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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Good lord.
Is anyone watching Minding the Store, that new Pauly Shore quasi-reality show? I tried last night. Really, I tried. There was nothing on, the TiVo was empty, and I actually never minded ‘The Weasel’. Honestly. I’m one of the few people I know who can sit through Encino Man without bludgeoning myself with the TV remote.
But this show… wow. Bad. Horrific, even. My eyes are glazing over again, just remembering. There’s that twitch in my neck, too. Yow.
First of all, Pauly Shore never needed anyone to make him look bad. We all know how much most of the world hates him already. Just whisper the word ‘Bio-dome‘ to some people, and they’ll jump out of their seats, flailing and cursing and foaming at the mouth. I don’t blame them, frankly. I still have this Tourette’s-like thing going on when I hear the title of one of his crappy movies, myself. I can’t help myself; it can be pretty embarassing, though:
Lady at Work: Oh, hi, Charlie. There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.
Me: Why, sure, I’d love to.
Lady at Work: Charlie, this is Fred. He’s —
Me: Hi, Fred, great to meet you!
Lady at Work: — my Son-In-Law.
Me: Fucking lousy dickhead bastard!
Yeah, that took a few boxes of chocolates and a pair of Red Sox tickets to make up for. Or at least convince the two of them not to kick my ass. And don’t even ask what happened when I was asked once to go on Jury Duty. Let’s just say that I didn’t make it to jury duty — but I did spend a few days in the courthouse. Bitches.
Anyway, this is all just a tad off the topic, as usual. My point was simply that this new show of his, as horrible as it sounded… is way worse than you’d ever imagine. It’s a little like taking your sense of humor and the neurons that give you whatever bit of good taste you have, ripping them out of your brain, feeding them through a sausage grinder, stomping on the bits, wiping them up with a towel, and stabbing and ripping the towel to shreds with a meat cleaver. And that’s just getting to the first commercial break, which was all I could stand. My days as a ‘Pauly-pologist’ are over, man. That shit makes the Anna Nicole Show look like Masterpiece Theater. Bury the Weasel, dude. Game over, already.
Permalink | 2 CommentsAfternoon, folks.
Remember when I mentioned that I was working on a new feature, and that I’d unleash it in a couple of days? No? Not paying attention? Fine.
Nevertheless, I wasn’t just mouthing off to hear my gums waggle. Or, um, typing off to hear my fingers tippy-tap. No, the first one’s better; scratch that tappy-finger nonsense.
Look, the point is, I’ve been working on a new page for the past week or so, and it’s finally ready for an unveiling. I know that I’ve not been around as much over the past few weeks, and so I thought I might leave you something to entertain yourselves with when I’m not around. Like buying a video game for your kid, or a chew toy for your dog. Or a dildo for your wife, that sort of thing. Or… you know, something less demeaning than any of those examples, if you can think of one. ‘Cause I sure couldn’t.
Anyway, have a look at the new page if you like. I call it The Cliche-O-Matic, and I’ll be adding much more to it soon. No, really — whether you like it or not. You can’t stop me. You can’t even hope to contain me. I’ve got fifteen more goodies lined up right behind the five already on the page. And there’s nothing you can do about it now; I’m on fire over here.
So, there you go. Check out The Cliche-O-Matic. It’s silly. It’s juvenile. It’s MadLibs gone loopy. Soon, I’ll link it up from the sidebar over there on the left, once I’ve done a bit more testing and have some more content to play with. Comments and suggestions — and numbers for mental health professionals — are, as always, quite welcome. You kids have fun, and enjoy the weekend. Ciao.
Permalink | 1 CommentHey, folks. Nothing much to see here tonight. If it makes you feel any better — and I know it gets my cockles warm, but your mileage may vary — I’m working on a new feature behind the scenes. Assuming I don’t get distracted — always a risk, I’ll admit — it should be ready in a day or so. And entertaining for… hell, who knows? Ten more minutes after that, maybe? Twelve? Eh. It makes me giggle right now, and that’s something, anyway.
In the meantime, I’ll leave you with a rather unsettling observation I made upon arriving at work today:
It is never — never, never ever — good to see three large men in janitors uniforms standing in the bathroom you desperately need to use. It’s especially ungood if one of them is snaking an enormous rubber hose from a vacuum pump into one of the stalls. Actually, the only stall. In the only bathroom. Oh, the squinchies! The horrible, horrible squinchies!
Anyway, that was my day in a nutshell — grumbling to myself, and keeping my legs crossed until the brain trust drained the latrine. Or unclogged it, or rescued Timmy from it, or whatever the hell they were doing in there. It should be safe to go back in a few days. I’ll just have to hold it until then, I suppose. Or start weeing in the parking garage. Nice options, eh?
Permalink | No CommentsI’ve decided to stop using movie titles when I talk to people about older films. Maybe it’s different for you folks, but I find the titles to be confusing — either I know the title, and the other person doesn’t, or vice versa. Or neither of us knows. Or maybe we both know, but the title has nothing to do with the movie. Or it rhymes with another title, or it’s hard to spell, or… hey, what the hell do you care what the reasons are, anyway? This is just the setup part — let’s skip ahead, shall we?
So, no more titles. Which is cool, because I usually find myself describing the whole movie, anyway — or having it described to me — before I know we’re both on the same page. Did I see Starship Troopers? Maybe.Who knows? But did I see:
‘That movie with the alien bugs and Doogie Howser, and the big brain slug thing at the end, and it had that shower scene, but dammit, Denise Richards wasn’t in it, and how do you have a movie with Denise Richards and a shower scene, but not get to see her boobs‘?
Oh, yeah. I saw that movie. Three times. And parts of it in super slo-mo. Rrrrrawrr.
Okay, how about The Fifth Element? Sort of rings a bell. Luc Besson movie? Maybe. Science fiction? Save the world? Eh, they all run together in my head. But how about:
‘The one with Bruce Willis where Milla Jovovich runs around in a suit made of Crest White Strips for the whole movie‘?
Oh, riiiiight. Yeah. Got the director’s cut of that one, actually. Good movie. Awesome… erm, *ahem*, ‘special effects’. Yow.
Now, ask me if I’ve seen Independence Day. Uhhhhh… ‘The one where they blow up the White House. Oh — yes. Yes, I have. The Fugitive? Couldn’t tell you. Unless… is that ‘the one with the one-armed man, and Tommy Lee Jones doesn’t care if you killed your wife‘? Then yeah — I’ve seen it.
Of course, if you use this system, you’ve got to be a bit flexible. Based on new information, your descriptions might change over time. For instance, Blame It on Rio used to be ‘the one where you can kind of get a look at Demi Moore’s hooters‘. Until Striptease came out, of course — which immesiately became ‘the one where you can definitely get a look at the large mounds of plastic where Demi Moore’s hooters used to be‘. Which sort of supercedes the old description, wouldn’t you say?
(And just for the record, in case you’re scoring at home… Blame It on Rio is now officially ‘the one with Michael Caine and the chunky girl with the puffy nipples, and Demi Moore might be in it, too, I think‘. Make a note of the change, if you’re interested in such things.)
It’s also still possible to get confused, if you’re not careful with your descriptions. ‘The one with R2-D2‘ isn’t much help any more, for instance. Nor would ‘that movie where Adam Sandler plays an idiot‘, or ‘the one where Angelina Jolie gets naked‘. Come to think of it, you’d have an easier time with ‘the one where Angelina Jolie doesn’t get naked‘ — at least you’ve narrowed it down to the Tomb Raider series. In everything else, the puppies are usually unleashed by the third scene. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I’m just saying. She likes to be topless, apparently. Good for her.
Anyway, that’s my thought about movies for the night. Not the most earthshattering stuff, but I think it would make talking about the shit we watch on cable at night much easier. I can’t be bothered with names and titles and all that nonsense; instead, just tell me who got naked, how the chase scene looked, and what got blown up. And if it didn’t have any of those things… well, then, forget it. Chances are, I didn’t see it, anyway.
Permalink | 3 CommentsSo… as of last week, we’re getting the Boston Globe.
If you’ve been hanging around here for a while — loitering and leaving cigar butts on the floor, no doubt — then you know already how I feel about the Globe. If not, then feel free to read all about it.
And, partly to save you the trouble of clicking through — but mostly because I have a lot of space to take up here — I’ll rerun the poem from that post, which I wrote e-double-specially for the Boston Globe:
I will not read the Boston Globe
I will not read it in my robe
I will not read it in my boxers
I do not think your paper r0x0rs.
Please do not call me again
To cluck out your offer like a hen
Update your fucking database
Before I break-a you your face
I will not read it on the sofa
I will not read it in my loafers
I do not want to hear your pitch
Get off my phone, you fucking bitch!
Your rag used to come to my front door
On Sundays, for six months or more
But I rarely found the time to read it
So this time I find I do not need it
I will not read it while I sit
Or use it for my doggy’s shit
I will not read it on the can
I will not read it, paper man
I hate to be a diatriber
But I will not be a Globe subscriber
Find the bitch who calls and promptly fire her
Or I’ll take up reading the Enquirer
I will not read your inky daily
I will not read your Beetle Bailey
Nor Dilbert, nor Prince Val-i-ant
I won’t, I don’t, I can’t, I shan’t!
So I hope you get me, loud and clear
I will not read your paper, hear?
And if you call me just once more
I’ll hang right up, you paper whore!
Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s not the paper’s politics that bothers me — honestly, I couldn’t tell you whether the Globe leans left, right, or falls over trying to touch its toes. Don’t know, don’t care. And it’s not the coverage, or the size, or the font — but oooooh, that Helvetica just burns me up! ‘Nother story.
Anyway, the point is, I’m sure the Boston Globe is a fine paper, really. We even subscribed to it for a few months way back when — which is why I know I don’t need it again, fine though it may be. You see, I’m not really a ‘paper kind of guy. Why get my news after the fact, when I’m shackled to the internet for fourteen hours a day, anyway? It’s eleven o’clock tonight, and I already know the Sox won, the shuttle’s coming home, the latest in the terror probes, and it’s going to be frigging hot tomorrow. Why the hell would I need a newspaper?
And don’t even talk about the local news. If I wanted the scoop on things around here, I’d watch the six o’clock news. And I don’t want it — honestly.
Here, I’ll even do you a favor — here’s a summary of the local newscast for your area, every day for the rest of your life. Any time you feel like tuning in, just reread this:
Anyway, back to the Globe. All I’m saying is that I’ve got no need. And I wrote my little ditty to try to get that across to the persistent bitches who called the house every six hours or so, trying to get me to subscribe. Obviously, it didn’t work. Maybe I should have shown the poem to my wife.
For, you see, it was she who relented — hopefully not to one of the phone-phreaks, but I’m afraid to ask — and now, once again, we get the Globe. So far, we’ve gotten nine or so. At last count, there was one on the steps, two on the porch, two on the dining room table, and four in the trash. All still in the plastic wrappers, if I’m not mistaken. But I can’t be positive; the Globe isn’t really my thing. I don’t get involved. Lord knows I don’t want to write another fricking poem. Now there’s a headline for ya. Stop the presses, bitches.
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