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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Well, folks, it’s the fifteenth once again, which means that it’s time for the old double whammy entry. And best of all, I don’t have to work for either whammy. Not tonight, anyway — I put my time in on these a few days ago. Nothing like riding on your own coattails, eh?
Anyway, here’s how we roll around here on the first and fifteenth — over at Zoiks!, you can catch my latest contribution, along with a half-dozen or so other giggle-filled comedic opuses. Or ‘opii’, whatever. I don’t have time to look this shit up on a Friday night, people. Help me out here.
Meanwhile, here at the ranch, you can peep my last piece, which has passed through the Zoiks! spotlight, and into the dusty archives. Which don’t actually exist, as far as I can tell, so it’s a damned good thing I’ve got the original copies. What a crime it would be to lose these gems from the collective works of humankind, eh? Right. Let that sink in for a minute. And stop snickering, dammit.
At any rate, last issue’s piece is below. And the current issue is ready, lubed up, and waiting for you at Zoiks! — and this double-dose of Friday fun is fully tax-free, folks. Soak it up, baby. Happy weekend!
The Secret Life of Standup
When I’m not toiling away here at the keyboard – which usually involves looking up words like ‘assbaggery’ or ‘douchetastic’ in online dictionaries – or working at my fabulous, brain-melting cubicle job, I’m an aspiring stand-up comedian. For those of you unfamiliar with this charming little hobby, here’s how it breaks down:
– Comedian – because I’m trying to be funny
– Stand-up – because the stool onstage is not for sitting, apparently
– Aspiring – because nobody’s paying my sorry ass to tell jokes to strangers in seedy bars
And that’s okay – we comics are in it for the love of the game. Which is good, because stand-up is not the most lucrative job in the world. They say, ‘love won’t pay the rent,’ well, comedy has trouble scraping up cash for the cable bill. Nobody this side of Cosby or Seinfeld is getting rich in the yuks business, that’s for sure.
But again, that’s all right, because the job certainly has its perks. Just think about the daily routine of a comedian for a moment: they get up at the crack of noon. They work twenty, maybe thirty minutes a day, tops. And they’re allowed – nay, even encouraged – to go to work drunk off their ass. Seriously, who else has it that good? It’s like being in Congress! Or being a drug mule, I suppose – though they generally have better health benefits than comics, of course.
Don’t get me wrong, though, folks – stand-up comedy is not all fuzzy bunnies and perky nipples. No, there’s a lot of work involved, too. First, there’s the pressure to constantly come up with new material. Personally, I write ideas down everywhere – at home, in the car, in the soul-sucking cubicle… even in the shower. Come to think of it, especially in the shower.
(Yes, because there’s apparently something about being wet and naked that makes me feel hilarious. Man, if I could only go onstage dripping wet and wearing nothing but my bunny slippers – oh, how I’d slay the audiences then! Unfortunately, the one time I tried this technique, the bouncers didn’t let me get anywhere near the stage. And now the club won’t let me back in anymore. Or return my phone calls. I think they kept my pants, too. The bastards.)
And, if that’s not odd enough, I even write jokes down in bed. Which my wife doesn’t particularly appreciate, especially if we happen to be, ah, ‘steaming fajitas’ at the time, if you know what I mean.
Still, I look at it this way – she’s been taking notes and laughing out loud during sex for the first dozen years we’ve been together. Well, now it’s my turn. The giggles are on the other pillow now,
baby.
Of course, being a stand-up isn’t just about the writing, either. You can’t scribble down a few jokes and call yourself a ‘comedian’ in much the same way that I can’t peck this crap out and call myself a ‘writer,’ apparently.
(An ‘aspiring writer,’ perhaps – and see above for the big fat bunch of nothing that will get me. ‘Aspiring writer’ and fifty cents will get you a cup of coffee. Or one-fortieth of a lap dance in Vegas, if you prefer – which is more entertaining, perhaps, but it doesn’t come with a side of cream and sugar. You pay extra for that.)
So, a comic has to practice, as well. For a while, I tried working on my routine at home, tucked away in my room. That was fine, until my wife started asking what I was doing, locked in the bedroom with a cucumber for an hour and a half every night.
(Just for the record, I was using it to simulate a microphone. Still, you probably shouldn’t let that get around. On the other hand, maybe you should. The last time I locked myself in a room with a cucumber, I was in and out in ten minutes. An hour and a half would sound much more impressive, I think.)
Barred from the bedroom – and the cucumber, by the way – I decided to join a ‘writing group.’ This is a handful of comics that meets every few weeks, and gives advice and suggestions on new material to each other. It’s sort of a support group for the stand-up set; a comics’ caucus, if you will. And it’s been a phenomenal help for me, personally, it’s great to get honest, constructive feedback like:
“Please, promise me you’ll never say those words to another person ever, ever again.”
Or: “I know I’ve said this before, but I truly couldn’t possibly think less of you right now.”
Ah, the fun we have. And what fun it is to be an aspiring comedian. Honestly, I can barely remember what life was like before stand-up, but maybe that’s just because of the booze and the debilitating, stage fright-induced post-traumatic stress. Still, it’s either perform comedy, or spend more hours sitting in the cubicle. And there’s nothing funny about that.
Permalink | No CommentsPeople, what you see here is what you get. As much as I might like to kid myself that I’m writing as some ‘character’, or ‘alter ego’, we all know the truth: I’m the same snarky, clueless screwup in my daily life that I am in print. And usually worse, because out there in society, I don’t get to edit shit before it happens. And you should see some of the willy-inducing crap I delete here before you see it. That shit would singe your eyelashes, follks. Trust me on this one.
So, even if some of what you see on these pages isn’t exactly true, in the strictest sense of the word, it does paint an awfully accurate-but-not-so-pretty picture of the trouble I’m likely to get myself into.
(And I’ll never tell which stories here are simply concoctions of my warped and fevered brain. And really — would that make things seem any better? Maybe I really did some assheaded thing or other that I describe here… and maybe I just imagined the whole embarrassing thing, and found three thousand words to describe it. Either way, I’m in sick puppy land, people. There are no ‘good’ answers on this test.)
Okay, let’s get this over with. My latest asshat extravaganza has to do with a show that I went to tonight. Now, normally I don’t say too much here in the ‘center ring’ about comedy shows. If I tape ’em, the link to the description shows up on the sidebar. If not, then that’s it — I’m not describing it, if I don’t have actual footage available to back me up. Nobody’s gonna trust my account of the events, anyway, right?
But I’m making an exception tonight. Not so much to tell you about the show. Although it was a good time — and chock full of fun comics I hadn’t met before. I even did a bit more material than in most shows, though I’m not sure the crowd was really ‘with me’ the whole way. Besides the fact that I’m still feeling my way through longer sets — and didn’t know beforehand that this show would turn out to be such an opportunity — the audience was comprised overwhelming of women. Sort of an ‘anti-pickle party’, if you will.
(Which is not to say that the audience was ‘anti-pickle’, necessarily — there just weren’t many menfolk to be seen, is all. And I don’t have a term handy for ‘anti-pickle party’ that’s any better than… well, than ‘anti-pickle party’, as unlikely as that seems.
What, you don’t believe me? Fine. How about we call it a ‘melon festival’, then? Or a ‘boobie bash’? Would you believe a ‘panty parade’? ‘Estrogen extravaganza’? See — this is what you get for not taking my word for it. Happy now?)
Anyway, I had a really good time — and a really good sandwich — at the show, so no complaints there. But here’s the thing — I found out about the show late last night. I had emailed Linda, who runs the room, about another comedy place she hosts, and she mentioned that a spot was open tonight. It was short notice, sure, but I’m always game for stage time, if I can weasel my way into it. And this one took barely any weaseling at all. Score, baby.
So, Linda included the details of the show — the name of the venue, show time, and such — in her email. And she added that the place was ‘in Marlborough, if that’s not too far for you‘.
Well, I’m no geography expert, and had never been to Marlborough, so I looked it up. And it wasn’t all that far from Boston — a little bit of a hike, sure, but I’ve done weekday shows in Lowell to the north, and Marshfield to the south, and never had any problems. It might take close to an hour to get there, and a little less to get back — late at night, after the traffic’s cleared out — but it’s all in a day’s work. We cool.
So, at work this afternoon, I decided to look up the actual venue — a coffee house / restaurant combo — to get directions. And I made an interesting and panic-inducing discovery:
Yes, the place was in Marlborough.
But not that Marlborough.
Meaning — I hadn’t signed up for a quick jaunt westward to Marlborough, Massachusetts. I was on board to schlep fricking West, with a capital ‘W’, and then south, across state lines to perform in Marlborough, Connecticut. Niiiiice.
Now, before I go any further — and it’s not like I have to tell you this, if you’ve ready any of my shit at all — but the mixup was entirely my fault. The first room I’d asked about — wasn’t in Massachusetts; it was in Connecticut. And it stood to reason, then, that Linda wasn’t in Massachusetts, either, and neither was this room that I was scheduled to perform in a couple of hours later. She’d even left directions at the bottom of the email — I just hadn’t read down far enough to see the big honking ‘CT’ staring back at me. That ADD really kicks in at inconvenient times, you know?
Anyway, long story not really shorter to speak of, I managed to wrap up what I was doing, get the directions, skip out early from work, and made it to Marlborough, Connecticut on time. Early, even. I don’t know if I would have had time to hit my Marlborough on the way out there — I wasn’t all that early — but once I finally clued in, it wasn’t such a big deal. I don’t know what you people were so worried about all this time. Sheesh.
(Hey, can we pretend this was one of things that only might have happened? Or say that I made the whole thing up? I think I’d rather be ‘delusional’ or ‘mental’ than ‘just fricking stupid‘ I’m goin’ to bed. Meh.)
Permalink | 1 CommentToday I’m ready, people. I’m in full ‘countdown to smackdown’ mode.
I think I’ve bitched about this before, but hey — it’s still better than a post about which Google searches got people here (which I’ve done, more than once), or a ‘what was I blogging about last year on this day?’ post (which is likely coming very soon, so get that disappointed look ready).
Anyway, here’s the thing — every few months, some person or other calls the house. Every day. At nine-thirty in the morning.
Now, many of you don’t quite see the problem yet, I’m thinking. You’re up and scurrying around by nine-thirty, doing whatever it is you crazy ‘early riser’ types do at that ungodly hour. Hell, some of you have probably already left for work by then — or, heaven help us all, arrived at work. Oh, the humanity.
But, see, we’re talking about me here. And I’ve never bought into that Ben Franklin bullshit of:
‘Early to bed, early to rise —
makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.‘
Dogknockers, I say. I’ve got my own little motto, and Benny-boy can shove his where the kite don’t fly:
‘Tardy to bed, and late to awaken —
Feeds the soul, and the liver, and the booties a-shakin’.
(Look, it’s nine o’frickin’ clock in the morning — that’s the best I can come up with right now. You got a better one; let’s see it.)
Anyway, back to the whining: I’m often not awake at nine thirty — especially on weekends, dammit — and certainly not coherent. So when the phone rings and wakes me up, I never get the chance to verbally beat the shrinky balls off of whoever would do such a thing. The phone, she rings. I slowly wake up. I get pissed; the phone stops ringing. Charlie loses again.
And there’s never a message, or anything useful like that — just once, I’d like to hear:
‘Hi, this is Joe, from your local cluetard office. We’re calling people in your neighborhood before 10am on a Sunday, because we’d like to incite some sort of riot or other in your area. What can we tell you — it’s a slow news day. Anyhoo, call us back at 555-5555; we’d love to chat about what a great idea this is! Ciao!‘
See, at least that would be honest. And I could track the number to a building somewhere, and go drop a flaming bag of poodle shit on their porch. Or better yet, a Hefty full of water buffalo turds. You gotta think big when you’re dealing with this level of assheadedness, you know.
Anyway, here’s the thing — through some combination of miracles, insomnia, and zodiacal alignmentation, today I’m awake. And it’s nine o’clock. So when the cheesebags call today, I’m going to be ready. Here’s the conversation I’m planning on having:
Me: Hello?
Them: Hi, this is <name I never want to hear again>; how are you today, sir?
Me: Oh, I’m just peachy. Where are you calling from, by the way?
Them: Well, sir, I’m with <company that deserves a big fat collective corporate wedgie>, and I’m calling today with a very special offer on our <asinine product or service that no one this side of a lobotomized gorilla would ever condiser paying money for> — it’s our best seller! Let me just tell you about —
Me: Hold on, there, Porky. What was the name of the company again?
Them: That’s <some acronym of ‘soggy Baggie of Satan spawn’, most likely>, sir, and we’re very excited to offer you —
Me: Yeah, zip it, Sparky. Does this company do anything else — other than offer <‘ice trays for Eskimos’, or ‘dildos for daschunds’, or whatever>, and call people while they’re sleeping?
Them: Um… well, no, sir. We’ve just got the one thing.
Me: Fine. So this’ll be simple: I’m never — never, ever — buying that thing. I don’t care what it is, what it does, or how much it doesn’t cost. It could change my life, wash my car, and pleasure me sideways — I don’t care. You called me before ten; you’re done.
Them: But… but, the offer. I’ve still got nine more paragraphs to read to you about it!
Me: Bup-bup-bup. Done. No sale. Ever. Don’t make me get Grinchy on your ass. Move along.
Them: But my commission is —
Me: Shoulda thought of that after ten o’clock. Have a nice, meaningless life peddling for <‘Jackasses, Unlimited’… ooh, no, no — ‘Cluetards ‘R Us’>; tell your bosses I’ll see them in hell, minion. *click*
Man, that’s gonna feel good. There’s nothing quite so satisfying as putting an assbag in their place, is there? I may go have a couple of beers, just to make sure I’m all lubed up and ready for this one. I’ll let you know how it goes.
*** Update: 9:56am — The phone rang at 9:30. Like clockwork. I picked up, all ready to be belligerent and frontin’ and shit.
It was the Fraternal Order of Police.
I donated twenty dollars. You don’t fuck around with the cops, man.
And not only did I not lay down the over-the-phone pimpslap, but now that they actually extracted money from me, they’ll be calling me for the next nineteen pledge drives. At nine thirty in the morning, every three months, or whenever the local cops need their badges polished again. Dammit.
This blows, man. Can I just go without a phone, so I can get some fricking sleep? Sheesh.
Permalink | 5 CommentsFolks, maybe it’s the way that I see associations, even when there probably aren’t any there. Or maybe it’s because I get all my news from my ‘My Yahoo’ page, and then only rarely. Or maybe I’m just a slobbering douchebag. Whatever the case, I raised some serious eyebrow at the top two headlines I just saw together:
New Pope to Face Enormous Financial Issues
Advisors Oppose Silicone Breast Implants
Wow. I’m not sure which thing-that-will-get-me-sent-straight-to-hell to think first. I mean, on the one hand, it makes good sense, right? If you’re strapped for cash, then a luxury item like getting your tatas bodaciatized seems imprudent.
On the other hand, in this case it might be a good idea. After all, the next pope is going to be a man, right? And with a healthy set of implants close at hand… well, let’s just say that would cut down on the travel expenses and souvenirs. Hell, if I were him, I’d never leave the Vatican. I hope the showers have plenty of hot water in there. Yow.
Come to think of it, I didn’t even know the pope had advisors like that. Sure, there are guys hanging around to interpret the bible, and help with the laundry, and floss the papal teeth… but is this really a matter that comes up often? Are there really cardinals and priests and advisors waiting around for the pope to ask:
‘So… could my boobs be bigger? In a strictly pious sort of way, of course.‘
Maybe that’s not their only job, I suppose. These are probably the same clergy assigned to assure the pope that, ‘No, your eminence — the robe does not make your ass look fat.‘ Nice work, if you can get it.
Okay, that’s bad enough. But since we’re on the subject, just try not picturing a spritely John Paul from a few years back, sunning on his balcony with a perky pair of Partons. Can you fight back the image? If so, you’re a better person than I. And you’ll sleep a lot better tonight, too — that shit is freaky.
Of course, even when we’re done conjuring up images and frightening the children, there are still word games left to play. For instance, if I were rewriting the headlines to make them more interesting, using only the words in the originals, maybe they’d look like this:
Advisors Oppose Financial Issues
New Pope to Face Enormous Silicone Breast Implants
Sure, sure — the first one is pretty lame. But the second — damn. Whose vestments do you have to ruffle to get a shot at this ‘pope’ gig, anyway? If that’s the job description, I’ll give it a shot. It’s worth learning a little Latin for, that’s for damned sure.
All right, that’s probably enough. Obviously — for you lazy asses who didn’t check the links up front — the two stories weren’t related at all. We don’t even know who the new pope is yet — much less whether he’s naturally well-endowed. He might already have a set of man-boob B-cups or better, and then the whole idea is moot. And the boobjob story was some FDA thingy or other. Honestly, I didn’t really read it — once I saw there were no pictures to check out, I sort of moved on.
(And dammit, in going back to look again, I saw that they replaced ‘Advisors’ with ‘Panel’ — which is probably more accurate, but if I’d seen ‘Panel’, I probably would have never made this silly-assed connection. Popes don’t have ‘panels’, that I know of — but they’ve seemingly got ‘advisors’ crawling out from under their vestments whenever there’s an issue afoot.
If only I’d checked the page a few minutes later, we’d have both been spared the embarrassment above. I guess (bad) timing really is everything, eh?)
Anyway, as long as I’m here, let’s see if there are any other headlines in today’s news that would have been as entertaining, if paired up with the ‘plastic puppies’ story. Ah, yes. Here we go:
Spears Reveals Pregnancy on Her Web Site
Advisors Oppose Silicone Breast Implants
(Well, yah. Where the hell would the kid eat from? Won’t somebody think of the children? Or, in this case, the fetuseses?)
Or how about:
NFL Adopts Olympic Testosterone Standards
Advisors Oppose Silicone Breast Implants
(It’s the new, non-penis-shrinking, drug-free way to bigger pecs! And what a marketing opportunity for the league — ‘cross your heart’ quarterbacks and double-D cup defensive lines. The backfield isn’t the only thing that’s ‘stacked’ in this game, gents! Hut hut!)
Would you believe:
Meat, Milk from Clones Look Normal, Study Finds
Advisors Oppose Silicone Breast Implants
(Which is probably good — jesus, how many teats do cows have, anyway? Think of the ‘enormous financial issues’ that would cause!)
All right, I’m done here. Remind me never to read the news ever, ever again, would you? And I see why they changed the headline from ‘Advisors’ — asshats like me are going to take that kind of thing and run with it every time. Peter Jennings would have a fricking field day. Sheesh.
Permalink | 2 CommentsHey, folks. Let’s try something, here.
Let’s pretend that this entry was really posted yesterday, on Sunday, the way that I’m back-dating it to seem. I don’t feel so bad posting an ‘update’ sort of post on the weekend, but I try to stay away from that sort of thing during the work week. Some of you people have soulsucking, grueling cubicle jobs, and you need any entertainment this meager site might provide. I understand that — hell, I live that — so let’s pretend we’re still basking in a tubful of steamy Sunday goodness, okay?
(Unless that ‘steamy tub of goodness’ thing has csome sort of freaky sexual connotation for you — I’m not here to feed your fantasies, bub. I’m just the monkey hired to make you laugh; keep it in yer pants, there, mister.)
While we’re at it, let’s also pretend that the show clips I just posted, from the 1st and 3rd of this month, were finished a few days ago. Let’s just gloss over the fact that it took me a week-plus to manage to get those things online.
(And then, let’s pretend that I learned my lesson and also put the clip from Saturday’s comedy extravaganza on the site, too. I didn’t, of course — but we’re pretending now. Anything is possible, when you use your imagination, kids. It’s like magic!)
Now, let’s all pretend that I’m actually saying something witty here in this paragraph. It’s probably just a little bit dirty, too. Maybe it involves taxidermy, or carny folk, or banana cream pie. And then, maybe there’s some witty punchline that starts with: ‘That’s when I realized that it wasn’t a ‘sock puppet’, after all …‘ Good, good. Now pretend you’re snorting coffee all over your monitor. Excellent. This is going swimmingly.
Next, let’s pretend that the search function on the site was working all along. Let’s forget, just for a moment, that it broke two or three weeks ago, and that I never mentioned that it was down, or that I finally fixed it last week. Just close your eyes and visualize a working search box, where your requests for entries containing the words ‘tasticles‘, or ‘craptastic‘, or ‘douchebaggery‘ are promptly and correctly served. Ah, what a wonderful world we pretend to live in!
And since we’re already ass-deep in la-la land, let’s also pretend that I’m making some sort of biting, insightful social commentary right now. I never do any of that shit, but maybe just this once I’ve found a way to tie steroids in baseball to rising gas prices. Or blame the pope’s death on Michael Jackson’s trial. Humorously, of course. And tastefully, too.
(Hey, if we’re going to use our imaginations, we might as well go ‘full monty’ with that bad boy, right? You may never see ‘tasteful’ around here, but dammit, you can dream it.)
Okay, that’s probably enough make-believe for now. I think I may have taxed you with that last bit — I smell some smoke coming from the direction of your ears. We’ll stop now — just breathe, and relax, and slowly make your way back to reality. It’s Monday morning. You’re at work. It’s okay now. The tasteful sock puppets and the carny workers covered in banana cream are all gone now. Breathe it out.
On the other hand, I like that pretend world. You can stay here in your cubicle if you want, but I’m going back in. Screw Monday, man. Calgon, take me awaaaaaay!
Permalink | 2 Comments
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