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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Hey, kiddies. Looks like it’s the fifteenth again, so it’s time for another low-effort two-in-one post. Low-effort for me, anyway — you people still have to do all of that pesky reading, I’m afraid. So let’s get cracking, and get this party moving.
First, you should know that the new Zoiks! magazine issue is out today. There, you’ll find a handful of giggly, snorty humor pieces that may well make you upsnort your coffee onto the monitor. Oh, and I’ve got a piece there, too. Check that out, if you’re into that sort of thing. ‘Cause I know you are. Perv.
Meanwhile, have a gander at my last Zoiks! piece below. Sure, it’s been up over there for a couple of weeks, but hey — if you haven’t read it, then it’s new to you, right? And if you have… well, the truly new one will still be new to you. And I’m doing zero work here whatsoever, so we’re all getting something out of this. Let’s rock, baby. Happy Sunday.
To Have, and to Hold… and to Sort the Whites, Apparently
So, I’m married. That’s right, ladies — this squeeze bottle of man-sauce is off the table. And I’m very happy — some might even say ‘relieved’ — to be enveloped each day in wedded bliss… but it doesn’t always go smoothly. Marriage is fantastic, but nobody ever said it was ‘easy’.
First of all, there are the rules. In my house, these are set by my wife, and there’s an absolutely dizzying array of them to memorize. For instance, dirty laundry apparently goes into something called a ‘basket’. And later, into a ‘washing machine’. I’ve been told that it’s my job now to make these tricky little transfers. I’m not sure where exactly in the wedding vows they covered this material; I didn’t hear it then, but my wife has assured me it’s legit.
(On the other hand, can I really trust her on something so important? I mean, she is in law school, after all — she’s actually training to win arguments and convince people that she’s right. Personally, I think she’s angling for some sort of ‘post-nuptial agreement’. And I’d be a lot more concerned, if I had anything worth splitting in half. Right now, the best she could get is a pair of jeans and half the six-pack in the fridge. Something to keep an eye on, though.)
There are other rules, too. Apparently, once you’re married, there’s no peeing in the shower. Even if you’re alone — I know, I know; it sounds crazy, but those are the rules. And there’s no going in the sink, either. Honestly, where the hell am I supposed to pee? I already know I can’t touch the toilet — some days, I wonder whether the ‘seat down, lid up’ situation there is the only thing standing between me and divorce proceedings. I got that right once; I’m not risking screwing it up by actually using the toilet. That’s what the neighbors’ begonias are for, though, right?
At least the spirit of compromise is still alive in our marriage. I can always skirt around a rule, so long as I’m willing to give a little on some other issue. So, I can get out of laundry one week, but I’ll have to unload the dishwasher. Or I can trade trimming the lawn for vacuuming the floor. In a French maid outfit, while singing ‘I’m a Little Teapot’. It’s not pretty, but if it keeps me away from the lawnmower, then it’s worth the humiliation. And it’s not nearly as bad as what I have to do to get out of bathing the dog. The widow down the block still won’t look me in the eye after last time.
On the whole, though, being married is a pretty sweet deal. Sure, it’s not great for my comedy career — apparently, ‘lonely and desperate’ is downright hilarious — but it’s nice to come home to a kiss on the cheek, a night of watching television together, and a warm, snuggly bed. And on those rare occasions when I do manage to mow the lawn, it’s my wife who has to wear the French maid getup. Didn’t I tell you marriage was fantastic?
<Cue voiceover trailer for new movie in 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…>
‘Last fall, you lived the drama. The hits, the pitches, the constant spitting and ass-patting and crotch-scratching — you watched it all, riveted to your television screens as the Boston Red Sox won their first World Series in decades.
Later, you watched the season documentaries, and bought the ridiculous Sports Illustrated swag, and rented Ken Burns’ baseball documentary. You didn’t watch it, of course, but you rented it, to look cool for your friends. Maybe you even went to see Fever Pitch. Unless, of course, your friends warned you first. Honestly, Drew Barrymore doesn’t show off the goods in this one, so why bother? Really, we looked into it.
Anyway — now it’s time for the insatiable Hollywood beast to cash in again on the wave of Sox Fever sweeping the nation. No, one movie wasn’t enough, dammit — why would you ask that? We made four Chucky movies; we have no conscience. Don’t be silly.
So, it’s time for ‘Fenway Fantasy‘ — a movie to show you what really happened during that thrilling ride to the championship last October. We’ve got the inside scoop — as told to us by a guy who knows a guy whose barber knows the daughter of the clubhouse attendant at Fenway Park — and we’ve assembled a cast of all-stars to tell the story to you.
Relive the magic of the stretch drive, with Chris Rock as Pedro Martinez, Barry Bostwick playing the role of manager Terry Francona, and a scruffed-up Kevin James as ‘Cowboy Up’ sparkplug Kevin Millar.
Then, ride the emotional roller-coaster as the Sox fall behind the dreaded New York Yankees in the playoffs — featuring Jimmy Smits as Derek Jeter, Al Pacino as Joe Torre, and very special cameos by James Gandolfini as the ghost of Babe Ruth and Robin Williams as the hilarious and inspiring voice of Curt Schilling’s ankle sutures. We even scored Wesley Snipes to play David Roberts for the high-tension critical ‘stolen base’ scene, and changed the player’s name to ‘Willie Mays Roberts’. Because we’re Hollywood — we can do that. Ask anyone.
And finally, share again in the joy of the Red Sox’ World Series victory and celebration. We’ve got a beefed-up Steve Buscemi as Johnny Damon, Ving Rhames as David Ortiz, and Fred Savage as prodigal GM Theo Epstein. There’s even a touching scene where Manny Ramirez — played by Ice-T — promises a troubled teen (Macauley Culkin) that the Sox will finally take home the big one.
And, since the Cardinals series was a total letdown and we cast a bunch of extras for the whole team, we wrote in Renee Zellweger in as a spunky but nearsighted female umpire with a heart of gold. Maybe we’ve got her blowing a call at just the right time for the good guys. Or maybe she sneaks in and rubs ‘magic lotion’ on Schilling’s ankle before the big game — the secret ingredient is love. Or how about if she cornrows up her hair and has a three-way with Bronson Arroyo and Pokey Reese — you never know!
Because that’s the kind of bizarre, irrelevent shit we do in Hollywood, when it comes to sports stories. Remember all that nonsense in Major League with Rene Russo that you fast-forward past, once you realize she’s not getting naked and it has nothing to do with baseball? Yeah, we’ve got that, to bring in the chicks. It’s what we do. So sue us.
But before you do, come see ‘Fenway Fantasy‘ — a magical, mystical, nearly completely made-up tale of what really might have happened during the Red Sox championship season. Or maybe it didn’t. We heard it sixth-hand, and butchered it from there, but what do you care? You’re a rabid Sox fan, who’ll compulsively have to watch it. Or you’re a chick, and will show up for the love story angle. Or you’re a dude, and not from Boston, but you might get to see Renee Zellweger’s boobs, as far as you know. That’s worth a nine-dollar ticket and a bucket of popcorn, right? We think so. Cowboy up, movie fans!’
<End trailer. Begin angry lawsuit drafting by the Red Sox, Major League Baseball, and the Renee Zellweger Fan Club in 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…>
Permalink | No CommentsSo, just out of curiosity… has anyone else seen that TV commercial about the Book of Mormon that’s been playing the past few months? If not, here’s a quick (and faith-free) synopsis:
Girl #1 (blonde, very ‘girl next door’) is reading a book in a booth at a diner. We don’t get to see what she’s reading, exactly — ‘The Joy of Sex‘, maybe, or ‘Idolatry for Dummies‘; we’re probably supposed to think it’s something along those lines. Maybe it’s something written by that gay Teletubby; I really can’t speculate.
At any rate, Girl #2 (brunette, perky and hot — like, really hot; I’m talking hot like… like Hanson, when we all thought they were chicks. Remember that? That kind of hot) sits down in the booth and asks how the book is. Girl #1 makes a scrunchy sort of disappointed face, and says it’s not so good. She asks Girl #2 if she’s read anything good lately, and Girl #2 lights up, hands over her Book of Mormon, and starts with the Jerry Falwell routine.
(Or whoever the Mormon version of Jerry Falwell is; I really don’t keep up with such things. Hell, I don’t even know what a ‘tabernacle’ is — or why they apparently need young boys to sing about it. I never said this was going to be about religion, people. You want a spiritual guide, start drinking the peyote. I can’t help you there.)
Anyway, it’s an interesting commercial, I suppose, and maybe it’ll accomplish what they’re looking for and get more people into their little schismed-off club. I don’t know. What I do know, though, is that the only thing I think of when I watch is:
‘How much cooler would this commercial be if those two kissed at the end?‘
‘Cause that would be the hottest religion on the planet right there, buckaroos.
(Yeah, yeah — or the grossest, if you’re a straight girl. I know, I know — we did the ‘What’s so great about girls kissing?‘ thing in the comments a few posts ago. Just work with me on this one; I got nothing else to write about right now. I don’t bitch about your ‘recurring themes’, now, do I?)
Anyway, I’m thinking that would bring in a lot more converts, if the commercial went my way. That’s all I’m saying. Hell, throw in a keg or two of beer, and maybe a Snickers bar, and you’d have my attention. You might not drag me into a church, or talk me into any of that ‘tithing’ bullshit — but I’d watch your commercials. That’s for damned sure. And who wouldn’t want me going to their hell, eh? I think it works out well for everyone, frankly.
Permalink | 5 CommentsI have this theory. I believe that you can say anything you want, no matter how heinous or cheeky, just as long as you use the right tone of voice. And the person you’re saying it to isn’t really listening. And you have a damned good backup line for what you ‘really’ said. Hey, I never said it was easy, people. Being a smartass never is. But I believe it’s possible.
For instance, let’s say you’re a downtrodden cubicle monkey, slaving away your life at a joyless, soul-sucking corporate job.
(Um… not that I would know anything about that, of course. I wuvs my employer! MegaCorp is number one on the South Side! No, really.)
Anyway, let’s say you’re hanging out late at the office, because — well, let’s face it, because the boss made you. Why the hell else wouldn’t you scoot your ass out of there one second after five pm, right? So you’re there, doing some emergency filing or rearranging the boss’ Rolodex, while the boss plays solitaire or Pong, or downloads porn on the computer. All you’ve got to do is make sure the boss is particularly distracted, put on your best business-like tone, and say:
‘It says in this memo that it would be nice if you got off your fat ass and did some actual work once in a while.‘
Most people will tune out completely after ‘it says in this memo‘. Nobody wants to hear that shit. The most you’re likely to get out of your boss is a quick ‘hrm?‘, or a distracted grunt. And if you’re particularly unlucky — if you get an angry, ‘Whaaaaaaat?!‘, then you’ve just got to nonchalantly come back with:
‘I said, this memo says that our third quarter numbers were down, but things are looking up in the West Coast office. Why, what did you think I said?‘
And that’s it. People don’t really process what they’re never expecting to hear. Of course, you can only get away with it once or twice before people catch on — and you have to make sure there are no tape recorders whirring away. But apart from that, it’s good clean, safe fun!
And you don’t have to stop at the office, either. Oh, no. Got someone special in your life? A significant other — a spouse, maybe, or a fiancee. Maybe even a single neighbor who’s been smiling your way lately. You could always sidle up to that special boy or girl when they’re reading their morning paper or doing some gardening and say:
‘So, I’m going to take out the trash, and wash some laundry, and then I thought maybe we could strip down and go at it like a couple of sweaty teenagers on E. Sound like a plan?‘
Honestly, what would you get for that? A ‘Mmm-hmm‘? A ‘Sure, whatever‘? I’m telling you, this shit works, people. ‘A sphincter says what?’ was just the fricking beginning.
Of course, I’m not actually gonna try any of that sort of thing myself. That’s where you guys come in. Get out there and test the theory, folks. I’m sure it’ll go okay — no, really. It’s just that I’m more of an ‘idea guy’, not really an ‘action guy’. But it sure seems like fun, so give it a shot. And tell me how that works out. How badly could it go, eh?
Permalink | No CommentsSo, I meant to mention this a couple of days ago, but somehow it slipped my mind. I’m not sure how, exactly, because it’s haunting. Chilling, even. I’ve got a little shrinkage going on right now, just thinking about it. Brrrrrrr!
Anyway, here’s the thing — the software I’m using to maintain this little train wreck of a site comes complete with a search function. And all the searches get logged, so I can see what people are looking for within these pages. Usually, it’s the same old kinky nonsense, like ‘naked drooling stripperella‘, or ‘rachel ray dipped in chocolate‘. Or, for that matter, ‘olsen twins wrapped in bacon‘. People really are crazy, you know.
(And the point is still valid, even if nobody actually searched for any of those particular things. Sure, I made them up… but the real searches are much, much worse. And anyway, it’s only a matter of time. Honestly — the Olsen twins swaddled in pork products? That’s pure gold, man. I just happened to think of it first.)
Anyway, that’s not the point. No, the point is something that someone actually did search for, a couple of days ago. More specifically, three somethings — but only one someone, and that’s the scary part. A few days ago, I noticed the following real search queries, entered here from the same person, less than a minute apart:
Damn, people. I mean, first of all, on how many sites would you find even one of those words — much less all three?
(I’ve provided links through the search script for each, just so you know this isn’t the first time any of those terms have made an appearance. Or the second. Or, for that matter, the third. I may not make any damned sense, folks, but at least I’m consistent. That’s gotta be worth something.)
More creepily, though, who besides me would know to search here for those three words? Or even know the things existed? Besides that, there were no other searches from that machine — just the three. What in the name of unholy pervy hell were they looking for? I’m… I’m just so confused. And scared. And a little turned on, I’ve gotta be honest. Look, somebody out there thinks like I do, apparently. Who’s to say it’s not Rachel Ray, sitting at her computer, typing away? While wrapped in bacon. Or prosciutto, maybe. And dipped in chocolate. Now that’s cooking. Rrrrrrowr!
Permalink | 7 Comments
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