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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
So, I was just reading over an old post of mine. Actually, it’s probably my very most favoritest post — they’re not all gems around here, by any stretch, but this one still makes me giggle like a ticklish teenager on ecstacy.
(Okay, maybe not that much. Still — I dig it. Maybe you will, and maybe you won’t. There’s no politics or recipes or quotes from scripture in it, so if that’s the kind of thing you’re looking for… yeah, I’m gonna be pretty damned useless to you. But thanks for stopping by. So sorry.)
Anyway, back to the post — which, coincidentally enough, I wrote exactly one year and one day ago; spoooooky, no?
So, I was reading through it — it’s about my (non-)appearance on Wheel of Fortune, if such things float your particular brand of watercraft — and I realized, to my great chagrin, that only half the original post was there! I could read about the first round, and the second round… but round three and the bonus round were nowhere to be seen! What the fuck?
My best guess is that when I moved over to this site from Blogger, the post import had some kind of size limit. And I’m a wordy mother fucker. I’ll throw a couple of thousand words around about a trip to the grocery store or a children’s show I’ve got no damned business watching.
(Or about some post I wrote a year ago, apparently. This was supposed to be a short post, dammit. Curse this diarrhea of the fingers!)
(Yeah, I know. ‘Ewwwwww!‘ My bad.)
Anyway, as you can imagine at this point, when I have a real live, actual topic to blather on about, I can go on for quite a while. Including a while longer than MovableType will allow, when plopping posts from Blogger into a new site. So — I’m guessing — my very most favoritest post got chopped in half. Bitches!
And then — then! — nobody told me about it. So it’s been sitting there since March, or whenever I set up shop here, crippled and incomplete. A half a post. An unfinished symphony. Drivelus interruptus.
So, I fixed it. I searched the original down on my old Blogger page, and copied in the rest of the post. And not to try to send you folks diving into the archives or anything, but now that it’s actually fully fricking available, I’ll tell you this:
If you’re interested in reading the post that I’m most proud of in my nearly year-and-a-half of slinging sass on this site, then feel free to have a look at ‘Can I Buy a Damned Clue, Please?‘, seen here in its entirety for the first time in… I dunno. Months. Maybe ever. Goddamned computers, anyway. Why does no one tell me these things?! *sigh*
Permalink | No CommentsFrom both the ‘Did I Really Write That?’ and ‘Activities That Are Probably Far Less Entertaining Than You’d Initially Believe’ departments:
I got a hit from a Google searcher a few minutes ago. And tracking backwards using his query terms, I found that I’m the #2 Google hit for:
I’m not quite sure how to feel, frankly. First of all, the post in question is the one — the only one; a sort of ‘farewell, but come visit the new digs’ type of post — that appears only on my old Blog*Spot site and not here.
(And maybe it says something about my state of mind at the time that it’s the only place where little people of any kind are mentioned in the same breath as Everyone’s Favorite Party Game [That We Like to Pretend Always Turns Into a Sweaty, Wanton Orgy But Never Actually Does]™.
Maybe that says I’m whacked. Maybe moving is just tough on you. But probably both.)
Apart from that, though, I find myself filled with questions about the whole thing. Deep, troubling questions like:
Has no one else out there ever typed those three words in that sane order? Ever?!
(This more specific search would suggest ‘no’, by the way.)
And if not… ooh, that’s not good. That means I might be the only guy who’s ever contemplated the phenomenon of ‘midgets playing twister’. Mommy, I’m scared.
Come to think of it, have I really contemplated it fully? I think not. I’m still not sure how such a game would work, with people who can’t fully cover the entire playing surface — which would seem to be a prerequisite, if I understand Twister correctly. Would they play on stilts, with broomsticks in their hands, maybe? On a miniature board — some sort of multicolored placemat, maybe? Would they just make all the spots ‘red’, to make it easier? Enquiring minds are mildly — and freakishly — interested, dammit!
Finally — and I suppose this answers an earlier question: who searches for that kind of thing?! It seems like I should feel better that someone else out there has thought of the same thing… but instead, it’s just creepy. Now there are two of us — quite possibly the only two in the world with this one wigged-out, bizarre thread in common. It’s like hearing that someone else out there uses flyswatters as a ‘marital aid’. Or finding somebody else who once accidentally pictured your grandma in that scene in 9 1/2 Weeks. Icky.
(Those are just examples, of course. *ahem* Not anything that I actually have, uh… yeah. Never mind.
But seriously, nobody would use a flyswatter to get their freak on. Even if you leaned in that particular creepy direction, it’s obvious you’d go for the bug zapper, instead. I mean, why ride a bike when there’s a Ferrari sitting in the driveway? It’s pretty simple, really.)
All right, what the hell was I talking about? Bug zappers and grandmas always get me a little distracted. And thirsty, but I think that’s different. I don’t know what it all means.
Anyway, back to the Twister midgets. I forget what my point was — I’m just a little creeped out, is all. I guess if the guy who made the search — and yeah, I’m pretty much assuming it was a guy — ever comes back, I can ask him why he was searching in the first place. And what he found. And what other sorts of creepy crap he does. Hey, maybe we were separated at birth. Freaky.
Permalink | No CommentsFolks, I’ve got nothing tonight. Nada. Zilch. Zipperooni.
Chalk it up to a long, hard day at work. Or the four hours and change of sleep I got last night. Or maybe the throbbing, raging hangover I woke up with this morning.
(And believe me, folks — if you’re going to wake up to something ‘throbbing’ and ‘raging’, you don’t want it to be a hangover.
On the other hand, you probably don’t want it to be anything else, either. Throbbing or raging, perhaps, but not both at once — that’s just creepy.)
Of course, the hangover is all my fault. ‘Hey,’ I told myself, back before it was completely laughable, ‘I’ll just go down to the Comedy Studio to catch a quick show. Just a couple of sets, and a quick dinner, and I’ll be home by eleven. No problem!‘
Right. No problem. The show ended at ten. I got home at two-thirty, and into bed sometime after three. And then up at eight, for no better reason than being horizontal started to seem like a really, really bad idea. Oof.
Anyway, the point is, I’m all poopered out. Looks like I won’t be up in time for that fantabulous Red Sox parade planned for tomorrow morning, either. And what a shame — there’s nothing I like better than standing in the cold with five million drunken, sweaty guys screaming, ‘Yankees suck!‘ for three hours. Really. I live for that shit. No, honestly.
Eh, it’s just as well. I’d rather sleep than parade, anyway. Or be paraded at, or to, or in front of. I don’t know how these parady kinds of things work, frankly. It seems like an awful lot of standing around outside, with an obstructed view and in a fog of other people’s b.o., waiting for people to ride by in cars, or on floats, or some other such thing. Sounds cold and shrivelly, if you ask me. I’m sleeping in. The Sox can ‘Go!‘ while I’m drooling on my pillow. Maybe I’ll TiVo it, and save it for later. That’s a plan. Woo Sox.
Meanwhile, though, I gotta hit the sack. I’m not getting any less exhausted sitting here at the ‘puter, and my pillow isn’t gonna drool all over itself, you know. I’ve got responsibilities here, and I’m getting to ’em right now. I’ll see you kids when my eyes will stay open on their own again. Nighty-night.
Permalink | No CommentsSo, tell me, then — because I apparently don’t know the right answer:
When you’re in a lunch meeting with your bosses and co-workers, and one of the smartasses across the table nods and says, dripping with innuendo:
‘Hey… that’s a fine-looking banana you’ve got there.‘
Is the most proper, job-preserving reply to:
A) nod politely, and make a mental note to line his desk chair with SuperGlue later?
B) lob the ball back into his court by ignoring him completely, thereby daring him to shout, ‘I said, ‘Nice banana, dude!’‘ across the crowded table?
C) smile sweetly at him and say, ‘Yes, yes it is. Would you like a bite of my banana, then? There’s plenty to go around.‘?
D) frown at him snarkily and say, ‘Nice talk, dude‘, leaving the non-gutter-minded around you wondering what the hell just went on?
E) reply, ‘Well, at least it’s not a cucumber, bitch‘… also leaving the non-gutter-minded around you wondering what the hell just went on?
F) slyly nudge your neighbor and say to the smartass, ‘I’ll bet you say that to all the guys, don’t you, you little vixen?‘?
G) do some other, crazy bit of nonsense, like fling the banana at him and skitter out the door like a monkey?
See, I’m just asking because I can absolutely tell you that the answer is not:
H) loudly proclaim, so all can hear you, ‘Oh, you think that’s a banana? No, no — I’ll show you a banana, baby!‘
It’s probably also not wise — what with the stodgy old codgers and codgerettes around — to find yourself ‘on a roll’, and follow that up with anything like… oh, I don’t know, let’s say:
I) ‘Why don’t you come on over here and peel my banana, huh? It’s ripe, and it’s juicy, and just oozing with —‘
At that point — should you accidentally wander down that path, that is — someone beside you would most likely throw up a hand and say:
‘Hey! Not another word! You nasty pervert!‘
(I mean, theoretically, of course. Not that any of this ever actually happened. I’m just saying.)
(While I’m at it, though, the person stopping you would theoretically be a woman. And one who never liked you, anyway, and who you suspect is always stealing your fruit cups out of the office fridge. Theoretically. Bitch.)
At this point — this now highly theoretical point — you’re pretty much cooked. You’ve been called out, taken the bait, and now the whole theoretical room is now theoretically staring at you with less-than-theoretical disgust. There’s little you could possibly do to come back from this.
Except:
J) pull another, even larger banana from your lunch bag and say, as innocently as possible, ‘I was going to say, ‘potassium’. ‘Oozing with potassium’. What’s wrong with that?‘
Which is why, my friends, I always carry an extra, jumbo-sized banana with me at all times. Starting tomorrow. Theoretically. Bah.
Permalink | 5 CommentsHey, there, folkses.
I’m pretty sure that nobody in their right mind would be particularly interested in this next bit, but I wanted to throw it out, nonetheless.
(Plus, I’m not altogether convinced many of you are in your ‘right minds’, or you probably wouldn’t be here. Unless you just surfed by accidentally, looking for the latest political blather or ‘naked pics of Linda Cohn‘ or something.
Yeah, you heard me, out there. I read my logs. I know what kind of sick SportsCenter fetishes you people are cooking up. Pervs.)
Anyway, here’s the point: As I mentioned recently, I hooked up with BlogExplosion a few days ago, and have been generally impressed with what I’ve seen.
(Which is about a thousand blogs I’d have never gotten around to checking out, a few hundred hits I wouldn’t have otherwise had, and — most importantly — a handful of new friends with whom I’ve traded comments and links.
Not to drop into ‘smarmy infomercial mode’, but the thing I most appreciate about this particular service is that the hits are delivered on a quid pro quo basis, meaning that you have to browse other sites to bring eyeballs and other assorted organs to yours. Is that extra work? Yes. Do you end up reading a lot of ridiculous bullshit in between the good weblogs? Of course.
But it also means that virtually everything you see is being actively updated and maintained, and — almost by definition — by someone who’s interested in checking out new content and bringing in new readers. No dead links, no ‘Last Post: June 2002’ nonsense. And I dig that.)
Awright. I’m stepping off the soapbox. Pimping other sites is so not the point of this frigging post.
But actually — actually! — pimping this site is the point, in a roundabout sort of way. To cut to the (first part of the) chase, BlogExplosion lets you hawk your site using topside banners, as well as the other ways that you either know about already or couldn’t give a llama’s left asscheek about, so I won’t go into them.
The banners, however, we talk about. Because I made some. And I’ve never made banners for this site before. Frankly, I’ve never made banners for anything before. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I could say I’ve made anything for anything before. Not graphically, anyway. I have the Photoshop skillz of a lobotomized cockatoo.
(Yeah, I know — the lobotomy is sort of overkill, since we’re already starting without opposable thumbs. Or fingers of any kind. Or a forebrain to speak of.
Actually, without a forebrain, how do you lobotomize a little teeny bird like that? Bop it on the head? Blow in its ear? Neuter it?
Wow. That analogy really went down the shitter fast, eh? Note to self: no more cockatoo references until you can get your hands on some sort of bird encyclopedia. Damn.)
All right, where the hell was I? Oh, banners. Brilliant.
So, I made banners. And because I’m a raving lunatic douchebag, I didn’t make one or two banners. Oh, no. Any old word-whirler could come up with one or two. No, I made thirty.
(What? Stop looking at me like that. Am not insane in the membrane. Am not! Stop it!)
Actually, it’s not all that damned impressive, as you’re about to have the chance to see. These are the simplest damned banners you can imagine. A slow-witted pomeranian (and is there any other kind?) could have come up with these babies. It ain’t Rembrandt, people.
The first one was the tough one, actually. Like I said, I’ve got no Photoshop skills, not to mention damned little artistic ability. Words, I can do. Pretty pictures, no. Not so much.
So, if you’d been within eavesdropping range of my living room last night, you’d have heard some mighty strange curses coming from the couchal region, as I struggled to get the first damned banner off the ground:
‘No… no! Not there. I didn’t say put the text there. Bitches!‘
‘Wha…? I said dark blue, dammit! You’re killing me. Why are you killing me?!‘
‘Oh, you little fucking… I’ve got your ‘transparent layers’ right here, you Adobe ass-spawn!‘
(Actually, to be honest, there was someone within hearing range of all of this, if you count the dog. But she doesn’t really qualify, since:
A) she was sleeping through most of it, and ignoring me through the rest, and
2) she only understands four phrases in English, and has her own translations for most of those. Here’s her full repertoire, as best I can make out:
I say, ‘Sit‘.
She hears, ‘Sit‘. (So she gets one right.)
I say, ‘Come‘.
She hears, ‘Continue to lick your ass on the middle of the carpet, being sure to make those loud, wet *schmaschlurp*-ing noises in the second-most disgusting way doggily possible.‘
I say, ‘I said, ‘Come’, dammit!‘
She hears, ‘(Same as above), only now look directly at me while you’re doing it, making it absolutely the most disgusting way doggily possible.‘
I say, ‘Who wants a widdle treat?‘
She hears, ‘Please run, as fast as you possibly can and with slobber a-flying, directly at my crotch. And don’t worry about stopping short — I’m padded, so you’ll be just peachy-fine.‘
So, given that I didn’t say any of those things during my Photoshop ordeal, I’m pretty sure she didn’t blink an eye during the whole experience. Lousy fricking bitch, anyway. Meh.)
Okay, so back to the banners. The upshot is, I finally did get the first banner done — or at least ‘done’ by my standards — and then simply used my ‘Gallery o’ Taglines post to switch in a few different mottoes. Just to spice things up, you understand. At no time should you believe that anything actually creative occurred throughout the activity.
(Other than me coming up with ‘Adobe ass-spawn’; I was actually rather proud of that one.)
So, if you’re interested, you can reap the fruits of my labors below. I don’t want to burden you with all thirty banners right here on the page, so I’ve created links to each, with a preview of each tagline to prevent you from clicking through to drivel you’re not going to enjoy. As opposed to drivel you might enjoy — those are really the only two choices around here. Pretty short fucking menu, when you get right down to it.
Anyway, feel free to check them out, and — if you’re so inclined — to use one or more yourself. I’m not sure why you’d want to do such a thing, but if that’s what oils up your nethers, then please, be my guest. So long as you’re using it to link to here, you can use whatever the hell you want. Banners, text, scratch-‘n’-sniff piles of poodle poop — I’m not picky.
Oh, and one last tiny thing before the banners — because I’m not quite that off my head (yet), I didn’t actually submit all thirty to BlogExplosion. I picked out my favorite six, and used those. But now I’m curious — which are your favorites (if you have any), and/or can you guess which six I used? I’d love to know who’s in the same crazy boat with me.
(And extra credit if you can remember the commercials or other sources the lines are adapted from. Or why the damned table starts six fricking inches below this text. *sigh* I told you I wasn’t the graphical sort.)
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