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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Hey, hey — first of the month again, folks. You know what that means — you read, but I don’t have to write. Not much, anyway — just this introductory fluff, and honestly, how hard is this? It doesn’t even rhyme. Child’s play.
Meanwhile, the latest issue of Zoiks! is out, with my latest piece among its virtual pages. Plus some other cool stuff, so go check out Zoiks!
But before you go — or after you come back, I don’t care which — see my previous Zoiks! piece below. It’s off the main site, so there’s nowhere else to see it but here. And aren’t you a lucky reader? Yes, you are. Oh yes. We wuuuuv you.
All right — less bullshit, more writing, right? Right. So, check out the piece below, and check out the new one — and all the other folks’ pieces — over at Zoiks! I’m taking the rest of the night off. Cheerio.
Food for Thought
There’s been quite a ruckus in the news recently about genetically modified food. The subject raises a number of questions — is it safe? Is it cheap? Is it tasty? Is it ethical? Will eating modified food turn us all into rabid mutant zombies? Personally, I think the answers are ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘probably’, ‘who cares?’, and ‘lordy, I hope so, just to spice things up a little around here’. Not necessarily in that order, of course.
At any rate, I’m all for fiddling with our food’s DNA. We already cross-breed crops, shoot livestock full of growth juice, and pretty up the results with food coloring and pretty packaging. Why not just cut to the chase and engineer the stuff the way we want it in the first place? And as long as we’re going to the trouble, let’s go all the way. Forget adding a vitamin here or a hormone there; we’re at the top of the food chain, so let’s start acting like it. With that in mind, I have a few specific suggestions on modifications I’d like to see:
Cows that milk themselves: Think of all the trouble we’ve gone to over the years to squeeze the moo juice out of the big beasts. Farmers get up before dawn for it, which is inconvenient at best — and how do you think the cows feel about it? You think your doctor has cold hands? Just imagine if your exam was at five in the morning, in your bedroom, and concentrated largely on the nipples? That’s not good for anyone. And those big, expensive milking machines — what a waste of effort. Why don’t we just finagle the cows to do it themselves? Engineer an arm or two down there; maybe even a funnel of some kind to help out. It just seems easier all around.
Walnuts with zippers: Now, maybe this is just me. Maybe I’m the only one who has trouble cracking tough nuts. Maybe the rest of you can snap them open with two fingers, or with your teeth, or between your rock-hard glutes. But for those of us lacking in the ‘buns of steel’ department, a zipper in the shell would be a huge help. And while we’re at it, can we do something about those coconuts, too? I nearly lose a finger every time I grapple with one of those things.
Rice in designer colors: I think everyone’s bored of the same tired old white rice. Brown rice is okay, but it’s not particularly exciting. Nobody gets a rush when they see plain old rice on the plate. But what if it were green and red, to match the side salad? Or the same subtle pink as your salmon steak? Or neon blue — just because it can be? Now that’s an idea I can sink my teeth into. Maybe we could even manage to give the stuff some taste, while we’re at it.
Eight-legged turkeys: Some of you may be familiar with John Madden’s custom of giving out turkey leg awards during Thanksgiving football games. Of course, he doesn’t stop with just two — Madden’s minions construct a turkey for him with four legs, six legs, or even more. And why not? Everybody loves drumsticks, right? So let’s grow the birds that way in the first place — tasty legs for everyone! Presuming we can catch the turkeys, of course.
These are just a few suggestions. If we’re really committed to this, anything’s possible — self-peeling oranges, potatoes the size of watermelons, or broccoli that tastes like chocolate. And isn’t that worth the risk of turning into a zombie?
Permalink | 2 CommentsAll right, all right — we get it already, for chrissakes. Every car maker on the fricking planet is having an ‘Employee Cash Back for Everyone’ sale. We get it — stop it with the damned commercials every three minutes, please.
Or at the very least, cut out the pomp and hoopla when you’re announcing your deal, dammit. It’s not the coolest thing since sliced bread. At best, it’s the coolest thing since the last car maker rolled out their deal, which was very probably yesterday. So can the confetti, lower your ‘TV announcer voice’, and put the balloons away. It’s getting annoying.
Just this morning, I saw another one of these fricking commercials. How they can possibly believe that they’re ‘unveiling’ a ‘surprise’ with their cash-back deal at this point is beyond me. Maybe the ad people all live under rocks, or in caves, or in some third-world country where television hasn’t made an appearance yet. Like… I don’t know, Mississippi, maybe.
Anyway, here’s the exchange I just had with the boob on the boob tube:
TV: And now — Toyota is proud to present…
Me: *grumble* What, employee cash back for everyone? Get out.
TV: A once-in-a-lifetime, extra-special anniversary event…
Me: Is it… employee cash back for everyone?
TV: Have you thought you’d never be able to afford a new car?
Me: Not with…. employee cash back for everyone. Ya douche.
TV: Well, now you can! Because Toyota is offering…
Me: Say it! Goddamn it — say it!
TV: Unprecedented deals, with our… Employee! Cash! Baaack!
Me: Yes, but for whom?
TV: For eeeeveryone!
Me: Plan?
TV: Plan. Yes. The Employee Cash Back for Everyone… Plan. Right. Ends soon. Dealer stock only. Buy Toyota. Woo.
Me: Fuckers.
Makes me glad I’ve already got a car. I bought it used. And paid through the nose for it. But at least I didn’t have to put up with annoying bullshit commercials for a month before I bought it. Stick that cash up your employees’ backs and smoke it, car bastards. Yeah.
Permalink | 4 CommentsLast night, I found out just how lousy a watchdog our pooch is. Now, I knew that she wasn’t exactly vigilant — despite being a pit bull, for crissakes — but I had no idea just how useless she really is.
See, I worked late last night. Really late. So late, it was actually early before I got home — to the tune of about twenty after twelve. Now, usually when I come home that late, one — or both — of two things are happening: either I’ve been out tippling, so I’m not as concerned about what the dog’s doing as, say, negotiating the staircase without falling on my forehead, and/or the dog’s sleeping on the couch downstairs. No, she’s not supposed to sleep on the couch. But she always jumps down before I get close enough to smack her. Plus, duuu-uuh — she’s a pit bull. She can sleep whereever the hell she wants.
Anyway, last night I came home — sober, exhausted, alert and observant — and the dog was sleeping on her pillow upstairs in the bedroom. Yes, she has a pillow. She’s our little pit bull princess. Hey, shut up! You enjoy having all those fingers still attached? Then you try taking the pillow away from her. Princess Puppykins has got frigging fangs, people.
Back to the story, though. When I got in, she was sleeping upstairs. When I opened the front door — sleeping upstairs. Closed the door — sleeping upstairs. Tripped over my wife’s shoes… poured a glass of milk in the kitchen… made a bunch of unnecessary noise putting the glass in the sink — sleeping up-fricking-stairs. Useless. She wasn’t even around to lick up the milk I spilled. And she calls herself a dog. Pfffffttttt.
Now, for you poochophiles out there who might jump to my doggie’s defense, I’m way ahead of you. I even thought to myself, just before falling asleep wondering what murderous looting louts the dog had let in before me, that maybe when I approached the house, she smelled me. Dog’s snoots are uber-sensitive, sure. So maybe she caught my scent, and realized there was nothing to get her canine hackles up about. I can imagine her fuzzy-headed thought process:
‘Hrm? Somebody on the porch? *sniffle* *snurf* Lessee… stale beer… desperation… and, what’s that… *snrrrrffff*! Ah, yes — fat ass sweat. Must be Charlie. And no Snausages on him. I’m goin’ back to sleep.‘
Nice, eh? Booze, desperation, and eau d’sweaty serriere. There’s man’s best friend for you. And how the hell does she know that’s me, anyway? Sure, sure, it’s accurate, probably — but I’m not the only one, dammit. For all she knows, it’s Tom Arnold sneaking in to raid the fridge. Or Jim Belushi coming by to fart on the couches. And eat all the Snausages, for that matter. Bitch should at least be looking out for herself. But no.
And now… I realize I probably shouldn’t have told you about this. For one thing, a couple of you know where I live. And it’s probably not too hard for the rest of you to find out. And now you know we have a lousy watchdog. And Snausages. And fart-free couches! Shit! Don’t any of you get the idea of coming over here to mess with our stuff, dammit. I can always train the damned dog — you don’t know. Or buy a watchtiger, or a watchcobra, or something. I’m serious. Ain’t nobody farting on these couches but me, you got me?
Well… me, and the dog, most likely, while she’s sleeping there most nights. Fucking little princess, she is. Lousy dog.
Permalink | 5 CommentsThey say that ‘idle hands are the devil’s playthings’.
Actually, ‘they’ say that to me quite often, come to think of it. ‘They’ might be trying to tell me something. I think maybe ‘they’ should mind their own fucking business. But that’s another post.
So, anyway — ‘idle hands’. ‘Devil’s playthings’. Right. I’m calling bullshit on that right here. I mean, this is Satan we’re talking about here. Dude’s got all the cash in the world. He could have anything he wants to play with — do you really think he spends his leisure time sitting around on other peoples’ thumbs? No. The devil has other playthings, I’m certain. I’ve even given some thought as to what they might be. For instance:
I’m pretty sure that the devil has a Barbie doll. And I’m guessing it’s Courtney Love. Some people might say Martha Stewart, or Pam Anderson. Linda Tripp was a fair candidate there, for a while. But I’m going with the widow Cobain — she’s got the look, the wardrobe, and the reputation. And she’s no fly-by-night evil princess, either — she’s been at it for years. And with veins full of blow and gin, that’s pretty damned impressive. She’s a real Beelzebabe, for sure.
So, what else? How about the Playboy Mansion as the devil’s Malibu Barbie dollhouse? Courtney needs a place to live, right? Or maybe you’d prefer her in Guantanamo — that’s a nice dollhouse, too. And hell, lately, most of the world might vote for the White House. It’s all good — take your pick.
But the devil doesn’t just play with the girlie gadgets — no, I’m thinking the big kahuna of mayhem would have every kind of toy. Like how about:
Eh, that’s enough for me. But surely you guys can think of some, too. So what have you got? What do you think the devil’s using for entertainment these days? ‘Cause it’s not my idle hands — that’s nasty!
Permalink | 3 CommentsWell, that’s kind of a kick in the ass.
I woke up this morning to find droves — nay, hordes — of people lining up to peep the site. By nine am, there were more here than I get in a typical day. Very exciting.
Except… when I checked the server logs, I found that the vast majority — maybe that’s ‘hordejority’, no? — were only looking for FHM pics of Rachel Ray. Which I mentioned, and linked to, in this post, wherein I waffled back and forth between gaping at her piccies and cowering in fear at her enormous yapper.
(And for anyone who’s not aware of the slang here, ‘yapper’ means mouth. This was ‘FHM‘, people, not ‘Celebrity Chef Beaver Circus‘.
Although, really — aren’t we just about up to that point, as a society? I would so buy a copy of that. Just don’t tell Barefoot Contessa. Yeeks.)
Anyway, needless to say, I was disappointed. But not nearly so disappointed as everyone who showed up, clicked through, and found that — oops! — FHM must have archived those pics. Not there any more. Damn.
(Hey, but don’t fret, people. They’re still out there somewhere — like right here, see?
Yeah. Let that guy have some of the traffic for a while. My hit counter is getting tired.)
So, there you go. If you’re just here for the cooking cutie, then hop through that last link and get your culinary freak on. Otherwise, stick around and have a read. You won’t learn anything, particularly — but maybe it’ll get your mind off the fact that you’re trolling blogs looking for non-naked cooking show chicks who could literally bite you in half, but wouldn’t give you the time of day. Man… it makes it sounds so cheap when I put it like that, doesn’t it?
Oh, and before I go — you may not learn anything around here, but I can still share something that I learned, over the weekend. I accidentally, but very precisely, measured my own IQ over the past 48 hours or so. Here’s what I found:
I am, apparently, dumb enough to attempt to cut my own hair. I am, however, smart enough to know that I now need to wear a hat to work for the next three weeks.
Boy, the things we find out about ourselves, eh? All right, enough of that — get back to your cooking show wank-fantasies, people. Me and my bad haircut are out.
Permalink | 3 Comments
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