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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Hey, kiddies — before I get started tonight, I want to send some sweaty snugglebunnies out to those kind folks who took the time to nominate this humble little effort of mine for the Best of Blogs awards. Thanks, guys!
(You know who you are. And now — Mellie Helen, Christiane, and Chasmyn — so does everyone else! You guys rock!)
Also, while I’m throwing thanks around all willy-nilly, it was also awfully nice for Maria to devote a whole little post to linking to my nonsense about Blue’s Clues, from a while back. Thanks, Maria!
Okay — that was fun and all, but down to bidness now. Here we go.
So, I had an epiphany — gesundheit! — today about Spider-Man.
Which is not particularly commonplace for me — I’m not often struck with revelations regarding popular cartoon characters. I had to be told that Opus is a puffin, for instance. Or that Patty Bouvier is gay (as opposed to just mannishly asexual… like her twin sister). Or that Alice and Wally are secretly doin’ it on the side, to pass the time. Oh, no, wait — that one, I figured out. Everybody knows that.
(Of course, exactly what they’re doing is a matter of juicy speculation. Some people figure ’em for the ‘man on top, get it the hell over with’ type of couple. Others envision Alice letting her pointy hair down with some glory hole action with the Wallster in the cubicle farm.
Me, I’m somewhere in between. I can’t see them bumping uglies in public or anything, but I bet they get a little wild. I can see Wally liking it ‘Dogbert-style’. You know what I’m sayin’, people.)
Anyway, back to Spider-Man, before this gets any damned sillier.
So, I was thinking about it today, and I realized that the Spider-Man franchise really hasn’t been exploited (so far as I know, at least) the way the Superman and Batman characters have. Think about it — there’s been a Supergirl movie, a Superboy movie, and a TV, movie, and comic book Batgirl, to name a few.
But the Spidey spinoffs have been few and far between, with the few — *cough kaff* Spider-Girl *ahem* — executed really, really badly. For a while, I wondered why that is, exactly. I mean, they’re all big, nasty, mutated superheroes, right? They’ve all had their blockbuster movies — and sequels; don’t forget the sequels! — so why haven’t the Spider-Man near-clones popped up as often?
Then, I realized — it’s the theme song doing them in. No, really. I’ll explain.
What do you think of when you think of Superman? It’s that ‘speeding bullet’ and ‘tall buildings’ thing, right? And that’s easy to adapt — you can dream up Super kids, and Super uncles, and even Super hot wet grannies.
(Oh, no, wait. That last one’s a porn site. Um… never mind. Scratch the hot wet grannies. Wait, no, don’t do that — that’s nasty. I mean — er, yeah. Just never mind.)
And Batman — well, hell, all he’s got is that ‘na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na Batman!‘ thing. That works for anything. Bat-girl, Bat-boy, Bat-bitch, Bat-ass — pretty much, if it’s two syllables, you can jam it in there at the end.
Ah, but then there’s Spider-Man. He’s got actual fuckin’ lyrics to contend with:
‘Spider-Man, Spider-Man —
Does whatever a spider can!‘
And therein lies the problem, you see. The lyrics are the web-encrusted kiss of death for any new spidery thing to come along. Because for any new character in the Spidey mold you want to create, you’ve got to work some version of the song around them, too. And that’s not as easy as it sounds, people. Not by half.
As a matter of fact, it’s pretty fricking hard. And the marketing boobjobs who come up with this shit aren’t the brightest torches on the wall, either, so they’d have an especially hard time making it work. Here’s the conversation I imagine happening, somewhere in Hollywood, a few months before that Spider-Man 2 movie came out:
Marketing Weenie #1: Jeez, that Spider-Man movie went well, huh? We cleaned up on that one.
Marketing Weenie #2: Yeah, not bad. But what he really needs is a sidekick. Something we can launch off into a new product. ‘Cause that Beemer I bought last year is starting to get dirty — it’s time for a cash injection.
MW#1: Agreed. But what to do? What’s gonna bring in the kids?
MW#2: How about ‘Spider-Woman’? A couple of webbed-up boobs oughta put ’em in the seats. That’s thexy!
MW#1: I dunno… a broad who’s a spider? Like, who’s got eight eyes, back hair, and shoots silk out her ass? Sounds like my ex-wife…
MW#2: Nah, it’ll be good. Trust me. We’ll sex it up, no problem.
MW#1: Fine. But we’ve still got to update the theme song. Whatcha gonna do with that?
MW#2: Right. Well… how’s this:
‘Spider-Woman, Spider-Woman —
Um… this is her song you will be hummin’!‘
MW#1: Dude. ‘Song you will be hummin’?‘ You’re a frickin’ moron.
MW#2: Well, it’s a first pass. Hey, can we rhyme ‘Woman’ with ‘Portman’ somehow? I smell jingle tie-ins, if we get the right actress…
MW#1: No. For the love of god, no. What else you got?
MW#2: We could try Spider-Boy:
‘Spider-Boy, Spider-Boy —
He… erm… plays with all of his spider toys?‘
MW#1: Spider toys? That’s what you’ve got?
MW#2: Sure. We could put ’em in Happy Meals. Big money.
MW#1: Nice. Have I told you lately that you’re a moron? Try again.
MW#2: Okay, let’s go for… Spider-Kid. It’s even gender-neutral:
‘Spider-Kid, Spider-Kid —
Don’ stuff just like Spidey did.‘
MW#1: Okay, that one’s catchier, I guess. Not terribly damned specific, though, is it?
MW#2: Well, we could always replace ‘doin’ stuff‘, I guess. How about ‘bustin’ heads‘?
MW#1: Too violent.
MW#2: ‘Livin’ life‘?
MW#1: Wishy-washy.
MW#2: ‘Knockin’ boots‘?
MW#1: Too far.
MW#2: ‘Droppin’ trou‘?
MW#1: And… yes. We’ve hit rock bottom. Congratulations, you’re still a moron. What else?
MW#2: Spider-Cow?
MW#1: Moving on.
MW#2: Spider-Mom?
MW#1: Wait, don’t tell me — is she ‘living in a big wigwam‘?
MW#2: What, no good?
MW#1: Next.
MW#2: Um… what about Spider-Chick?
MW#1: Well, we might lose the feminists a bit there, but —
MW#2:
‘Spider-Chick, Spider-Chick —
She’s not Spider-Man ’cause she’s… uh, got no dick?‘
MW#1: Yeah… yeah, I think we definitely might lose the feminist crowd with that one. Just a hunch, there, Einstein.
MW#2: Spider-Dog?
MW#1: Dumb.
MW#2: Spider-Ant?
MW#1: Not even possible.
MW#2: Spider-Foot?
MW#1: Crazy talk.
MW#2: Would you believe… Spider-Ass?
MW#1: The donkey, or the rear end?
MW#2: Which is better?
MW#1: Neither. You’re a douchebag. Now stop it.
MW#2: Spider-Boob? It’d rhyme with ‘lube’.
MW#1: You know… I’m pretty sure this isn’t gonna work. And I’m now convinced that you were dropped on your head as a child. Onto a railroad spike. Quite possibly rusty. How do you even tie your fuckin’ shoes, man?
MW#2: Um… I’m wearing sandals. It’s California — we’re all wearing sandals.
MW#1: Touche, my dim-witted friend. Fine. How about this — what if we just screw all of this and make a damned sequel, eh? Just Spider-Man — no chicks, no kids, no freakin’ cows. Just him, again, doin’ the same shit over again. How would that be?
MW#2: Wait… wouldn’t people see right through that? I mean, come on — I wanna rake in the money, too, but that’ll just piss ’em off, won’t it?
MW#1: Hey, we stuffed what, seven Rockys down their throat? Nine? Twelve? These people’ll watch anything, so long as we tell ’em the original was any good.
MW#2: Well, all right, then. Call the studio, and let’s get it on. Just know one thing, though.
MW#1: What’s that?
MW#2: I’m keeping the rights to ‘Spider-Boob’. That shit is gonna be porno gold someday! Gold, I tells ya!
And that, friends, is the story of how Spider-Man 2 came to be. Betcha won’t see that shit on the director’s cut DVD version. Yow.
All right, then — that was fun and all, but my ‘spidey sense’ is telling me that it’s two-thirty in the fricking morning. And I’ve got a big day planned tomorrow, so I’m hitting the sack. Don’t let the bed-spiders bite, people. I’m out.
Permalink | 5 CommentsHey, folks. Sorry about abandoning you yesterday, but I decided at the last minute to go try out some new material at a comedy gig. No film for this one, but most of the bits went over pretty well, so you’ll probably see them soon enough in the clips for the upcoming shows this month. You know — if you’re into that sort of thing.
Anyway, I got home way late from the show, and in no position to whip up an entry before bedtime. And besides, you know the old saying: ‘Friends don’t let friends blog exhausted and tipsy.‘ Well, last night, I was my own best friend.
(No, no, ya filthy pervert — not that kind of ‘my own best friend’. Jeez, you people never stop, do you?
And anyway, I said I was tired and beery. I wasn’t equipped to be anyone’s ‘best friend’ at that point. I couldn’t have even just laid there and sweat without dozing off. Just not possible.)
The good news, though, is that in going last night, I found something to write about now. That’s called synergy, people. It’s all ‘circles in circles’, and shit like that. Very zen. Really.
Anyway, here’s the thing from last night — I had one of those ‘relationship-changing moments’ just before the show. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a relationship-improving moment, by any stretch. On the bright side, it also wasn’t much of a relationship to begin with. Perhaps I should explain.
So, I was sitting in the audience, waiting for the show to start.
(At this place, sometimes the comics sit in the audience, because… well, frankly, there usually isn’t an audience. Twenty or thirty comics come together to hang out, perform, and sit around not laughing at each others’ jokes. Ah, good times, good times.
Honestly, most people are pretty nice out there. You won’t get any sort of wild, raucous laughter — not without snarking on other goofball comics in the room, anyway — but the majority of comics are… how to put it? ‘Moderately politely encouraging’, maybe? That’s pretty close. And a little depressing, but that’s how it goes. We ain’t playing the Improv here.)
So, I was sitting in the audience section, on a booth seat near the back of the room. And I was sitting next to, and talking to, an acquaintance, this guy who’s also in the standup comedy class I’m taking. He’s a nice guy — he always seems very polite and thoughtful; just a regular, down-to-earth good guy. Got that? Good.
So, we were sitting there chatting. There were other people in the vicinity, sitting further away or milling around, but no one was within maybe five feet of us.
There was a lull in the conversation, and that’s when the moment occurred. Specifically, that’s when I smelled — no, no, ‘smelled‘ is the wrong word; let’s say ‘was bombarded by‘ — a horrific, rancid, eye-watering, toe hair-curling odor. A fart. A monstrous fart. The great-grandpoppy of all farts. I nearly fell out of my seat. Honest. It was bad.
Now, at that point, these three thoughts came to me:
First, I thought, ‘Oh man — did I do that? Holy smoking skid marks, Batman!‘
But I reflected on the last thirty seconds or so, and determined that there’d been no ass leakage on my end. Or, more to the point, from my end. So no, it wasn’t me. I would have felt something that heinous coming out of me.
So then, I thought, ‘Well, shit, then — it must have been this guy, right? There’s no one else around.‘
But that didn’t seem right, somehow. Like I said, he seems like a cool, upstanding guy. And usually, the ‘upstanding’ ones are not the ‘public pants-shitting’ ones. That’s just my experience, is all I’m saying.
And, to be fair, there were other people within range to float air biscuits our way. Barely, but they were there. And what combination of hellacious diet and superhuman sphincter muscles they’d have to possess to get that ridiculous stench all the way over to us… well, I can’t even imagine. But still, the possibility was there, remote though it was.
And that’s when the third thought occurred to me: ‘Hey, if I didn’t do it, and this guy didn’t do it, then somebody else did it. But — but! — he must be wilting in this funky ass stench, too… and if he didn’t do it, then he must think I did it! Bitches!‘
Because you see, folks, contrary to my friend there, I have to believe that I am not the kind of guy that people would have a hard time believing would let loose a ripper in a public place. Which is not to say that I would, intentionally, dammit. I’m just saying that people probably would believe that I would.
And that’s when I realized that no good could possibly come from this situation, and that the relationship with this new friend of mine would never be the same again.
For you see, one of two things had just happened. Either this guy had stealthily, without warning or apology, spewed forth a prodigious pootie right in the middle of our conversation, knowing that the funk would find its unholy way to me and make me wish for a quick and odorless death. Or — and this is far, far worse — this guy was thinking exactly the same about me.
And there’s no fricking way out of it, either. You can’t say, ‘Wow, do you smell that?‘ We all know the ‘smeller’s the feller’, right? You can’t even take one for the team and say, ‘I’m so sorry — excuse me, please! How rude of me!‘ Because you can’t really know that the guy didn’t do it himself — and people, there’s nothing in the world that screams ‘Wacko!‘ than taking credit for someone else’s fart. To his face. That’s just goddamned crazy.
So, we sat there, and suffered in silence, and let the moment sink in. I can’t know exactly what he was thinking — all I know is that we’ll never think of each other quite the same way again. And we can never speak of the ordeal. And that might be the funniest thing that happened at the show last night.
Not in a ‘ha-ha’ funny way, you understand. Just… funny. Bad funny. Meh.
Permalink | 8 CommentsWell, it’s December, dammit. I guess that means I should write something to help get you people into the ‘holiday spirit’.
Of course, that means my holiday spirit, which is about one crappy Christmas carol short of slitting my damned wrists. Don’t look to me for ‘jolly’, folks — you’ll be sadly disappointed, and might just end up with a candy cane up the keister for your trouble.
See, I can out-humbug the best of ’em. Old man Scrooge was too soft. Gettin’ all sappy over a couple of ghosts. Pussy. And I taught the Grinch that ‘tree up the chimney’ move, baby. Cindy Lou Who can bite my red ‘n’ green-festooned ass.
(No, I don’t know how my ass got ‘festooned’. Or even what that means. I just know it’s red and green — red, from the… um, yeah, actually… don’t ask about the red stuff.
And green, from… hrm. Yeah, you probably don’t wanna know how the green got there, either. Long story. There are frogs involved. It’s not pretty. Let’s move on.)
Of course, despite my grinchy outlook, I’m still here to entertain, so let’s see what you think of this next thing.
(And maybe, in the process, you’ll get a hint as to why I think the holidays can shove their snowballs where the fruitcake ain’t moist. Euphemistically speaking, of course.)
Anyway, here’s my contribution for the holidays; it’s a seasonally-inspired ‘top ten’ list. Feel free to play along at home, and add your madness to the mix:
I Know I’m Having Christmas (or Thanksgiving) Dinner with My Family When I Hear:
10. ‘Michael, in this house, we don’t end ‘grace’ with ‘Word, bitch.’ And if you piss god off, your testicles will never drop — you know that, right?‘
9. ‘Okay, nobody eat the Jello salad. I crushed Ex-Lax into it this year to help Grandpa’s digestion.‘
8. ‘If I weren’t fricking starving right now, Uncle Peter, your head would be crammed so far up that turkey’s ass.‘
7. ‘Oh, sure, Aunt Sue. These rolls are homemade, like my tits are real. Riiiight.‘
6. ‘Brent, when I said, ‘Save room for pie’, I didn’t want you to gag yourself all over the table. Now we need a new can of cranberry sauce.‘
5. ‘My God… these mashed potatoes are as lumpy as your father’s prostate gland.‘
4. ‘Look, I understand about ‘family traditions’, but does Uncle Joe really have to sing ‘Jingle Bells’ with his pants around his ankles again this year?‘
3. ‘Aunt Claire, this stuffing is your best ever! It only barely tastes like rancid pencil shavings!‘
2. ‘Yeah, I know Grandma’s deaf. Now could somebody please fricking semaphore her to pass the goddamned gravy?‘
1. ‘Oh Charlie, we’re so glad you could make it home! So… you made anything of yourself yet, or are you still coasting by on that ‘A’ you made in history in 9th grade?‘
There you go, folks. Hang that on your Christmas tree and smoke it. I got your ‘O Tannenbaum’ right fricking here. Word, bitch. (Amen!)
Permalink | 7 CommentsHowdy there, cowpokes. Or ‘cowpokers‘, as the case may be. Perverts.
Well, it’s Monday — albeit barely, and you know what that means, right? Yes, according to the ancient time-honored tradition that I made up last week, it’s once again time for Punchline Fever!
So get out your thinking caps — or ‘noodling knickers’, or ‘pondering panties’, if that’s what gets you up in the morning — and let’s get right to this week’s setup. But first, a quick review of the rules:
1) I’ll sit around, day and night, thinking of a short but flexible setup for a joke.
B) I’ll post the best setup I can think of, but with a blank where the punchline should go.
iii) Then it’s up to you to come up with your best line, and leave it in the comments, for all to snicker over.
That’s all there is to it; there ain’t no more. So let’s set sail with another… Punchline Fever!:
Punchline Fever #22:
‘The new supermarket decided to hire scantily-clad off-duty strippers as checkout girls to drum up business. They even came up with a new risque food-related slogan for the store: ‘________________________’‘
And there you go, kids. What better way to start the week, eh? It’s like a little teensy bit of weekend goodness oozing it’s way into your Monday morning. And if you need more of that creamy, nougaty weekend flavor, check out the main Punchline Fever page for more user-submitted hilarity. Really, go ‘head. Don’t cost nothin’.
You can thank me later, really. I’m just here to help. I’m cool like that, and shit. Peachy Monday, everybody!
Permalink | 9 CommentsWell, it’s started again. Another twelve months has gone by, and it’s time again for the annual holiday shopping nightmare. Somebody spike the egg nog, people — we’re gonna need booze to get through this one.
Now, before I go any further, I should probably admit that it’s really not all that bad. I should say that my wife handles buying most of the gifticles for our families, so I’ve really only got a handful of presents to come up with. And I should really allow that it’s not as aggravating as I think it’s going to be every year. Yes. Yes, I should.
I should do all of those things, but dammit, I’m not going to. It’s my party, and I’ll poop it if I want to. Should, schmould. Just because there isn’t much shopping to do doesn’t mean I’m gonna like it.
See, you’ve got to understand — I hate shopping. Hate it, loathe it, despise it with a white-hot passion. I can’t tell you why, exactly — maybe I was dropped on my head in a mall as a child, or maybe some now-forgotten loved one went out ‘shopping’ and never came back. Or maybe it’s because I have a penis. Could be any of those reasons.
But the fact remains — in my book, shopping blows big, hairy upchuck chunks.
(If I may mix nasty-ass metaphors. And I may. May, and just did. Woo.)
I think it’s the whole ‘sea of humanity’ thing. The only time I go to a shopping mall is when I absolutely have to go to a shopping mall. And that’s almost always when everyone else has to go to a mall, because for some godforsaken reason, we humans decided a long time ago to cram all of our gifty sorts of holidays into a span of a month or so. So no matter what you celebrate, or where you come from, or which bearded old man or dog-headed deity or little green men you decide to worship, when the weather gets cold, you’ve got to schlep out and buy shit for other people.
And there’s nothing wrong with that — hell, I’m as altruistic as the next cynical snarky smartass out there. Okay, poor choice of words. Let’s just say that I like giving out presents. I do. I’m a giver. Honest. Don’t give me that look, dammit — I give. I give!
But what genius came up with the idea of everybody giving each other trinkets all at the same time? Come on, spread that shit out a little — let’s move Christmas out of there, for starters. Who wants to lug six bags of shit through a foot and a half of snow to get ’em home, anyway? Let’s plop that thing down into June, or maybe July. And throw Chanukah — or Hanukkah, or however the hell I’m supposed to spell it this year — into the fall, or the spring. Spread the wealth, that’s all I’m saying.
Because now, the way things stand, the stores are fricking packed every shopping minute of every shopping day in the whole mother-shopping month of December. Hitting a mall after Thanksgiving is like trying to do the breaststroke through a fricking mosh pit. I’m all squinchy just thinking about it.
Which is why I’m trying — again, this year — to do all of my shopping online, and avoid the whole holiday train wreck altogether. I’ve been saying that since the turn of the millennium, and it never fricking works — I always end up making at least one ’emergency trip’ for last-second cards, or wrapping paper, or that thing I completely forgot that my wife wanted, but if I don’t get it, I can’t have sex for the next six months.
And so, this year it begins. I made my first online purchase today, and I have a couple more lined up to take care of. Will that be enough? Have I forgotten anything? Is it physically possible to avoid a shopping mall for the entire month of December? I don’t know, folks. All I can do is plan, and hope, and pray to bearded old guys and little green men and flowy-robed goddesses alike that I won’t have to go there. Again.
Have I mentioned how I hate shopping? Ugh. Now I’m all in a mood. Bah. Bah, and humbug, too. Now where’s that boozed-up egg nog? Somebody pass me a cup.
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