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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Why is so much advertising predicated on what people around us are doing?
(And have I railed about this before? This already seems really familiar somehow. Seven hundred topics in a year and a half will do that to you, I guess. And the alcohol doesn’t help, either.)
Maybe it’s just me, but all I want to hear about are the merits of the particular product or service or entertaining diversion in question. It’s irrelevant to me if it’s the ‘most popular‘ or ‘award-winning‘, or that ‘millions of people can’t be wrong‘.
Well, of course they can. That’s just ludicrous. First of all, remember that most people are fundamentally different than you, with different needs and priorities — they’re a different gender, or outside your age group, or in a wildly different tax bracket. Or maybe they pull their toilet paper over the front of the roll, instead of from the back. Freakshows.
And besides that, some people are idiots. Not all people, mind you. Not even most people. Unless you’re late for work, of course. Then everyone around you is a cluebag. And they’re out to get you.
But the point is, you can’t possibly trust the decisions of others when it comes to your own choices. I just think of all the people out there who drive SUVs, or wear nice suits to work, or cheer for the Yankees, or watch The Golden Girls. How are those people going to help me? And what would my preferences mean to them?
I don’t know — maybe this type of advertising really works. Maybe we’re not supposed to think about it too hard, and most people don’t.
(Those are ‘back of the roll toilet paper’ people, I bet. They probably wear suits to Yankee games. I’m just saying.)
Anyway… eh. I forget what my point was. Some random commercial claimed ‘seven million people can’t be wrong‘ a little while ago, and started this whole thread. And I had nothing else for you tonight, so there you go. Instant blog post. I guess TV is good for something, after all. I should have listened to all those millions of people earlier, eh?
Permalink | 3 CommentsI bought flowers last week. There were boobs involved. The boobs were not my wife’s. And neither are the flowers. Perhaps I should explain, lest I land my ass in serious agua caliente.
(Just for the record, I also bought my wife flowers this week. Roses, even. They were delivered today as a Valentine’s Day present. And I think we’d both like to think that her boobs were somehow involved in that transaction somewhere, too.
Not that I wouldn’t buy her flowers if she were boobless, mind you. The roses weren’t just to say, ‘Hey, thanks for having boobs!‘ But still. Maybe a little.)
So, back to the other flowers. There’s actually a very simple and relatively harmless explanation for those.
(Or is it ‘relatively simple’ and ‘very harmless’? Eh, you be the judge.)
A co-worker and I decided late last week that we should have a meeting, to discuss… ah, who knows? Some new planning something-or-other, or how we’re gonna build some system, or whether we can find a way to slip kegs in through the back door — who can remember? But we needed a meeting, to discuss it further, whatever it was.
So, we toddled off to see our receptionist. Our young, happy-go-lucky, wide-eyed, must-be-still-in-college, rather busty receptionist.
Now, please understand, folks — I don’t make it my business to catalog the relative bustiness of our various support staff.
(Or anyone else, for that matter — unless checking occasionally to make sure I haven’t grown ‘man boobs’ counts.)
I couldn’t tell you thing one about the boobs attached to our office manager, or her assistant, or the various other women flitting around our office. Well… okay, I might be able to tell you ‘thing one‘ about a couple of them. But not thing two, or any of the numbered things further down the line, whatever they might be. I’m not at the office to leer. Let’s be clear on that point.
Our receptionist, though, is rather fond of advertising her cleavage, and apparently has designed her entire wardrobe to feature the upper halves of her breasts. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. It doesn’t do me a hell of a lot of good at this stage in life, but still — not complaining. There’s nothing wrong with a little eye candy, and why ruin a good thing for the young single bucks in the office, right?
So, anyway, I don’t deal with the receptionist — or her boobs — very often, but we needed this meeting room, so I went to ask about it. And as she was looking up the schedule on her computer, she asked if I wanted to donate money for ‘Daffodil Days’, a charity for cancer research which also seems to involve receiving flowers. How ‘receiving’ something works alongside ‘charity’, I’m not quite sure. But apparently, they’ve got a scheme worked out. Who am I to question fundraising methods?
At any rate, I gave it some thought, as she looked up our conference room. And my first inclination was to decline. Not because I’m against cancer research, of course — hell, I work for a cancer center. That’s what we do. But I already give to a few charities, some cancer-related, and I’ve really got no use for daffodils, as far as I can tell. I don’t even know what daffodils are, exactly. Sounds like an allergy medication or something.
That’s when I noticed the receptionist. She wasn’t looking at me, exactly — her eyes were still fixed on her computer screen. But her boobs — her boobs were staring right at me.
(Well, now, not the whole boobs, of course. Just the upper parts, like muffin tops sitting on a sill to cool. Or something. I’m giving myself the willies with these analogies. And suddenly, I’m hungry for baked goods. Jeez.)
Anyway, to make a long story short, her cleavage stared me down. And you don’t say ‘no’ to cleavage, folks. It’s unpossible. I gave her seven bucks. The flowers arrive this week sometime. What the fuck am I supposed to do with daffodils, anyway? *sigh*
Permalink | 8 CommentsSo, do you ever wake up in the morning, and — as you’re lying there, trying to figure out who you are and where you’re at and whose pants you’re wearing this time — have spectacular ideas?
Because I do. And the spectacularity of these ideas is matched only by the spectaculatiousness of my annoyance when I can’t remember any of the damned things ten minutes later. Somewhere between the bed and the shower, gold turns to dust.
(And not gold dust, either, because that would still be useful, from what I understand. No, just dust. Plain old common not-ambitious-enough-to-be-dirt dust. Bah.)
And so, I stand there under the shower, frowning and nonplussed.
(Which is not a sentence I’d like taken out of context, thank you very much. That’s how rumors get started.)
Anyway, I always have trouble remembering these groggy little gems, so I’ve made an effort recently to latch onto some piece of them in bed, when they first come to me. I figure that if I can associate some word or phrase with the idea as a mnemonic right away, then maybe I can remind myself what the hell I was thinking of later.
The title of this post is the first such reminder that I’ve successfully hung onto. It’s from yesterday morning. I have no fricking clue what the hell it means. Dammit!
Actually, that’s not quite true. I do know what it means, sort of — I remember having some idea about how cliches in sports are getting gradually more ridiculous, with metaphors about war and divine intervention and survival of the fittest spewing forth from all corners. And I remember thinking of a really fantastic, funny example of how absurd it might one day get. It was that one example, really, that led me to think that there might be more.
So, of course, I forgot the example. All I remembered was the ‘might be more’ part. So now I have, like, dust and a picture of gold. But no gold. Bitches!
But I’m a trooper, folks. And if my brain is trying to tell me there’s something in this half-assed idea, then what can I do but listen? The brain knows more than I do, that’s for sure. And I owe brain a couple of favors, for not listening whenever penis starts talking. So what the hell — I don’t know what it’s going to look like, or how it’s going to tasta, people, but here comes: ‘When Sports Cliches Attack!: Metaphors for Meatheads. Heaven help us all.
‘You know, Al, I’m just taking it one second at a time out there. I’m constantly thinking on the field, ‘What should I be doing this second?’ I don’t have time to throw many passes that way… and I did get sacked thirty-one times today… but I’m a real thinking man’s kind of player, you dig?‘
‘It was really nice to come in here and steal a win, Pam. This is really great. We came into their house — their house — and took a big one. It’s like we came in with our ski masks on, and tied them up with duct tape, and just rifled through all their shit, really tossed the place around. And then we took the good silverware, and shaved their dog, and took off. Gotta love winning on the road, Pam.‘
‘Well, the guys really played like their backs were against the wall today, Bob. I really saw something from these guys — scratching, clawing, biting for the win. And Johnson hasn’t had his rabies shots, so that point guard on the other side might want the docs to take a look at him.‘
‘Joe, we went all out today — we really left it all out on the floor. I know my shoes and socks are out there somewhere. And Terry pooped his pants in the third quarter, so he’s got blood and sweat and… well, you know. He left it all out there. Just came to the locker room afterward completely naked. What a great win for this team.‘
‘Yeah, I had a pretty good game, Paul, but I couldn’t have done it without these guys. It was a real team effort, you know? I mean, Greg there laced up my shoes, and Petey adjusted my cup for me, and Hal and Jonesy over there — well, they held my hands while the trainers shot me full of… I dunno, something. Saline, I expect, probably. Anyway, it was just everyone tonight. There’s no ‘I’ in this team, baby.‘
Yeah. I see what you mean. Maybe I should just let those ideas die in bed, eh? Damn. And I thought I was onto gold, too. Poop.
Permalink | 3 CommentsI have a confession to make about this post: I’m back-dating the entry to Saturday night, even though I’m writing it late Sunday morning.
That’s because I wanted to post last night — I planned to post — but I spent much of the evening in a Cheesecake Factory-induced food coma.
Which is not to say a Cheesecake Factory cheesecake coma, mind you. I didn’t actually have the cheesecake. Hell, by the end of the meal, there’s no way I could have had it — there was no more room down the food chute. They’d have had to shoot it into my ears with a turkey baster if they wanted it in me at that point.
Now, I know that may sound unthinkable to many of you.
(Not the ‘turkey baster in the ear part — from what I gather about the folks who read this stuff, that would only seem unthinkable to some of you. Pervs.)
Certainly, I know people who’s gasts would be all aflabber to learn that there are people out there — namely, my wife and I — eating at the Cheesecake Factory and not having cheesecake. For some people, that’s like going to Philadelphia and not having cheesesteak. Or going to Switzerland and not having chocolate, and watches, and secret bank accounts. Or going to Las Vegas and not having hookers.In other words, unheard of.
For me, though, it’s no biggie. I really didn’t plan on having cheesecake after dinner there. Or any dessert, for that matter — I’m not really a ‘sweet tooth’ kind of guy. So if I’ve broken some sort of unwritten cheesecake code, I apologize — but look on the bright side. That’s more cheesecake for the rest of you. Let there be much rejoicing. (Yay.)
I learned something at dinner about my wife. She’s been turned off of pasta. I had no idea — I only found out when I offered her a bite of my pasta, and got back that crinkly-nosed look that usually means the dog has farted.
(And yes, smartass, I mean the dog. Not ‘the dog’, all right? Homey don’t poot that way.)
Anyway, that’s when she told me that since she had a bad plate of pasta that made her sick — really, really sick — the next morning, she’s sworn off pasta altogether. Wow.
Now, I think for the moment, that’s probably a good idea. It wasn’t that long ago that her tummy trauma occurred, and we certainly wouldn’t want to see that again. One gastrointestinal joy ride is quite enough, I’m thinking.
Still, to swear off all pasta? That’s like a whole food group — it’s like saying ‘no’ to dairy, or fruit, or Guinness. That’s hardcore, people. I mean, I’ve had my dances with peristalsis, too. I once saw a bagful on Funyuns twice — going down, and coming up. I don’t even want to think about vodka tonics ever again. And then there’s the Halloween I remember not so fondly, thanks to seventeen fistfuls of candy corn I stuffed into my candy corn-hole.
(Did I just write that? ‘My candy corn-hole’? That is just so wrong. Why don’t you people stop me when you see this kind of shit coming? Say something, warn me, cut my internet connection, something! Jeez.
On the other hand, that’s kind of fun. Why should pie and cake have all the ‘hole’ fun? Now I’ll go out asking for porterhouse for my steak-hole, and iced chai for my tea-hole, and Easter candy for my marshmallow peep-hole, and — damn. It just happened again. I’m telling you — friends don’t let friends write this kind of crap, people. Warn me!)
Anyway, suffice to say that I’ve had my fair share of digestive dilemmas. And I’ve sworn off the specific foods above from my diet, sure. But that doesn’t mean that I refuse any artificially onion-flavored greasy snack, or eschew all clear liquids, or wouldn’t eat any sort of vegetable in multicolored holiday candy form. I guess I prefer my food phobias to be more specific, is all I’m saying.
Still, I wouldn’t have that much trouble swearing off pasta myself. Italian’s not my most favorite kind of food, and I’m pretty sure macaroni and cheese doesn’t count, so I could get by pretty easily, frankly. Of course, there is this one spectacular ziti dish that my wife makes… but if she’s off pasta, then I guess I’m not having that any time soon, either. So maybe I’m off pasta, too.
Just as soon as I finish the rest of this stuff I brought home from the restaurant last night — that shit was good. Thank heaven for doggy bags; if this is the last pasta I’m having for a while, at least I’ll go out yummy. Mmm-mmm.
Permalink | 1 CommentHey, kids.
Nothing entertaining at the moment — just checking in to apologize to any of you who might have tried leaving me a comment in the past couple of days. It seems that one of my anti-comment-spam measures was a tad too aggressive, and basically shut down commenting by anyone around here for a while.
(In other words, I goofed. And maybe to you, that’s as entertaining as anything else I’ve written here. Poopyhead. Nyah.)
Anyway, I’ve fixed it for now, and I’ll keep a closer eye on things in future. Maybe I’ll even come up with a way to solve the problem for good. But I doubt it — I don’t really do ‘permanent solutions’, you know? Where’s the challenge in that?
So, I’m off again. I’ll post my standup clip from Wednesday night’s show soon — ooh, and dates for a couple more shows I’ve lined up, too. In the meantime, I expect to see all those comments that you’ve been clamoring to send for the past forty-eight hours or so — plus a comment on this post, to remind me what an assbrain I am for screwing the script up in the first place. Meh. Weekend, where is thy sweet sting?
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