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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Hey, folks. It’s the first of the month again, and that means another tour through the wild and wacky world of Zoiks! As usual — if you can call the last two months or so ‘as usual’ — when a new Zoiks! issue hits the e-stands, I take a day off from writing.
But that doesn’t mean you lose, dear reader — oh my, no. See, the way this works out, you get two posts in one. First, I’ll post my piece from the previous Zoiks! issue right here, for my comfort and your pleasure. Then, you can check out the latest piece — plus a half-dozen or so other giggly works by other humoratious types — over at the Zoiks! website. Two for the price of none — it’s unbelievable!
(Of course, if you’re a regular Zoiks! reader, then I guess you’re really getting none for the price of none, since you’ve already read one piece, and you’ll see the other one anyway. Hey, I can’t please everyone, dammit. Just ask my wife. Sheesh.)
All right, then. Without further ado, let’s get this party started. Check out the piece below, and then run on over to Zoiks! for more Sunday entertainment. More fun than the funny pages, and the ink won’t rub off on your fingers. Huzzah!
An ‘Ace’ in the ‘Hole’
As an aspiring comedian, I find that my life in its current form presents a significant disadvantage. For one thing, I’m married — and married people aren’t nearly as funny as bitter, tortured souls fresh off a nasty, prolonged breakup. I’ve thought about slowly tormenting my wife until she finally snaps and drags me through a painful divorce — but so far, it’s not working very well. I’ve only succeeded in driving her to law school. I think she’s angling for some sort of post-nuptial agreement. Sneaky girl, she is.
Meanwhile, I’m kidless. Many comics who find themselves hopelessly married will squeeze out a couple of puppies, just for the comedy material. But it’s not for me. Don’t get me wrong — I’m as big a fan of potty humor and drool jokes as the next guy. But I’m dealing with limited funds here, and when it comes down to having cash for beer or putting a kidlet through college — well, it’s a pretty easy choice, frankly. And with enough drinking money, I can still pick up some potty and drool material, which is a nice bonus.
Worse than the family situation, though, is the job front. Ideally, a good comic will be unemployed — not to mention unshaven, unkempt, and as close to destitute as possible. It seems that ‘suffering for your art’ is downright hilarious, apparently. And while I (and most audience members) have certainly suffered through my ‘art’, suffering for it hasn’t really been an issue.
True, I was between jobs when I decided to try comedy, but I picked up an ‘office gig’ just before my first onstage gig, and I’ve been gainfully employed ever since. It’s not even a comedically helpful job, like ‘traveling salesman’ or ‘rabbi’ or ‘Michael Jackson’. It’s just a plain, boring old corporate job, where nothing funny ever happens. Last Wednesday, we ran out of ‘creamer’ in the office kitchen; that’s pretty much as giggly as it gets over there. ‘The Office’, it ain’t, folks.
You might think that this situation would garner me a bit of respect. Battling the obstacles above, I’ve managed to perform at a few dozen shows, and carved out a modest little hobby for myself in standup. But do people appreciate the effort? Do they recognize the struggle? Do they offer mad props? No. No, when friends and neighbors discover that I’m performing comedy, against all odds, they all have the same reaction:
‘So, you’ve got a job, and a wife, and yet you’re telling jokes onstage to strangers? Wow. You… you must really have a small penis.’
Now, I don’t know about you fellows out there, but when my penis comes up in conversation, I’m always reminded of Abraham Lincoln.
(No, it’s not the resemblance — really. Although I do have a little stovepipe hat that I like to strap on, and… no. It’s definitely not the resemblance. Honestly.)
I always think of what Old Abe once said when he was asked how long a man’s legs should be. Apparently, it was some matter of debate back in the day whether short, stumpy little legs were better, or long, gangly legs were superior. And, as with any issue of critical national importance, they asked the president.
And you just know that it was a long-legged dude that brought the question to Lincoln. Because Honest Abe was enormous — something like six feet, six inches.
(That’s six-nine, with the afro. And seven-two, with the hat.)
So it was surely a long-legger that posed the length question to him, looking for a little love for the ‘home team’. It’s like Pam Anderson asking Dolly Parton how she feels about ‘A’ cups. It’s a loaded question.
But old Abe was a diplomat, and he gave a true politician’s answer; he said:
‘A man’s legs should be just long enough to reach the ground.’
You see what he was getting at, right? What he really meant is that — no matter what part of the anatomy we’re talking about — it’s not the ‘size’ that matters. Nor the ‘length’. Nor, for that matter, the ‘girth’. Nor the ‘horrible burning sensation when you pee’. No, friends, what really matters is whether the equipment in question can get the job done. That’s the bottom line.
So the last time someone suggested to me that my comedic aspirations must be the result of a dangly deficiency, I looked them straight in the eye, and I said:
‘Small penis? Well, I don’t know about that… grandma. But I’ll tell you this — it’s just long enough to reach the ground.’
Metaphorically speaking, of course. Still, a metaphorically massive member is about the only advantage I have in this business, and I need all the help I can get,
Permalink | No CommentsWell, what’s a time-pressed blogger to do, eh?
I’m wrapping up preparations (read: drinking heavily; it’s what comics do, dammit) for my show tomorrow night. Meanwhile, the recent posts around here have been shorter and further between. And I’ve got a week’s worth of tasty reader comments to respond to.
And… hey, there you go. Let’s kill two birds with one stone here, kiddies. Or, as I like to call it, slobber up two boobs with one ‘Brrrrrrrrritzky!‘
(Okay, I don’t really call it that. But I wish I did. At least in front of people who don’t have the power to fire, arrest, or divorce me. I’ve been waiting years to use that.)
Anyway, I’m taking the lazy way out — I’m gonna go through the past few days’ worth of comments, and if I can get any mileage out of answering any here, then that’s what I’ll do. Free topics, no pressure, and half the words will be someone else’s — why the hell didn’t I think of this before? Dunno — maybe I’m just a cluebag. Let’s get to the old mailbag, shall we?
From QuirkyChick, commenting on Move Over, Brawny…:
What I don’t get is why a guy would want to cover up his grey. Salt and pepper is so sexy.
Well, QC, I’m not really sure, either. I don’t know about the ‘sexy’ part, per se, but it just seems like a hell of a lot of work to try and defy the aging process. Besides, it’s ultimately a losing proposition — sure, any of us who’ve been on the planet for more than a couple of decades would like to look like we did a few years ago… but it’s just not gonna happen. I don’t care if your hair is neon blue, you bathe in botox, and get weekly Oil of Olay enemas — eventually, the age is going to show.
And there’s nothing wrong with that, in my book. Who the hell cares how many times you’ve made it around the sun? Gray hair, wrinkly cheeks, saggy boobs — those are badges of honor, for surviving long enough to earn the right to wear them. And I’m not just saying that because at this point, I have all three.
Okay, maybe I am. Whatever. Next caller!
From Mellie Helen, on the same post:
Seems to me that guys don’t like having to do chores over and over again. So instead of hair dye, that does have to be reapplied occasionally, how about: Magic Markers! They’re permanent!!
You know, that’s not a bad idea, for people who feel they have to go the hair-coloring route. But hell, I could never stay inside the lines in those damned crayon coloring books growing up — how long would it take to mark up every fricking hair on my head? Maybe this would be better for those guys who are graying and balding. Less muss, less fuss. And you get high on the marker fumes while you’re at it — hey, macarena!
Hoo boy, this is fun. Let’s try another one.
From Scott-san, commenting on Anybody Got an Eight-Minute Fart Joke…:
If you get ’em laughing hard enough, won’t that eat into your time? Put the stuff you’re most unsure about at the end and front-end load your set with the best stuff.
Scott, I appreciate your sunny outlook, in a couple of different ways. First, that people laughing during a show can shave significant time off of a thirty-minute set. Second, and more importantly, that I actually have the material in me to get that sort of show-stopping, time-eating, drink-spewing hilarity.
(And hey, maybe you weren’t really suggesting that. Still, a guy can dream, can’t he? And I can use the boost, going into this show — it’s cool to even pretend that someone thinks I could do that. You know, without actually dropping my pants. Meh.)
Which brings us — that is to say, talk of the show brings us, as opposed to my pants-dropping nonsense — to our next comment:
From my good friend and hilarious Boston-area comic Daniella:
Actually, I think I would start and finish with my most solid/proven material and put the newer/unfounded stuff in the middle. That way, if the newer/unfounded stuff doesn’t go over that well, you can recover with your solid/proven stuff to close strong.
Just my two cents.
I wouldn’t worry too much – you’ll do great!
Yep, this is how it’s done, from what I’m told. Start big, finish big, and just hope you survive in between. It’s sort of like playing a basketball game in that way, or campaigning for office, or having sex with twins, maybe. Not that I’ve ever done any of those things, frankly, but that’s what I understand. From other people who’ve probbaly never done any of them, either. But I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the point.
Ah, right. The point is just what Daniella said: I’m gonna try starting out with stuff I’ve done and gotten giggles from, and then work my way down into the fetid, stinking pit of shit that probably only I think is funny, and try to crawl back out of the hole before the broken bottles start flying. We’ll see how that goes. Maybe I’ll wear a hockey mask, just in case.
Hey, and while we’re taking comments from fellow comedians:
From my merry and multi-talented standup/writer buddy Jenn, commenting on It Feels Like a Firing…:
So, um….are you shocked at all that I read “melting clocks” as “melting cocks”? Which I’m sure is a little known Dali piece…
Surprised? No. Not so much. But I’m not sure that Dali’s ‘cockwork’ is really that obscure — I’ve seen a few of his pieces with all sorts of drawn-up nudity, and the clocks aren’t the only saggy objects he could draw. Some of that stuff would keep you awake at night, baby. *shudder*
And from Debi, on the same post:
I, for one, am just wicked impressed that, not only did you reference Dali in a post, but that you know two separate works of his! He’s probably my favorite modern painter, which for some reason drives some of my art teachers crazy…
Actually, I’m a big Dali fan, too — floppily-drawn body parts notwithstanding, of course. I even got to go to the Dali museum in London last year, which was very cool. Sort of small, and pretty creepy in a lot of ways, but still — very, very cool. Worth the trip, just for the sketches.
And finally, from SilverBubble, commenting on Hey, Why Does the New Office Smell…:
My mom always called them dirty pillows.
A combination Taco Bell/KFC? That’s located on the corner of Heaven and Paradise, right?
Firstly, I still prefer ‘love pillows’. I don’t like to think of them as ‘dirty’, exactly — and frankly, luuuuuuv pillows sounds way dirtier — in a good way.
And secondly, about the combo ‘KF Bell’? Yes — heaven and paradise, baby, heaven and paradise. You have to experience the greasy, tasty hangover to believe it. Them’s good eatin’!
All right, that’s far more than enough drivel for now. I’m off for a few hours of sleep, and then it’s off to fabulous, sexy western Massachusetts tomorrow for the comedy extravaganza. Assuming I survive that, I’ll talk to you folks in a day or so. Happy weekend, people!
Permalink | 2 CommentsOkay, before I get started tonight, a quick comment on a TV commercial that’s been playing lately:
Have you guys seen that ‘MLB on XM Radio’ ad, with the fans of rival teams running into each other and managing to be civil to each other? Cute, sure. But at the end, where the Red Sox and Yankees fans living next to each other shake hands?
No. I don’t think so. The only way any self-respecting Sox or Yanks fan shakes hands with someone on the ‘other side’ is if they’ve got a raging case of syphillis and they’ve just peed on their hand.
(And no, I’m pretty sure you probably can’t contract syphillis from a wet-wee handshake. Still, that doesn’t really matter, does it? You’ve still just pissed on your own hand, just so a little bit of it might rub off on the enemy. It’s not quite ‘cutting off your nose to spite your face’, but it’s damned close. And far nastier.)
Okay, enough of that. What else can we rap about?
(See, ‘rap about’ — that’s me, trying to be ‘street’.
Which doesn’t work at fricking all, of course. The very first rule of talking ‘street’ is to not put ‘street’ in parentheses. Damn, I could never do this. In high school, I was voted ‘Least Likely to Raise the Roof’. Poopstain.)
Anyway, what’s next? How about the new office I moved into today? That was pretty cool. There was a bit of a touch-and-go moment, when my officemate offered to trade desks with me. I mean, sure, his side has a little more desk space — but we already ‘marked our territory’ last week, when we toured the place. I am so not sitting on that side now. Bleh.
(Hey, look at that — two peepee references in the same post. And to think I don’t even charge for this stuff. Crazy!)
So, the new office is cool. The only problem with it is that there aren’t any whiteboards. I know, I know, that’s all nerdy and shit — hey, see ‘street’ discussion above; this ain’t Ice-T you’re talking to here. At any rate, let’s just say that I like to draw stuff at work. Stuff with boobs, mostly — I have to disguise them, of course, but I know they’re still there, and that’s what matters. I’ve gotten good at it, too — ever seen an org chart with boobies? Done it. A to-do list where the first letter of the items spells out ‘L-O-V-E P-I-L-L-O-W-S’? That takes some doing, but I’ve gone the extra mile before. Or a Venn diagram with… well, okay, all Venn diagrams are basically just a set of cleavage. That’s barely even a challenge.
Anyway, the cool thing is, we figured out that we can just write on our windows. They erase, and everything, too. Not that we’d want to erase them — why not share the boobies with everyone, eh?
(No, really, ladies. Share the boobies. Just a little. Just a peek, is all I’m saying. We’ll talk later. I’ve got tat, if that’s what you’re after. Just a thought.)
So, all’s well in the new office. Today, we had desk chair races and packing peanut fights, and wrote rude words like ‘buttface’ and ‘stinkmonkey’ on Post-Its and slapped them on each others’ desks. Oh, and how we laughed and laughed. Tomorrow, we’re planning on going out to lunch at the combination Taco Bell-KFC a few blocks away — and how fucking awesome is that place, by the way? — so by tomorrow afternoon, we may just end up with some of the ‘christening components’ SilverBubble mentioned in the comments on my last post. Specifically, I’m thinking we’re probably in for a few ‘unidentified reddish-brown stains on the desk’ and ‘a sickly-sweet odor’, at a minimum. And tomorrow’s Friday, so there’s always a good chance that we’ll end up doing ‘a tribal dance’ or ‘chanting in a foreign language’. Particularly if we have the extra-crispy chicken chalupas. I like mine with refried beans and flaky biscuits. Ay, chihuahua, baby.
Permalink | 6 CommentsToday was a little bit surreal.
(No, no, I mean a little bit more surreal than usual. I know what you’re thinking — based on the shit shoveled around here, you probably think my daily life is something out of a Dali painting. And it’s not quite that bad… but yeah, it gets a little weird. Not quite ‘melting clocks’ weird, or ‘stilty-legged elephant’ weird, but not normal, that’s for sure.)
Anyway, today I packed up my desk at work. I’m not quitting, or fired, or anything drastic like that — believe me, if you’ve seen my standup, you know I’m not in a position to ‘quit my day job’. Or hell, even my writing job — and that doesn’t come with a paycheck! Oh, and just for the record — you’re soaking in it, right now. Lap it up, there, puppies.
So, the thing is, I’m moving to a new spot. New office, new officemate, new building — the whole thing. And it was odd packing up — all the books, and the papers, and CDs and notes, and pens… ooh, and the office supplies! Man, those moving boxes leave a lot of room for Post-Its and notebooks and staplers and such. That made it feel like leaving for good, too — stealing all the supplies that I could stuff into my boxes. But hell, who knows where the office supplies will be in the new building — or if they’ll even have any. Maybe the new space is in Amish country, or something, where they don’t believe in self-adhesive writing pads. A guy’s got to look out for himself, right? And now, I could paper my walls in nine colors of sticky pads. Sweet.
Of course, it wasn’t quite like quitting or being fired today. Sure, I cleaned out my desk — and the supply closet — and went home early to start drinking. But there was none of the random ‘You’ll be sorry!‘ screaming in the hallways, or waggling my privates at the boss on the way out, or peeing in the coffee pot in the office kitchen as a ‘goodbye present’.
(Okay, so there was a little bit of weenie-waggling in the boss’ office. But she was already gone for the day, so it’s cool. I was just getting in a little practice, for when they do eventually shitcan me. Man, I sure hope her videoconferencing cam was off today, though. Yow.)
So, tomorrow I start work in a new office. My computer will be there, and my books, and all of my fabulous new office supplies. It’ll be a fresh start — maybe I’ll get more accomplished, and be more productive. Hell, I might even surf for less porn on my lunch break — anything’s possible, right? I just hope they don’t move the coffee maker from the old office. We had a couple of layoffs a few weeks ago, and that coffee hasn’t tasted right since. Maybe sometimes change is good, after all.
Permalink | 6 CommentsSo, I’m watching baseball on ESPN tonight, and I see that Monday Night Baseball is brought to us by something called L’Oreal Men’s Expert. Wait… L’Oreal? Men’s?? Isn’t L’Oreal the smelly, colory crap that women use on their hair? Since when do companies catering to traditionally feminine needs feel the need to cross over into the realm of masculinatiousness? Where the hell is this going, anyway?
Honestly, what’s next? Condoms ribbed for his pleasure, and her comfort? ‘Massengill’s Mega-Manly Salad Dressing‘? Super-absorbent paper towels, brought to you by Playtex? Hugh Grant movies actually worth watching? My whole world is awobble.
Come to think of it, this phenomenon could work in reverse, too. How about Hemis under the hoods of those Lady Bics? Or beer that tastes like lilac? Would you believe Pamela Anderson in a poignant role as a scrappy, determined single mother in a very special Lifetime exclusive?
(Yeah. Me, neither. Unless she was shaking her silicone-enhanced sugar up and down a stripper pole to keep her kid in Frosted Flakes. But if that were the case, it wouldn’t be on Lifetime. And she’d be Demi Moore, and it’s already been done. So never mind.)
Anyway, it just struck me as odd. I suppose that L’Oreal stuff is for guys who want to color their hair — and that’s cool, if that helps you sleep at night. On a dye-stained pillow, to be sure, but still — to each his own hair color, I guess. I just figured that it would be a more… manly company that would move into that marketing space.
Like Krylon, maybe. You know, the company that makes spray paint for benches and deck chairs and that sort of thing. Hell, they’ve even got Johnny Bench shilling for them — there’s a fake-hair commercial waiting to happen, if I’ve ever seen one. Slap a big-assed thick black ‘fro on Johnny’s head, and you’d sell that shit to all sorts of guys, gray and bald alike.
Or maybe Wagner would be better. Their ‘Power Painter’ commercials are all over television, with guys filling in garages and houses and walls with all sorts of crazy colors. Line up a few gummy old men and paint their shocks of white hair up in clown colors with that thing; that’ll sell a few units.
Of course, maybe the key to getting rid of gray is simply cultivating more of your old, colored sort of hair, while discouraging the gray hairs from coming back. I smell a partnership opportunity there — maybe Roundup for the ‘weed’ killer, and ChemLawn for some sort of follicle fertilizer. Maybe without the horse poop and mulch, but hell, who knows — maybe phosphorus and nitrates are good for growing brunette hair. How can we know, if we don’t try?
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