About ThisAbout Me
Email Me
Bookmark
Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
<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 CommentsWell, spring has finally sprung, more or less, in New England. Don’t get me wrong — it’s still pretty damned chilly around Boston. Right now, it’s in the forties. The low forties. I walked out the door this morning, and found a scraggly little robin sitting on the porch. The bird looked at me and gave me a little ‘CHIRP‘, which I took to mean: ‘I flew back from fucking Florida for this?‘ I felt sorry for the thing, until it took a fairly-frozen poop on my car. Fricking birds.
Of course, spring also brings us other things. Like insects.
(I know, I know — I’m a hopeless romantic. Yeah.)
I’ve already been seeing a few of the little flying critters in the house, and it’s only going to get worse as the weather heats up. I’ve got this thing about bugs — I don’t like them, and they… well, they don’t really have brains, to speak of. So they probably don’t feel one way or the other about me, I suppose. As long as you’re not ‘food’, ‘sex’, or ‘roach motel’, then you’re pretty much off the radar.
(Come to think of it, that’s pretty much how I lived myself, all the way through college. And unfortunately, I spent more time avoiding roach motels than enjoying the other two. So pretty much, any bug alive is having a better time than I did in four years. Bastards.)
So, the bugs are back, and I’ve already sent a few to meet their hairy, creepy, icky little maker. But I can’t kill them all myself, and that’s why I’ve made a compromise of sorts this spring. I’ve formed an uneasy truce with the spider that lives in our bathroom.
Which is to say, I’m uneasy about it. I think we’ve pretty well established that the spider couldn’t give a gnat’s ass. Still, it’s creepy for me. I don’t normally associate with ‘that kind’ of animal, you know? Mainly, it’s all those extra body parts — that’s just freaky. And if I wanted eight legs and four pairs of eyes skittering around my house, I’d have the neighbor’s kids over to rummage through my shit. Yeah, no thanks.
But crawly bugs call for desperate measures. And the spider and I have a common enemy, so we’re a team. At least until fall, when I’ll be perfectly happy to moosh the little bastard with a shoe. That’s how I roll, baby. Ruthless. Dig it.
Of course, my wife has other ideas. She wants the thing dead now. I’ve tried to reason with her — let one bug live, and dozens might die. ‘Spare the spider, and curse the flies,’ that kind of thing. Personally, I look at the law of averages — so far as I know, there’s only one spider in the house. And there are all sorts of gnats and flies and mothy little buggers out there. So it’s really a matter of which is more likely to lay eggs in my Cheerios. My money’s on the non-spiders. But I still eyeball my breakfast before I add milk. You can never be too careful when larvae are involved. Seriously. I never want to have another one of those trips to the doctor. Whoo.
So, we’re living with a delicate balance of power. I want the bugs dead, so I let the spider live. And my wife wants the spider out — but she’s not so tall, so she can’t reach him on the ceiling. So I’ve set him up in his own little DMZ — as long as he stays up there, he’s free to gobble up the insects. And the bugs — well, they just want food and sex. Which I’m a big fan of, but not the bug kind. So basically, the spider’s getting a good deal out of this, and the rest of us are getting screwed. Or pissed. Or eaten. What was my point again?
I dunno. Springtime always makes me a little loopy. Anyway, happy Monday, folks. I’m off to keep an eye on that spider. I’ll let him stick around, but I don’t trust the little bastard.
Permalink | 11 Comments
![[Subscribe]](/blog/images/subscribe.png)
