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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA



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HomeAboutArchiveBestShopEmail Howdy, friendly reading person!
I'm on a bit of a hiatus right now, but only to work on other projects -- one incredibly exciting example being the newly-released kids' science book series Things That Make You Go Yuck!
If you're a science and/or silliness fan, give it a gander! See you soon!

Nothing to Worry About… It’s All Under Control…

(originally posted late Monday night, in an inadvisable fit of blind optimism)

Hey, all.

Just a quick note to let you know that comments might not work for a little while.

For that matter, nothing may work for a little while, so please bear with me.

(Of course, if nothing is working, then you’re not reading this. Which means you’re probably not bearing with me, either. You’re probably off staring at some shiny object, or playing with your keys, or something. Damned distractable readers.)

Anyway, I’m upgrading MT tonight — some combination of the comment script in my current version (2.661, for those who would recognize that rev and give a damn), my MT-Blacklist install, my banned comment-spamming bastard IP address list, and the comment traffic generated from aforesaid spamming bastards is occasionally bringing the server to its metallic little knees. That’s what we technical sorts call a ‘bad thing‘.

And I don’t know what’s causing it, so I’m gonna take the first stab-in-the-dark shot at fixing it — upgrade everything, and hope that helps, somehow.

(Actually, as we all know, that’s the second stab-in-the-dark shot — the first is always rebooting the machine. And that helps — but in this case, the problem comes back, so it’s not terribly feasible. So, in I go to tinker. Apologies in advance — or after the fact, if you’re reading this later — for any inconvenience, frustration, or elevated blood pressure this might cause.

Thanks for your patience. You can all go back to playing with your keys now. Good night.


Update: Well shit, that was easy. Not necessarily helpful, with respect to the current issue, but really pretty damned easy. Woo.

On the other hand, the box to type in entries is about twenty characters wide, which — as you can imagine, given my prodigious verbosity — is pretty fricking inconvenient. But I’ll tinker with that later. For now, things seem to be relatively under control.

So put your keys down, dammit, and go check out the new Punchline Fever from the last post. Go on — you know you want to. Now scoot!


Update to the Update: Nope. Bitches. The new MT installed okay, but I couldn’t fight the new MT-Blacklist into place. It might have something to do with the version of Perl on the server. Or that I’m a moron, and it’s two-thirty in the morning now. Feh.

Anyway, the good news is — things are back to ‘normal’, and you probably didn’t notice a damned thing. But I’m still not sure what’s up with the comment script, including why it takes up so much damned memory and why it takes so long to run. This isn’t the ‘rocket science’ part of the site, people. At least, it’s not supposed to be.

Eh, fuck it. I’m off to bed, just as soon as I clear out the twenty(!) comments spamming douchebags left in the hour or so while I was unprotected and running the new version of MT. Lousy fuckers. Let your guard down for a minute, and wham — here come the penis pill ads. Bitches!


Really, Really Final Update This Time: Well, now it’s Tuesday morning, and I’m just annoyed at all the time I spent getting nowhere. And this post isn’t very interesting, so I’m gonna backdate it to before the Punchline Fever! post, to give you kids osmething ‘cheery’ up top. I’m nothing if not a ‘sunny side of the streeter’, bitches. More soon.

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Can’t We All Just Get Drunk, Get Online, and Get Along?

Has anyone else noticed how snarky TV ads are getting lately?

(And no, this isn’t going to be a ‘back in my day‘, shaking an impotent fist at the lousy young whippersnappers, frothing around the false teeth sort of post.

First of all, I know commercials have always been snarky — I just think they’re getting worse lately, and if you’ll stop damned interrupting, I’m about to explain why. Keep your corset on, there, Frances.

And secondly, I still have my own teeth. Which may or may not be frothy right now — that’s for me to know, and you to infer from how ridiculous I sound.

And finally — and most importantly of all — my fist is plenty potent, thank you very much. Virile, even. Horny little devil, really, it is.

Yeah. There’s the froth now. I knew I couldn’t hide it for long. Bitches.)

Anyway, back to the commercials. Maybe it’s just that time of year, but I’d swear that companies are suddenly taking their cues from political ‘smear campaigns’. Sure, advertisers have always badmouthed their competitors, every chance they get. The airwaves are full of shit like:

Chevy got a four-star rating. Those bitches at Ford can’t say that.

More dentists prefer our tooth-rotting crappy gum to the other guy’s tooth-rotting crappy gum.

Eat at Burger King! The Wendy’s guy is dead! McDonald’s gives you hemorrhoids! You’ve got no choice!!!

Okay, I might be paraphrasing a little. But you get the idea. We’ve all seen them.

Lately, though, the stakes have been raised. Now, it’s apparently not enough to verbally pimp-slap your rivals on the air — these days, you’ve got to do it using their own commercial idea. Damn. That’s some raw shit, people.

The big one lately is the Budweiser-Miller duel. They’ve been having a back-‘n’-forth slap-‘n’-tickle ever since the Miller guys came out with those ‘Play Beer’ ads being shown on heavy rotation on the networks, especially during football games.

You know the ones — they show some guy drinking Bud, or handing out Bud, or licking Bud off the floor after a party, and then these guys dressed as referees throwing flags at the guy, and replacing his Bud with Miller. Fine. I didn’t mind these ads — they were cute, in their way. And that one on the beach had a really hot chick in it — and that’s always a plus in a beer commercial.

(Or for that matter, any commercial. Personally, if there were more T&A in political ads, I might pay more attention. Just a thought.)

So, I guess the marketing weasels at Bud got wind of this — hey, even slimy adbastards watch football sometimes — and decided to strike back. So now they’ve got their own set of clips showing fake refs — only now they’re stealing Bud, presumably to drink it themselves.

(Though why anyone would guzzle either brand of pisswater is beyond me. Screw ‘brewed fresh’, to hell with ‘the high life’ — all that mega-mass-produced, watered-down beer is bland-assed garbage in my book. Give me a good IPA or a nice, dark stout any day. But that’s just me. I’m a beer snob, drunken as charged.)

Now, these Bud ‘revenge ads’ seem a little whiny to me, frankly. Maybe I just think they should come up with their own angle. Or maybe I’d rather see them take the high road, and just promote their own product without resorting to mud-slinging. Mostly, though, it’s just that they don’t have hot bikini-stretching girly-girls in their ads. The bastards.

(They do, however, get bonus points for pulling the guy who played that annoying Bulldog guy on Frasier out of cold storage and slapping him in one of their commercials. Where the hell has that guy’s career been? Hanging out with Ted Williams’ frozen head?)

So, basically, I thought that was as far as it would go. After all, the shit-beer companies are constantly at each others’ proverbial throats — or livers — so this sort of thing isn’t terribly surprising. But then, today, I saw the next generation of ‘payback marketing’.

This time, the target is AOHell. Which, as a techno-weenie, is just peachy with me, but I’m still not sure I like the ‘adopt, adapt, and mock like a Frenchman’ strategy. It seems a bit too easy, somehow.

Anyway, here’s the angle on this one: the original AOL commercial shows a guy — or a woman, I haven’t really paid close attention — walking into an office, telling the receptionist (s)he’s got some ideas to talk about. The receptionist then goes in to see the ‘boss’, apparently, and says that ‘some users’ are here to see him. ‘Which ones?‘ ‘All of them.’ Cute.

So, NetZero got their grubby underpricing paws on that, and copied it pretty much verbatim. Only, instead of the visitor having ideas to share — thereby showing the back-and-forth that the goobers in charge of AOHell would like to have with the goobers that use it — the guy says, ‘Hey. I’m leaving. NetZero kicks your ass.‘ And then the running in to the boss’ office, and the ‘Who?‘, and the ‘All of them‘, and there you have it.

And again, I don’t really care about the specifics of the companies involved. I pay way too much for a fast, reliable connection, and for not having to put up with pop-ups, or pop-unders, or outages, or slow patches, or tech ‘support’ morons who don’t know their asscrack from a trackball mouse. And I’m happy to pay it, because — we’ve covered this already, people — I’m a techno-weenie. So, NetZero, AOL, all those other bargain ISPs — don’t care, really. Let ’em kill each other off, for all I give a damn.

But if they resort to copying each others’ commercials to do it… well, that’s just damned confusing. I don’t watch a lot of commercials to begin with, what with the TiVo and all — if I’ve got to start watching them all the way through to figure out who’s who, then I’m gonna be really pissed.

Not that it matters, I guess. I’ve already picked an ISP, and a bunch of favorite beers, and dammit, I’m not switching. I’m exactly the kind of always-online, brew-guzzling bastard they’re looking for, but they’ll never have me. Ironic, in it’s own twisted, special, ‘frantically searching for a way to neatly wrap this fricking post up’ way.

On the other hand, that’s probably not the message I want to send these market-speaking mouthbreathing ad-monkeys. Sure, they’ll never see dime one of my cash, but that doesn’t mean I want to be ignored — I should at least lead ’em on for a while. So I guess all I want to say is this:

Cut the bullshit, people. Stop sniping at each other, and thinking you’re being cute by stealing ad ideas, because it’s getting fucking annoying. Just go back to plastering barely-covered boobs all over the screen, and maybe — just maybe — I’ll think about using your product. Until then, keep your shit off of my TV screen. That is all.

Eh, what the hell. I don’t expect it to work, but it never hurts to try, right? Boobs for beer, boobs for bandwidth — whatever it takes. I’m not picky.

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Tidying Up on Sunday

Well, so much for my ‘all-weekend slug’ imitation.

(‘Slug imitation’ meaning that I was planning on doing absolutely nothing all weekend — like a slug.

As opposed to crawling through the garden, avoiding salt, and leaving a slime trail whereever I go — like a slug. Although, I did leave a little trail of something on the way to the shower this morning. Not sure what the hell it was, but I’m sure the dog will lick it up for me. That’s what she’s there for, right?)

Anyway, against my will, I was pressed into work this morning when some coalition of cock-knocking cretins out there came up with a new ‘spamment’ URL that my MT-Blacklist didn’t know about, and left seventy — that’s right; seven-oh — porny-assed ‘comments’ in my inbox overnight. Grrrrr, bitches. Very grrrr.

It took me a while to clean them out — and to ban twenty or so of their IP addresses from ever darkening my comment box again — but I did it. And, I figured, as long as I’m here, why not tinker a bit with the site. So, I added in a few of my upcoming comedy shows to the sidebar over there on the left.

(No, genius — your other left. Sheesh.

Seriously, though, if you’re in the Boston area, come on out and see a show. I can’t guarantee that you’ll love it and ask me to sign your boobs or anything, but it’s always a good time, there’s always beer, and the comics and assorted crowd members generally stay up until the wee hours chatting and boozing and generally making asses of ourselves.

So you’re fairly likely to meet somebody who’s gonna be famous someday. It’s just probably not me. But I’ll still buy you a beer for coming out — hell, you can’t afford not to show up, eh?)

Anyway, check out the schedule, and mark your calendars. Or don’t. I can’t tell you people what to do.

In other thrilling, tantalizing blog template news, I added a new cross-blogination ad type of thingy at the bottom of the page, and moved the BlogExplosion and Site Mojo thingies down there, too. I’m not sure they’ll stay like that — it looks a little funny, and I’m not terribly impressed with the new ad gizmo — but if you’re interested in such things, then knock yourself out. I mention it mainly just to pad the size of this post.

(Ain’t I a stinker?)

Finally, a reminder that today is the very most lastest day to get in your nominations for the Wizbang 2004 Weblog Awards. Again, if you’re into that sort of thing. Nominate your faves, nominate yourself — hell, nominate this guy, if you want. It’s not important who you pick, really — the important thing is that you spend a minute or two entertaining yourself, quite possibly at someone else’s expense. Isn’t that what life’s all about?

All right, that’s it for now — I’ll be back later in the day with real content of some kind or other… just as soon as I make some shit up to embellish my boring-ass Sunday. See you then.

Afternoon Update: Apparently, I just can’t stop. Somebody help me. I just added another fifty or so Simpsons quotes to the revolving thingy at the top of the page.

(You can see all the quotes — and just how much fricking time I’ve spent watching episodes and writing the damned things down — on the main Simpsons quote page.)

Okay, that’s really it this time for the updates. This isn’t spring fucking cleaning time, people. I’m gonna have a beer or three, to make sure that’s the end of it. Peace.

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A Lazy Charlie Is a Happy Charlie

Man, is there anything better than the Saturday of a long weekend? I haven’t done anything even remotely useful in the past two days, and I’ll be just as fricking useless tomorrow. Meanwhile, today I’m free to frolic unfettered, with my workaday worries still far, far away. It’s almost like being unemployed again, only without those pesky interviews and anxiety over repo men showing up at the door.

(Right. Like we have anything worth repossessing in the first place. Maybe the couches. And they might get a few bucks from someone for the dog, but that’s pretty much it. We really don’t have nice things, particularly — I’d just end up breaking them, if we did. I’m clumsy that way.)

Anyway, I’m having fun wallowing in my own unproductiveness. So far today, I’ve eaten, played video games, hung out with a few comics, had a few beers, watched some football, eaten again, and started this post. Somewhere in there, I’m pretty sure I took a shower. And I think I brushed my teeth, maybe. That’s about all I’ve accomplished today, and damn, it feels good. We need this three-days-on-four-days-off shit every week. I’m just sayin’.

Of course, all of this unabashed slothery is gonna catch up with me soon. Monday, in particular, ought to be a royal bitch in the ass. I’m hoping it’s okay to show up at noon. Unshaven. In my pajamas. And ideally, they’ll let me take a nice nap on my desk, grab some lunch, surf for porn for a while, and then slip home around three or so. Like a day as a Congressman or something. Neato.

In the meantime, I’m gonna go back to slacking off. There’s still football to watch, and food to eat — and I’ve got plenty to accomplish in the video games I’ve been playing. At least I can be virtually productive — I just have to live vicariously through digitally-rendered pampered athletes and ruthless space captains and bloodthirsty mercenaries. Again, a little bit like being a Congressman. Or a mental patient, take your pick. I’m not sure which is worse, frankly.

Anyway, until I’ve got the motivation to write again, you kiddies have a good time out there. Enjoy that weekend, people — soon enough, we’ll be back in the shit together, picka-pock-pecking our lives away in little cubicles and remembering the ‘good times’, when we stuffed our faces full of turkey and didn’t shave for four days. And if that’s not something to be thankful for, then I don’t know what the hell is. I’ll catch you later.

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I Think My ‘Innie’ Just Turned Itself ‘Outie’

Holy crap rolled with bread crumbs and packed up a turkey’s ass, people — I am stuffed.

The wife and I just got back from our ‘we give thanks that there are restaurants open today‘ Thanksgiving tour, and I’m just freaking miserable. In a good, full, tasty way, but still — I feel like someone plugged up all my headholes and pumped a firehosefull of gravy up my ass.

Except for the very nastiest part of that little scenario, that is. There’s nothing back there feeling bad — I’m just full, is all I’m saying.

(Of course, I can’t necessarily speak for tomorrow, when all that shit I ate starts coming back out of me somewhere. And it’s any orifice in a storm, from what I understand. Yeeks!

Also, that’s two ‘stuffed up an ass’ analogies in the first few minutes here. I promise I’ll stop now. Really. I’m starting to scare myself.)

Anyway, we had quite the tasty time tonight, our current painful stuffedness notwithstanding. And it’s not our fault we can barely walk now — or breathe, or talk, or spel. I mean, ‘spell’. Ahem. Moving on.

The point is, we were hellaciously well-fed. Four courses — and wine with each — doesn’t sound like a lot… well, okay, actually, it does sound like a lot. A helluva lot. And it’s even more than it sounds like — trust me. Plus, we filled up on bread. We’re not very good at this ‘eating’ thing, when you get right down to it.

Okay, I think that’s enough for now. All this typing is distracting me from figuring out how to carve some sort of a blowhole in my side to relieve the pressure. Hope you kiddies had a good Thanksgiving, too — if you’re into that sort of thing, that is. And if not… well, you’re probably better off. Unless you went out and did that ‘gravy hose up the keister’ thing just for kicks, of course. In which case, good luck with that, you sweaty, bloated perv, you.

All right, now I’m really going. Happy ‘tizzle-to-tha-gizzle’, people. I’m gonna go lie down and groan for a while. If I don’t fucking explode, I’ll be back tomorrow. Cheers.

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