that they’re both for everyone. Hell, with that big hippoess charging at me, I almost didn’t need either of them.
More importantly, though, who doesn’t label their bathrooms? Who the hell is that helping? Even if they’re both unisexually intended, at least put a ‘Rest Room’ sign on the damned things. Something. If I ever go back, I’m taking a dump in the pantry, just to teach them a lesson. Hey, who’s to know which door is which? We’ll see how ‘Nice‘ the restaurant seems then. *Harrumph*, indeed.
Permalink | 3 CommentsSo, I’m still playing a lot of MVP Baseball on my PC at home.
(Yes, I know what you’re saying to yourself… all this, and he plays video games, too? At some point, even ‘Renaissance Man’ starts to fall short. Who is this guy?)
Anyway, I’ve been playing this game. Or rather, I’ve been puttering around the menus, nitpicking over lineups, trades, and all manner of other nonsense that doesn’t really fall into the category of ‘playing’ anything. Obsessive? Checkerooni.
Now, when you spend time fiddling with these more administrative areas, the game designers have taken steps to ensure that you’re still entertained. Specifically, the game plays music. Super-specifically, it plays the same half-dozen songs over and over. And over. And then again, just for good measure.
So, the songs are all pretty good. And, after a while, you learn them pretty much by heart. Lately, I’ve been tuning in more often than not to a specific ditty: ‘Finding Out True Love Is Blind‘, by Louis XIV. If you’re not familiar with the song, here’s the interesting thing about it: the singer spends a lot of his lyrics on food-related metaphors describing women. For instance, the song begins with:
‘Ah, chocolate girl…‘
We’re also treated to a couple of renditions of:
‘Hey, carrot juice…‘
See? ‘Carrot juice‘ is a metaphor, cleverly referring to a redhead. And ‘chocolate girl‘ means a black girl, probably. She’s even got a ‘vanilla friend, later in the verse’; maybe that one is white. Or blonde. Or albino — and what’s hotter than that? I ask you.
Either that, or this guy is picking up chicks in a cafeteria. How the hell should I know? I’m too old to be interpreting any of this crazy new music these days.
On the other hand, I do like to keep up with the hot new trends. And if this is how the kiddies are talking now, then I’m down with it. So, I bopped into work today to try out a phew phat phood-related greetings of my own. The phirst — I mean, first — person I ran into was the receptionist. Perfect.
Me: ‘Hey, Picklesocks!‘
Her: ‘Hi, Cha — what did you just call me?‘
Me: ‘Um… nothing. Never mind.‘
Okay — rough start. Hey, I’m new at all this jive talking. I’ll get the hang of it. Next, I ran into my officemate.
Me: ‘‘Sup, Yogurtnose?‘
Him: ‘Excuse me?‘
Me: ‘I said, uh… good morning. That’s all.‘
Him: ‘You’re a douche.‘
So — oh for two. Good thing the guys from the office down the hall walked by soon after. Practice makes perfect, right?
Me: ‘Yo, Cheddarballs! Tacobutt!‘
Them: <* shaking heads and walking away *>
Me: ‘What? Come on! I expect that out of you, Tacobutt. But Cheddarballs, I thought we was tight, brother. Dude.‘
Dammit. Apparently, practice makes preposterous. I’ve been grossly misinformed. But I had one last chance to get it right, when my boss stopped by to say hello.
Boss: ‘Hello, Charlie.‘
Me: ‘Yo, Fudgypants. What’s shaking?‘
Boss: ‘Did you just call me… ‘Fudgypants’?‘
Me: ‘Er… no. No, not if you’re going to take that attitude about it. How about ‘Cabbageface’?‘
Boss: ‘Cabbageface? You sure about that?‘
Me: Not any more, no. Pumpkinhead? Coffeebreath? Tunadrawers? Help me out here.‘
Boss: ‘Charlie, tell me — do you like working here?‘
Me: ‘Well, sure. Up until about thirty seconds ago, anyway.‘
Yeah, it was pretty much downhill from there. Old ‘Tunadrawers’ called me into his office and read me the riot act. So, I’m still employed, but the foody names are on permanent hiatus. I guess I’ll never be one of the cool kids. Fiddlenuts.
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