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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Hey, where the hell did everybody go?
Oh, right. Thanksgiving. I guess everyone’s travelling, or making holiday food, or out buying big-assed pants to fit their bloated cheeks into after the gorging tomorrow.
Well, not me, folks — I’m sticking right damned here. I’m not driving or flying around anywhere like a headless fricking turkey this weekend. I’m not cooking — or undercooking, as the case would almost certainly be — any birds of any sort, or potatoes, or any food more complicated than a microwave burrito. And the ‘big pants’… well, okay, fine. I might need those, actually. I’m still having Thanksgiving dinner, after all. At a nice restaurant, even. Maybe I’ll go pantsless altogether. Oh, mama.
See, and that’s the way to do Thanksgiving, people.
(No, no — I meant ‘eating at a restaurant’. Not ‘pantsless’. You big silly.
Although, there’s certainly nothing wrong with both. But not at the same time. It frightens the waiters. And trust me — there’s no easy way to explain away cranberry stains on your underwear. Not good.)
Anyway, what I meant was, getting stuffing crammed down your gullet by strangers at a restaurant is the only way to have stuffing crammed down your gullet, if you ask me. No traipsing all over creation, no slaving over an oven, no weird drunken uncles to deal with — I’m telling you, people, it doesn’t get any better. Not without tequila and redheaded strippers, anyway.
(But that’s not really a fair comparison — there’s not a holiday on the planet that can live up to that shit. Even those funky ones that last a whole week or more. Mmmmm… strippers.)
Of course, I used to do the ‘traditional’ Thanksgiving thing — drive like hell on Wednesday, spend the weekend with the family, stuff myself stupid, then drive like bloated hell back home on Sunday. It’s fricking exhausting — you should be refreshed after a long weekend, not longing for a nice, quiet coma. So I’m glad to be done with all of that. Or at least far away to make it geographically ludicrous to think about.
The wife and I even tried making our own Thanksgiving Day feast one year.
Yeah. One year.
Jeez, that was a pain in the giblets. All that cooking, and cleaning, and washing up… and hey, I did stuff, too! I think I did, anyway. I distinctly remember opening a can of cranberry sauce. Maybe that was a different year; it’s all hazy and forgetty now.
So, anyway, tomorrow’s a big, complicated day for a lot of folks. For me, it’s just a delicious, gut-stretching start to a lazy four-day weekend. Don’t all of you get jealous at once, now. Form a single-file line, there — I’ll get to everyone. No pushing.
Meanwhile, for those of you who celebrate the Pilgrims’ stunning victory over a bunch of guys in loincloths and bearskins, happy Thanksgiving. Me, I don’t know quite how I feel about the message. I’m just in it for the turkey. Professionally prepared, at a place where I don’t have to wash the dishes afterwards. Now that’s something to be thankful for, kiddies. Catch you later, gobblers.
Permalink | 5 CommentsSo, for any of you who’ve been waiting for the clips from my last couple of standup sets — and you know who you are, you sad, lonely buggers — they’re now up and available over in the ‘Standup Stansup’ section on the left sidebar. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry… but mostly, you’ll wonder what the hell I’m doing up there. Don’t worry. That’s perfectly normal. One day, I’ll ask the same thing myself.
Also, for you sorts of folks who are interested in bloggy kinds of things — and why the hell would you be here if you weren’t? — I’ve recently gotten word that nominations for the Wizbang 2004 Weblog Awards are now being taken. So hop on over, have a look at the categories, and submit your most favoritest blogs for consideration. It’s a great big old-fashioned popularity contest, just like grandma used to make. So if you’ve got strong, loud, irrational opinions, be sure to make ’em heard! And don’t forget, in a couple of weeks or so, to go back and vote, too.
Remember, people, if you don’t participate, this whole ‘blogocracy’ means nothing. And from what I understand, if you don’t vote, then you can’t complain when Dave Barry or Wil Wheaton get elected BlogPresident. Or BlogSenator, or Secretary of the Blogterior, or whatever the hell they’re running for.
(And while you’re over there nominaterating, don’t forget who also gave you grainy, garbled standup comedy clips to look at, eh?
Unless they sucked. In which case… yeah, it’s safe to forget about that for a while. Never mind.)
So go on — go check out the clips and the award site. Go on, shoo! There’s nothing else to see in this post. I’ve already given you two ways to entertain yourself for a few hours — I can’t do all the damned work. Vamoose!
Permalink | No CommentsHey there, kiddies.
So, I’m back from the wedding I went to this weekend. And… well, I really can’t say anything snarky or smartassed about it. Really. Nothing.
(Hey, I can’t help it — some of the people who were there say they read this shit from time to time. If I sell them out here, I might find sugar in my gas tank, or a flaming bag of dog shit on my porch. Those mothers know where I live, you know?)
Anyway, it was a pretty good time. I didn’t realize until we got there that it was going to be a Catholic wedding, or I’d have worn more sensible shoes. That’s a damned workout, people — sit, stand, sit, stand, kneel, sit, stand. Nothing like a bit of calisthenics with your nuptials, eh?
(Of course, I’m not in a church of any kind all that often. I still have this near-irrestistable urge to scream ‘Sanctuary!!!‘ every time I step foot in one of those places. But that’s just me. More TV than church time. Go figure.)
It struck me as a bit odd, though, that the church was named ‘Our Lady of the Sorrows’. I know Catholics are into that whole ‘guilt’ thing and all, but damn, people — this is a wedding! Couldn’t they have a little slidy thing on their sign for that last word, so they can change it out for the happy occasions? So, like on Sundays, they can still be ‘Our Lady of the Sorrows‘, but on Saturday afternoons, why not ‘Our Lady of the Happy Couple‘? Or ‘Our Lady of the Tipsy Bridesmaids‘? How about ‘Our Lady of the Honeymoon Full-Body Acrobatics‘? No? I’m just sayin’.
I cemented my spot in Catholic Hell during the ceremony, too.
(If I hadn’t already, of course. Which I had. But that’s not important right now.)
So, my wife and I were sitting near the back, and we were good through the first half of the wedding. And I mean good. I didn’t make a peep when the priest launched into some long, sing-songy sermonish thing that wasn’t on the program. And I even kept my cool — as much as anyone else, anyway — when the groom laughed(!) as the priest had him recite the line about ‘to have and to old, forsaking all others, et cetera, et cetera‘.
(Which was fucking hilarious, of course. And I’ve got it on video, since they asked me to tape the wedding for them.
Of course, having that on tape is nice. But if I’d been able to catch the bride-to-be’s reaction to that… oh, baby. That would have been priceless.)
Anyway, about halfway through, the churchkeeper types offered communion. I guess with all that jumping up and down and stuff, they figured people needed a snack. I don’t know — I don’t claim to understand any of this stuff.
So, first they gave the wine ‘n’ wafer to the people up front, including a couple of folks who apparently showed up just for that. Seriously — they weren’t up front for the whole show, and then bam! Just as they’re bringing out the snacks, here come these people to get in the middle of things. So, fine. I wasn’t taking communion, so they weren’t cutting frontsies in my line — no problem.
But — but! — when the crowd in the pews had finished their sippin’ and munchin’, there was apparently a little bit of wine left. And one of those communion crashers who snuck up there early took one of the goblets and just slugged it back. Not a sip, not a taste — a whole big freaking gulp! Damn!
Well, that was it for me. That’s when I punched my ticket to hell — and made sure my wife was coming along for the ride, too. (Don’t wanna get lonely in that handbasket, after all.) Anyway, here’s the conversation we had in the back pew:
Me: Pssst! Hey, did you see that guy? He already had a drink, and he just took another one!
Her: (looking at me with those big, pleading eyes that say, ‘please, for the love of all that’s good, don’t be a smartass in church’) That’s okay. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.
Me: But… he’s bogarting the blood of christ! You can’t do that!
Her: It’s… he… look, it’s okay. Maybe they have to get rid of it.
Me: Are you saying the blood of christ goes bad?!
Her: *giggle* Shhhhh! We are so going to hell.
Me: See, ’cause it should stay good forever, right? This ain’t the blood of some hobo off the street we’re talking about — there’s no ‘shelf life’ involved with this stuff.
Her: *snort* Shut up, shut up, shut up… oh, man.
Me: Or maybe they have to get rid of it, or after three days, it just… disappears, and they can’t find it any more.
Her: Oh, crap. We really are going to hell. Damn it.
So, that was the entertainment for the afternoon. And now we’re pretty screwed, probably. I think there’s still the ‘deathbed confession’ thing in play, though — I’m not sure. I’ll have to check the rulebook some day, to see if we’re covered.
In other news, the reception was a lot of fun. You gotta love an open bar at someone else’s wedding. Honestly, other people’s weddings are like a weekend at Disney World for adults. You get to road trip to get there, then you spend all night being silly and dancing around, and then you get to stay in a cool hotel room for the night. And if there’s anything better than a car you can treat like a rental, then it’s a room you can treat like a rental. Oh, baby. ‘Don’t worry about that, honey — the maid will clean it off the ceiling tomorrow.‘ Woot!
The reception dinner was pretty tasty, too. Although… you know, as long as I’m going to hell anyway, there’s something else I don’t understand. Before we ate, a guy stood up and said ‘grace’. Which is fine — bless the food, and all that. No problem.
But… here’s the thing. From what I understand about the Bible, ‘food’ doesn’t really seem to be priority one. I mean, god didn’t tell people to ‘go forth and have a ham sandwich‘, right? No. He said, ‘Go forth and multiply‘.
So, sure, blessing the food is cool and all — but shouldn’t people really be saying ‘grace’ before making love? Doesn’t that make more sense? And isn’t there a much higher risk of someone getting hurt in the sack, rather than at the table? I think that’s where I’d be asking for a little divine intervention, frankly. It might go something like this:
‘Dear lord, we beseech thee, as we prepare to get our kinky freak on — lord, please bless these satiny pillows and bottles of massage oil, and impart your divine spirit to the batteries in our ‘appliances’, should we need them.
O lord, bless us, too, your humble imperfect servants, as we partake of the spiritual sustenance you have provided in the nethery bits of the other. Praise be to you!
And finally, lord, we ask that if you hear us call out to you in the throes of our divine sweaty love, please see to it that we aren’t taking your name ‘in vain’. If you know what I’m saying. Nudge, nudge, there, big guy. If it be your will, and all. Hallelujah!‘
Yeah, I’m pretty much cooked, aren’t I? Ah, well, whaddaya do? This is what I get for going to a church wedding, I guess. Sort of figures, when you think about it. Meh.
Permalink | 6 CommentsSo, I don’t handle money, so much.
I’ve mentioned before how I usually get my dough for the week, via the Andrew Jackson fairy who visits the house from time to time.
(No, really, it’s in there — I know it looks like a TiVo-related post, but there’s a lot of personal finance talk smushed in there, too. I tend to wander around a bit, you see. No, really.
You’re new around here, aren’t you?)
Anyway, my wife handles paying the bills and keeping the checkbook in order. Partly, it’s just because she’s pretty darned good at it. And partly, it’s because she’s sweet enough to take on the responsibility for us. Mostly, though, I think it’s because the way I used to do it really pissed her off.
See, I had a system — a half-assed, moron-simple system, but still, a system. Any expense that came in, I’d round up to the nearest ten dollars. Paychecks, I rounded down. So I never actually knew exactly how much cash we had, but I could always say with some certainty whether we had enough for something. Which is all that really matters, in my opinion.
Apparently, my opinion is wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time, dammit.
And I see the logic in that, I suppose — when we were scrounging together a down payment for the house, it was probably useful to know whether or not we had ‘ten percent of the asking price’, as opposed to ‘something more than a hundred bucks’. I’m with you, there.
Still, in most cases, I’d argue that determining exactly how much money you have at any one point is pretty fricking futile. It’s a little bit like measuring the exact length of your penis: it’s a long and complicated process, nobody but you really cares about the answer, and by the time you’re done figuring it out, the number has already changed.
Of course, it’s probably a whole lot less embarrassing to be caught ‘red-handed’ with an adding machine and a shoebox full of receipts, as opposed to a wooden ruler and a copy of Bigguns.
And I say ‘probably’ because I don’t actually own an adding machine. Do the math on that one, Elmo.
Speaking of ‘bigguns’…
(And don’t you just love it when a sentence starts that way? Unfortunately, I fear I may disappoint the raunchier folks among you with what’s coming next. Keep it in your pants, there, Skippy.)
Speaking of ‘bigguns’, who was the lazy douchebag that named the ‘woolly mammoth’?
(Aw, hell — let’s turn this into a picture show, just for the hell of it. Thank you, Google image search!
Okay, one more time, from the top.)
Speaking of ‘bigguns’, who was the lazy douchebag that named the:
Woolly Mammoth?
I mean, think about it — all of the other big, hairy monsters on the planet get long, scientific-sounding, complicated names. Take the:
Rhinoceros, for instance.
Or how about the:
Hippopotamus?
Or even better, the nearly-extinct:
JamesGandolfini?
(I hear there are only one or two left in the world. Now there’s an endangered species, folks.)
But ‘woolly mammoth’? Come on! What kind of half-assed zoologist mailed that one in? It’s not a name; it’s a damned description — why not just call them ‘fuzzy giants’? Or ‘Furry-assed monsters’? Or even, ‘hairy bigguns‘?
And there you have it, folks. The second ‘bigguns’ reference in the post. No matter what the topic, it all comes back to the ‘bigguns’, doesn’t it? I can see my work here is done — I’m off to a wedding tonight, so I’ll catch you kids tomorrow.
(Most images used in this post were copied [to save their bandwidth] from TheFreeDictionary encyclopedia section. The actor image was copied from a [since misplaced — sorry!] personal web site found via Google Image Search. No JamesGandolfinis were harmed in the writing of this enty.
Damn, did I really just write that last bit? ‘Hairy bigguns’, indeed. Oh my.)
Permalink | 1 CommentMan, did I ever not want to be at work this morning. Or even in public. Or for that matter, vertical. A show last night, a few beers, too little sleep, and a mid-morning meeting do not a happy Charlie make. Not even remotely.
For those first few bleary-eyed, poundy-headed waking moments, I considered calling in sick, and crawling back under the covers. But no. Even if I’d wanted to — and you can bet your perky little ass I did — I couldn’t have. Staying home on Fridays is just not an option.
You see, folks, we have a dog walker. She comes on Wednesday and Friday afternoons, to take the pooch out for a little prance ‘n’ poop. And just about the last thing I need is for her to come in to find me, in full undies regalia at two in the afternoon, groaning and drooling on the living room couch. Not a pretty sight. That’s what my wife tells me, anyway, and I’m inclined to take her word on this one.
Actually, it’s not just the mutt-moseyer I’ve got to worry about. Recently, we’ve been having a cleaning service come by every other Friday to tidy up the place, and this was one of her weeks, too. She comes in at… well, actually, I don’t know when the hell she comes in.
(Seriously, she’s like ‘stealth maid’ or something. I leave the house on days when she cleans, and then magically, by the time I get back, all of our shit is spiffied up and rearranged into different bewildering piles. I’m not sure it’s worth it, frankly. Sure, everything smells a little better, but for a week, I can’t fucking find anything. And just about the time I’ve got my little piles of junk mail and laundry and beer bottles and porn set up exactly the way I like them, in she comes and jumbles them up again. Damned annoying.)
And you know, I used to think that cleaning services were just for rich people, a luxury that I’d never need to — or, more to the point, be able to — afford. And probably, the good services are like that. You want someone to come in and clean all your shit and then put it back where you fricking left it — well, you probably have to pay extra for that. And getting them to put on the little French maid’s outfit while they’re there… yeah, that’ll cost you, too. We don’t have the sort of cleaning lady that does that kind of thing.
(Or frankly, the kind that you would want to do that last kind of thing. Not unless you were really, really drunk. Or blind. And preferably both.)
Anyway, the point is that Fridays are generally pretty busy around the house, and no place for a guy slacking off of work to sit peacefully on his couch eating Cheetos and watching Judge Judy. Not that I would do such a thing — that’s just an example, of course.
(I’m really more of a Funyuns guy. And Montel kicks that bitch Judy’s ass. From, um, what I hear. I’m just sayin’. Ahem.)
All that traffic and hubbub takes the fun out of playing hooky at home, though. It’s like seeing a movie all chopped up with commercial breaks on network TV, or watching porn with those little black bars over the interesting bits — it’s still entertaining, I guess, but you lose the thrill of the whole thing. It’s nothing to get all lubed up and frothy over any more.
So, I went to work today. I made it through my meeting, and — after a greasy burger and two jolts of caffeine — eventually felt almost human again. And now it’s time to go home and see whether that woman moved our TV into the bathroom, or alphabetized all the crap in the fridge. Honestly, it’s like having Rain Woman come into our house twice a month, and wiggling shit around into some crazy order that only makes sense to her. And then spraying it with Pine-Sol, so it smells nice and lemony clean.
(Okay, so that last part’s not really a Rain Man thing. It’s not a perfect analogy, dammit. Cut me some frigging slack, would you?)
Anyway, I’ll try to get the clips from this week’s shows up soon. Assuming I can still find the videocam when I get home, of course; lord knows where she’ll end up sticking that thing. I may be AWOL again tomorrow — I know, I know; ‘Bad Charlie! Naughty little bastard! Bad! Bad!’ — because I’ve got a wedding to scurry off to. So if I don’t see you kids for a day or two, you have yourselves a peachy little weekend, won’t you? I’m out.
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