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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Hey, kidlets. Have a seat. I’ve got good news and bad news.
I think this will be the last Punchline Fever for a while. I’ve been having more trouble lately concocting setups, interest seems to be waning (not coincidentally, I have to believe), and today’s episode leaves us at a nice round number, which is what I did last time I put ‘da Fever’ on hiatus.
Also, I’ve got a new standup clip up, from Friday night. I didn’t even know I would be in the show until a couple of minutes before, so you may note a distinct ‘deer in headlights’ look on my face throughout the clip.
(And the tape was made with a way better camera than mine — and even burned to DVD! — so you’ll actually be able to see that look, instead of the usual fuzzy shadows. I’m not sure that’s progress, exactly, but it’s something.)
I’ll leave it to you to decide which of the above is the ‘good news’, and which is the ‘bad news’, folks. For now, though, let’s stand up, sit down, and get jiggy with this week’s Punchline Fever:
Punchline Fever #30:
‘The hushed crowd watched as Punxsutawney Phil emerged from his groundhog hole. If he were to see his shadow, it’s six more weeks of winter; if not, then an early spring. Phil stepped out, peed on the ground, and immediately disappeared into his burrow. ‘What the hell does that mean,’ the crowd cried. ‘Well,’ said the mayor, ‘…I guess it means we’re gonna have
_____________________________‘
There you have it. The last little bit of Fever you’ll feel for a while. Thanks to all of you who’ve played my little game — maybe I’ll bring it back again, if I can stockpile a few good setups. In the meantime… well, shit. I guess I’ll have to actually start writing real posts on Mondays. Damn. Now I know which one I think is the bad news. Eep.
Permalink | 3 CommentsMy first-ever DVD purchase for myself came in yesterday.
(And no, that’s not ‘first-ever of the new year’, or ‘first-ever online’, or ‘first-ever that isn’t latex fetish midget porn’. I mean first ever.
Although, technically, I suppose it’s still all of those other things, too. Especially the ‘not latex fetish midget porn’ thing. ‘Cause it’s not. Really. They didn’t have any of that, so I ordered something else.)
It’s not the first DVD in our collection, of course. We’re not entirely backwards, folks. We’re not living in a cave, here, pooh-poohing technology and churning our own butter and shit like that. Please.
No, in fact, we’ve got a grand total of six DVDs in the house. Six. That’s right, ladies — we pimpin’. And just for the record, here they are:
So there it is — we’ve lurched into the digital video age with three discs with stuff from the ’70s, a movie from the ’80s, and two flicks from the ’90s. DVDs have been around for what — eight, nine, twelve years? There are billions of the bastards out there — old people and kids and Belgians are watching the things every damned day, and we’ve managed to collect six. Oh-six. And not a single disc of shit from this millennium. Maybe we are Amish, after all.
Of course, being the raving techno-weenie I am, now I’m hooked. I popped The Matrix in today, and annoyed the hell of of my wife, zipping in and out of the menus, playing scenes with just the music, and then with dialogue, and then the commentary track, back and forth and over and over. I’m fairly sure she’s ready to tear me a set of those body-holes the people in the movie are sporting. Which is why I’m here now, telling you about it, instead of risking my delicate flesh with more digital wizardry. I may not be bright, people, but I know when the missus has had just about enough. And we’re rapidly approaching that point.
So maybe I’ll wait until she goes to bed to see what goodies are on the Holy Grail disc. Maybe I’ll even whip out her Potter DVD, and play with it, too. And now I’ve got a new toy to spend all sorts of money on. Damn, I love technology.
Oh, and by the by, in a rather ‘P.S.’ sort of way regarding yet another phenomenon that I’m way behind the curve on:
I was invited this week into the strange and wonderful world of GMail. I’ve set up an account there, specifically for this site (called, predictably enough, wherethehellwasi@gmail.com. All of your tasty comments will be copied over there now, and I’ve created an ‘Email Me’ link up there in the top left corner. Drop me a comment or an email, to let me know it’s working — you know, just to say ‘hi’, or send me lewd pics, or ask for a GMail account of your very own.
(Except that you’ve already got a GMail account, because everybody already has a GMail account. I’m the last person on the face of the planet who’s ever heard of a computer that didn’t have a GMail account. Still. Maybe you want a second account, or a third. I’ve got invites. Lemme know.)
Also, while I’m here and talking shop — I’ve been greedily playing around with the ‘traffic exchange’ sites that have been springing up since BlogExplosion began enjoying a fair amount of popularity. So far, that’s still the king, IMO, but if you’re interested, I’ve put links to a few others at the bottom of the right-hand sidebar. Check ’em out, if you’re into that sort of thing.
(And just in case you’re ‘into’ it, but also too lazy to scroll your ass down there, I’ll throw you text links to each, right here. Don’t say I never did you any favors, bub:
All right, enough of this nonsense. I’ve got a DVD to watch, folks. Happy Saturday!
Permalink | 4 CommentsI don’t think of myself as a paranoid person, really. I don’t think people are ‘out to get me’, or that there’s ‘danger around every corner’. And I only barely ever hear disembodied voices. No, really. What? Stop looking at me that way.
Anyway, I don’t do a lot of worrying. But something occurred to me yesterday, as I was trudging down to the basement with a load of dirty towels:
I’ve only got so many trips down those stairs without slipping all the damned way down.
That’s a bit unsettling, I’ve got to tell you. But I took a long, objective look at it, and it’s true — sooner or later, I’m taking a header down the basement stairs. I considered the relative slippiness of the stairs, and the fact that I often have laundry in my arms blocking my view when I climb down. And finally, I came to terms with the fact that I’m a generally off-balance, often dizzy klutz. And that was the kicker — one day, I’m gonna miss a step and *bippity-boppity-bumpity-boopity-splat* to the bottom. It’s inevitable, really.
And the thing is, I’ll forget all about this revelation. See, as long as I remember that I might kill myself on the stairs one day, then I’ll be careful. But I’m also easily distractable — so I can see what’s going to happen. One day, I’ll careen through the door to the stairs, rushing to grab some laundry or retrieve a screwdriver or hit the secret liquor stash I keep down there, and I’ll forget how narrow and steep and slickery the stairs are, and that’ll be it. When I wake up, I’ll be sprawled at the bottom, covered in cobwebs and dust and dirty towels. If I wake up at all. Yow.
Now, immediately, this seemed like a perfectly reasonable excuse for never, ever doing laundry ever again. Not that I wouldn’t want to do laundry, you understand — you reading this, honey? It’s just that I might die doing laundry some day, and I just can’t picture myself going out like that. In a fiery car crash, sure. Or pushed out of a window at work — that’s just a matter of time, too, really. I’ve even worked out one rather complicated scenario where I die under a pile of rotting kangaroo carcasses. But doing the frigging laundry?! Nah. That shit don’t get you into Valhalla. I’m not having it.
My wife, of course, isn’t buying it. She doesn’t see the imminent danger I’m in — and anyway, she’s none too happy that I’d put her life at risk by making her wash all the clothes.
(To which I say: ‘claptrap‘! Because she isn’t the clumsy drooling douchebag that I am. There’s way less chance that she’s ever going to fall down those stairs, no matter what happens. She could do the damned limbo down there, one stair at a time, and be just damned peachy. I could breathe wrong, and bam — I’m at the bottom, and making sure all my limbs are still screwed on the right way. It’s not frigging fair, dammit!)
So, anyway, I’m still on the hook for traipsing down there a couple of times every week or so — it’s my job to get the laundry started, and then the wifey will swoop in later to finish the drying and carry the clothes upstairs for folding. It’s a fine system, with plenty of sharing and equality and shit — except for the damned deathtrap gauntlet I’ve got to run to do my fricking job. Where’s the ‘fair’ in that, I ask you? And are dislocated limbs really worth fluffy soft towels and a couple of pairs of clean jeans? I think not. I’m perfectly happy living in filthy squalor, if it’s gonna save my life. Hey, call me crazy. I’m just saying.
Permalink | 4 CommentsSometimes I wonder what my life might have been like, had I been born in a different time and place. I imagine what adventures I might have had, what sights I may have seen, and what psychotropic substances I might have stuffed into various orifices. Not necessarily my orifices, mind you — I’m just saying. Any old orifice in a storm.
I think we’ve strayed off topic, just a bit. This wasn’t meant to be a whole post about who might stuff what into whose orifices. For once.
Anyway, no matter what situation we find ourselves in, I think there are some personality traits that probably persist. Whatever is strongest in us remains, regardless of circumstance or surroundings — even in fantasy. That is our core, our soul, our essence.
And my essence is ‘smartass’. So even when I imagine myself in another setting, it rarely turns out well. Take, for instance, how I think I might have been as a humble student in a Zen monastery:
Zen Master: Come in, young grasshopper.
Me: You wanted to see me, my biggity Buddha?
Zen Master: Yes, I — hey, stop calling me that.
Me: Okay, how about the ‘pimp of Zen’?
Zen Master: I don’t think so.
Me: I could shorten it to ‘pizzle to da Zizzle’. Better?
Zen Master: No. And that’s not shorter.
Me: Maybe ‘Zenny G’, then?
Zen Master: Definitely not. Look, that’s not why I called you here.
Me: Oh.
Zen Master: It is almost time, grasshopper. Your training is almost complete.
Me: Really? I’ve only been here a few months. I’m that good?
Zen Master: Er… no. Not exactly. You’re driving the other students crazy, so you have to leave.
Me: Oh. I see.
Zen Master: But you may have one chance to leave this place with honor. If you have regarded our teachings, then you have already learned enough to pass the final test.
Me: Final test? What is it?
Zen Master: You may complete your training if you can snatch this pebble from my — hey!
Me: You mean this pebble? Hah!
Zen Master: It wasn’t in my hand yet!
Me: Well, sure it was — that’s where I got it from.
Zen Master: No, no — it was in this hand. I was just picking it up to place it in my other hand. That doesn’t count. Give it back.
Me: If I give it back, do I pass the test?
Zen Master: Wha — no. No, the test hasn’t started. Give me the pebble.
Me: Say the magic woo-oord…
Zen Master: Fine. Please give me the pebble.
Me: Okay. Here you go.
Zen Master: That’s a different pebble. Where’s the first one?
Me: No, no — that’s the same one. Really.
Zen Master: It’s not even the same color. Look, whatever. It doesn’t matter. Now, you can complete your training if you can snatch this pebble from — *smack* Hey!
Me: What?
Zen Master: Why did you smack my hand?
Me: I didn’t — I just grabbed the pebble. See?
Zen Master: Oh. Well — hey, wait a minute. That’s the first pebble! You cheated — again!
Me: What? No. Nooooo. Not me.
Zen Master: Yes, you. Loser. Now, I’m going to give you one more chance. No cheating. No second pebbles. No shenanigans at all, you understand.
Me: Okay.
Zen Master: For real, now?
Me: For real. And honestly, ‘shenanigans’? That’s so twentieth century. *snort*
Zen Master: Look, let’s just get this over with. Now — your training will be complete if you can snatch this pebble from my hand.
Me: That pebble? Right there?
Zen Master: That’s right. Snatch the pebble.
Me: But… I don’t want that pebble.
Zen Master: Really? You don’t want it?
Me: No. Not at all.
Zen Master: Impressive. So you have realized, then, that life is suffering. And the root of suffering is desire. And by not desiring the pebble, you reduce your suffering at not possessing the pebble. Perhaps your training truly is complete, grasshopper.
Me: Um… that’s great and all. And it all sounds nice… but that’s not it.
Zen Master: Not it? You’ve not discovered the secret of a peaceful life? Then why do you not desire the pebble?
Me: Because that pebble… is a petrified chihuahua turd. I walked your dog out here this morning.
Zen Master: I see. Well, there’s just one lesson left for you, then. *palm thwack on my forehead, hard*
Me: Guh! Wha — what the hell was that?
Zen Master: That, grasshopper, was the sound of ‘one hand clapping’. Get your crap and get the hell out of here. Assbag.
Me: Wait… really?
Zen Master: Fo shizzle, dog. You Audi.
Me: Aw, poop.
Ah, maybe I’m making too much of it — maybe, in the end, I could tuck my smartassyness away long enough to respect my elders, or authority, or a set of several-thousand-year-old traditions. But I doubt it. And hell, I had to post about something, right? So there you have it. Happy Hump Day, folks!
Permalink | 2 CommentsIn homage to the recently departed Johnny Carson, I bring you:
The Answer: ‘Eight more inches and treatment for exhaustion.‘
‘Hmmmm…‘
*riiiippppp*
(And now it’s your choice: what do you want the answer to be?:)
And yes, I know the last one’s not terribly exciting, but it’s the only one I personally know is true. Oh, my aching shovelling muscles.
I’ll stop back later for more fun — for now, my office shut down this afternoon, so now I’ve got to decide whether to spend the hour it’ll take to get home, or stay here and get something accomplished for once, now that all the meetings have been cancelled.
You’d think that would be an easy choice, but as long as I stay here, the only thing I have to shovel is hot soup into my piehole, so really, I’m on the fence right now. See you soon.
Permalink | 2 Comments
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