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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Well, hey there, kittens.
(Yeah, I don’t know what that’s all about. ‘Kittens’. I thought I’d try it out, but it’s just a teensy bit effeminate, eh? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, particularly — it’s just not the tone I was shooting for.
Of course, saying something is ‘just a teensy bit’ of anything doesn’t exactly put you into mongo macho territory, either. So I’m just digging a bigger goddamned hole. To say nothing of what overanalyzing the structure of your greeting sentences says about a person.
Yeah. I think I’m gonna cut out of these parentheses right here, where I might sound a ‘teensy bit effeminate’ and borderline neurotic, but I haven’t yet dipped into mouth-foaming, poo-flinging lunacy. ‘Cause at this rate, it’s only a matter of time.)
Okay. So where the hell was I?
Oh, right. Nowhere yet. Spectacular.
Frankly, I don’t really have a topic lined up tonight. It was a pretty slow weekend, and while there is an enormous amount of bullshit swirling around the workplace these days, I really can’t tell you about any of it. I may well lose my job due to a number of reasons, folks — many of which involve public nudity, or salad tongs, or both — but having a boss read this blog and fire my verbose ass is not on the list. Homey don’t hit the unemployment line that way.
But that cuts down a bit on the topics available to us. Which is fine, for the moment. Even this bit of fluff is doing it’s job — namely, replacing that last piece of work from Saturday. I mean, honestly — how many people have stopped by here since then? Several? Dozens? Two? And now their first impression was ‘nutsack’ plastered all over the page. That’s not cool. Nobody should be remembered for their nutsack. Or even, as in this case, their ‘nutsack’. I don’t know where the hell that came from.
(Hoo boy. ‘Decorative nutsack accessories’. What the hell was I smoking this weekend, anyway?)
Still, as long as we’re here, we should probably talk about something, right? No reason to turn this into a completely content-free blatherfest, like one of those presidential debates. Oooh, snap, yo.
(And if you’re just tuning in, that’s about as political as I get. The only ‘spin’ you’re gonna find around here is most likely gonna be preceded by a ‘sit and ‘, and probably followed by an ‘assbag’, or maybe a ‘douchemonger’. Or some other ridiculous word meant to be pointed at a telemarketer, or a cluetarded Masshole driver, or damned Yankees fan. Or for that matter, a politician. I’d put them in approximately the same circle of Hell as the others there. Or maybe one circle over, where they wouldn’t be able to bother anyone else. That’s about right.)
Hey, there we go. That little mini-rant reminded me of something I can tell you about.
(And I hear you out there — ‘Please let it be ‘douchemonger’. Oh please let it be douchemonger!‘
Sorry to disappoint you, sports fans. That’s not it. Try to choke down your disappointment.)
Actually, it’s about telemarketers. They — or one of the coal-hearted bastards, at least — have become my alarm clock. Every day — every damned day — the phone rings between nine and nine-fifteen in the morning. Without fail. Rain, shine, or white puffy clouds; it doesn’t matter. By a quarter after nine, the phone is chirping. Telebitching bastards, anyway.
Now, before I bitch any further, let’s first try to contain our boiling-over envy that I’m actually still in bed at a quarter after nine most mornings. Admittedly, it’s a luxury, and one that I’m happy to have. I like to think that the world finds a way to balance out the karma from such a sweet deal by heaping bubbling piles of bullshit onto my plate when I finally do get to work in the morning. And then handing me a fork. And a straw. In the long run, it’s probably not really worth not having to see the wrong side of eight am for weeks at a time, but you know, it’s the only damned perk I get, so I’m milking the mother fucker. Call me petty.
But enough about the job I’m not supposed to be bitching about in public. Let’s get back to that Satan-spawn trying to sell me something at ungodly (to me) hours of the day.
Now, I have to admit, I don’t know who it is that keeps calling. And for all I know, it’s several different people, taking turns. Maybe they’re even calling for good and noble causes — maybe they want me to feed the children on Monday, and save the whales on Tuesday… it could be the fraternal order of police on hump day, and the Defenseless Baby Seal League on Thursday. I don’t care. I don’t give a somersaulting damn if it’s Mother ‘Wrinkly Nips’ Theresa hitting me up for help, or Heather ‘Much Less Wrinkly Nips’ Graham phoning to schedule a hot tub nooner. You want to talk to me, you do it after ten in the fricking morning, like a sensible damned person. Until then, I’m sleeping. Them babies gonna have to feed themselves, and the baby seals had better learn to duck ‘n’ weave when people come around with clubs. And Heather… well, she can leave a message. Her, I’ll get back to. Wouldn’t want to be rude, after all.
Meanwhile, back in my real life, devoid of steamy starlet shenanigans or hot tub sex of any kind, there’s still the matter of these cluetards who keep calling and waking me up every fricking day. It’s been going on for weeks now, and I’m still trying to decide what to do about it.
So far, I’m essentially ignoring it — I haven’t actually answered the phone when it rings, so I’m no better off than the first day it happened. There are a few reasons for my inertia, but mainly I know that if I ever tried to shake myself awake, leap across the bed in my jammies, and grab the phone off the nightstand, I’d take a header off the mattress and deflate a fucking lung. I’m an old, creaky, white, gangly guy, folks. I don’t have anything approaching coordination until about two in the afternoon, and even then, I’m lucky if I can walk and chew gum without spraining a cheek muscle. And there are four to choose from at that point — I don’t like my odds.
I suppose what I really should do is set my alarm — my actual, real alarm clock — for eight thirty or so, shoot some coffee into my eyeball or something, so I’m awake enough to deal with the shithead on the other end of the phone, wait for the call, and put a stop to the madness once and for all. And I’d do that — I really would — except I just fricking know that the day I go to all of that trouble, and screw up my sleep schedule and work myself into a poopy-mooded furor, that would be the one goddamned day that the teleweenies forget to call. And there I’d be, awake and twitchy, with no outlet for my rage, and I’d be forced to tie Snausages to my dog’s collar and taunt her while she tries to get at them. And that’s just mean. Nobody wants that.
(Well, okay — I do, sometimes, just a little. Like when she pees on the damned carpet, or drags trash all over the floor. But still, I don’t think I could do that to her.
Bags on her feet — maybe. Strap a traffic cone to her head and walk her around the neighborhood? I might. Shave ‘Who you callin’ a bitch?‘ into the fur on her side? Um… well, now that I’ve thought of it, yeah; I think I pretty much have to do that now. But put food near her that she can’t get to? She’d rather be run through a wood chipper. I just couldn’t stand it.)
So, I guess I’ll continue living in ignorant non-bliss. I’ll keep sleeping as late as I can, and these dildos will keep calling, and I’ll never find out who exactly it is that needs their underwear pulled over their heads and tied in a bow around their neck. And I’ll keep waking up cranky, and even less likely to ever want to answer the damned phone again. See what these bitches are doing to me? Crap! I’ve got veins getting all throbby just thinking about it. And not the good ones, either. Not the Heather-Graham-in-a-hot-tub kind at all. Bitches!
Permalink | 2 CommentsSo, I’ve been thinking the past couple of days, and I realized something that I’ve neglected around here. In all my time here — more than a year and a quarter now — I’ve never once mentioned the word ‘nutsack’.
Now, don’t get me wrong — it’s not like I’ve been meaning to work ‘nutsack’ in somewhere. Even for me, it’s a little bit graphic and icky. Just a little bit. Not enough to stop me from saying it (obviously), but still — it’s not in my normal repertoire.
But then I got to thinking — a lot of people find this site by entering ridiculous, scary crap into search engines. They come here looking for things like… oh, I dunno, let’s just pick some examples from today’s logs:
Anyway, that’s just a smattering. Most days, it’s much creepier than that. There are some sick puppies out there, folks. And most of them seem to end up here, one way or another.
And you know what? That’s okay with me. I’m not proud. Nor am I entirely stable myself, or above searching for nasty, blush-inducing crap on the web. So screw it — I’ll give people what they’re looking for. And that brings me to my nutsack.
Well, okay — not my nutsack. Not anybody’s nutsack in particular. Just the word, really — ‘nutsack’. See, knowing the sort of ‘clientele’ that seems to be attracted to this site, I’m guessing that there are people out there who’d probably like reading this crap, and who — coincidentally, at least — are making ‘nutsack’ queries of some sort in one of the search engines. Frankly, it’s a ‘law of averages’ thing. If there’s anybody out there reading this, and anyone searching for ‘nutsack’, the overlap between those groups is gonna be huge. Maybe even perfect.
And I’ve looked through the archives, and found — much to my surprise — that the ‘nutsack factor’ has simply never come up before. But I feel like it’s an important ‘hook’ for my kind of readers, so I wanted to work it in. And now I have, more times than anyone this side of Redd Foxx or Dice Clay could possibly be comfortable with.
But I’m not done yet, people. Oh, no. Don’t call yet, because there’s more. That’s right.
See, I’m also guessing that there aren’t many people out there just searching for ‘nutsack’. The readers I know are a little warped, but they’re far more creative than that. No, most of the queries that might lead people to this promised land are going to involve compound terms. And I don’t want to leave anyone behind, so I should probably sprinkle a few of those in here, too, just to be sure. Let’s give it a shot:
Okay, that ought to take care of it. I look forward to a steady stream of curious pervs making their way here in the next few weeks, and wondering where all the nutsack info is hiding. Hopefully, they won’t be too disappointed. Never mind that I don’t actually have anything to say about ‘nutsacks’; this place just seems like the kind of site that you’d find if you searched for them. That’s all I’m saying.
(See what happens when I can’t think of anything else to write on Saturday afternoon? A passel of nutsacks. Man. I really need to plan these posts out in advance. Nutsacks. Sheesh.)
Permalink | 2 CommentsI like to think I’m a pretty ‘upbeat’ sort of guy at work. Certainly, there are annoyances at my office — not to mention complications, technical difficulties, seemingly endless meetings, sudden emergencies, unexpected problems, and a urinal handle that doesn’t flush if you don’t jiggle it just right — but I try not to let it get to me. I try to be positive. Cheerful. And mostly, in denial of the shit-tsunami that’s usually surging it’s way down the hall towards me.
Listening to music in the car on the way to work helps. If I’m in a determined sort of mood, I might play some driving techno stuff — Chemical Brothers, maybe, or the Propellerheads. If I need a pick-me-up, then maybe it’s edgy rock, like Smashing Pumpkins or Foo Fighters. And if I’m feeling a little down or tired, I’ll pop in something jangly I can sing along with — Blind Melon is good for that; so is Dave Matthews. And, as I was crooning along with today, so are the Refreshments.
(Yes, I was singing in my car. Yes, often at the top of my lungs. And yes, I’m a sappy damned douchebag. But that’s not the point this time. If you want to laugh at me for belting out tunes in the car, you’ll have to go back to this post from last year to do it. Today, we’re laughing at me for another dumbass thing. Do try and keep up now.)
So, I made it to work. The last song I was howling along to was ‘Mexico‘, off the Fizzy Fuzzy Big & Buzzy CD. (Cool tunes, catchy hooks, nearly-naked cartoon chick on the cover. Good times!) So the lyrics were still running through my head when I made it into the building, and to my first meeting of the day.
At this point, I should probably mention that I’m one of those people who’ll suddenly — though in my case fairly quietly, due to my off-key warble — break into song, with no obvious provocation. I’m pretty sure I picked it up from my dad — he’s got this weird, and apparently contagious, habit of singing about what he’s doing, or what someone just said to him. I don’t know where the hell he got it from, but he’s passed the insanity down to me, and now I’m stuck with it. So I sometimes have ‘conversations’ like this:
Wife: ‘Honey, can you take out the trash?’
Me: (singing) ‘Takin’ out the trrrrrash…. Ooh, I’m a-takin’ out the trash… Yes, it’s — Garbage Day! Ooh, baby, Gar-bage Day! Hey hey!’
Wife: ‘You’re an idiot, you know that?’
And then, while I’m carrying the garbage out, she locks me out of the house. Yes, the lady’s quite the kidder. Ha mo-fucking ha.
Anyway, there’s that. There’s also the whole ‘humming a song in my head and then realizing that I’m actually singing it, out loud, with other humans within hearing distance‘ thing, which — believe it or not — can be even worse.
Which gets us back to this morning. Let’s recap — Mexico running through my head. Me in a good mood. And an hour-long meeting with bosses and co-workers and such just about to get under way. I’ve just skipped into the conference room and found a seat, while people pile in around me. I’m singing to myself, in my head, until I get to the bit just before the chorus, when I absentmindedly let a couple of bars slip out. In case you’re not familiar with the song in question (and here are the lyrics, in case you want to play along at home), here’s what the folks in my immediate vicinity heard:
‘*hum* *hum* *hum-a-hum-a-hum*…
Got off in the wrong direction —
Found a hooker and lost my erection,
So I had to lie, in the letter…‘
I think it was right around ‘I had to lie‘ that I noticed the people staring at me. It took a couple of more words in the verse to put two and two together — I’d just launched into song at the worst possible point in this little ditty, and got flat busted by at least two — no, wait, that girl over there’s not looking, but her face is really red, so at least three — oops, hold on, the guy across the table is deliberately avoiding my eyes… eh, but most people in the office end up doing that, so maybe it’s just coincidence — so, busted by at least three people who just heard me spontaneously spout something about a ‘hooker’ and ‘lost my erection’ in the lull just before the start of the weekly group meeting. Out-fucking-standing. Oh, the wonders this will do for my rep with these people. Goody to the max.
So, that was how my morning started today. I think I recovered pretty well — I looked around, wide-eyed, like a shaved gerbil at a K-Y convention, and then muttered, ‘Aw, shit!‘ and pretended to study the meeting agenda in front of me. Smooth, yes? Oh yeah — cool like the other side of the pillow. That’s right.
And now, I’m just waiting for the bullsit to start. ‘Hey, Charlie, picked up any hookers lately?‘ Or, ‘Yo, Erection Boy — how’s it hanging?‘ And probably, ‘You know, dude, it’s okay — there are pills for people like you.‘
*sigh*
The worst part is, this snarky crap will only go on until I pull the next cluetarded brainfart move, and catch hell for that, instead. And the circle of life goes on.
Meanwhile, I’m gonna start listening to NPR in the damned car. Sure, it’s about as exciting as giving a teamster a Brazilian backwax… but at least there are no lyrics to lodge themselves in my brain and get me in trouble later. I can pretty well guarantee you that the words ‘hooker’ and ‘erection’ have never been uttered together in the same sentence on public radio before. Hell, maybe not even separately. Those guys have no damned fun at all. Perfect for those morning meetings. I’m sold.
Permalink | 2 Comments‘Unnnnnhhh.‘
And not in the fun, spanky way, either, people. I mean it in the brain-fried, piss-tired, shellshocked, wibbly way. ‘Unnnnhhhh.‘
I think I drooled on myself a little that time. Oh poop.
Anyway, I’m afraid I’m not sticking around too long tonight — I’ve been working, all day, all night, and into the wee hours of the morning, and it’s just about time for my beauty rest. Or ‘handsome rest’. Or, more appropriately in my case, my ‘eh, well at least he’s got an okay personality rest’. I’ll have to take it, I guess. I don’t see many alternatives, short of a shitload of expensive cosmetic surgery. And who’s got time for that? I got sleepin’ to do, dammit.
So, there’s not much of interest to write about from today. Everybody out there has got crappy meetings, tough work, technical issues, and enormous swollen asses from sitting at their desks all day — nobody wants to hear about mine. Or, in the ass case, even think about it very hard. Really, fight that mental image. Be strong, folks.
Of course, speaking of work — and something that nobody really wants to hear about — I had a really strange experience in the office bathroom last week.
(And no, this isn’t gonna be some sort of creepy ‘coming of age in a toilet stall’ sort of story. I mean, sure, to be fair, there was a rather large black man also involved… but it wasn’t like that, dude. There was no touching. And only a little bit of squealing. But I’ll get to that.)
So, without putting too fine a point on it, let’s just say that I was having a nice little sit-down in one of the two stalls in the rest room. And for the record, my trip wasn’t going to be a proverbial ‘quickie’. I forget the exact circumstances that brought me to that spot, but I’m pretty sure there were hot wings involved somewhere in the recent past. And possibly microwave burritos. And a beer or two. Suffice to say that I was in for the long haul — settling in for a long winter’s nap, as it were.
So I’m whiling away the time, counting tiles on the floor, letting my mind wander a bit. After a while, I realize I’m on my tiptoes, rather than flat-footed on the floor. Not that it’s important to the story or anything; I just thought it was odd — and I realized that I always do that on the john. I’m not sure why — it’s not really a ‘fight or flight’ moment, you know? I’m not sure what the tippytoes are all about, but I thought I should mention it. It’s just those sorts of intimate, personal insights into my world that set this place apart from other blogs, folks. You might as well start loving this shit now; it’s not gettin’ any better.
Okay, so crawling painfully toward the point — there I was, making tippytoed twosies, when the bathroom door opened.
(The bathroom door, dammit, not the stall door. I told you it wasn’t that kind of story. Now hush up and pay attention. Sicko.)
I heard someone walking in, and also heard him say something at the door. Probably wrapping up a conversation with someone out in the hallway, I figured, and got back down to bidness. I caught a glimpse of the guy outside my perch, then heard the stall door next to me open, and a belt jangling and a zipper working, and finally the distinctive pants-down-turn-around-ease-onto-the-seat shuffle. Pretty standard stuff — nothing to be alarmed about there. But then:
‘So, you goin’ down to your grandma’s house?‘
Oh, shit. It was the guy — right there, a couple of feet away, asking a question. What kind of a question, I didn’t quite know. What the hell did he mean? Does he know my grandmother somehow? Is ‘goin’ down to grandma’s house‘ some uber-hip euphemism for pinching off poopies that I should know about? Or maybe it’s a euphemism for something else… maybe this is gonna be ‘that‘ kind of story, after all. *gasp*
At that point, it became clear that I had a different kind of nightmare on my hands.
(Well, not literally on my hands, of course — this isn’t a pleasant story or anything, but I’m not gonna get all gross and shit. That’s not cool.)
Anyway, I soon figured out that the guy wasn’t talking to me, because he kept right on talking, and — trust me on this one — I wasn’t answering. I was in the poophaus, minding my own business, and some guy comes in asking after my granny? No. I didn’t say a word. I even stopped breathing for a little while there.
But it didn’t matter, because the guy was having a whole conversation with someone else. Someone else on the other end of a cell phone, as far as I could tell — I figured I’d give the guy the benefit of the doubt there. I suppose it’s just as likely that he came waltzing in there, muttering to himself about random imaginary grandmothers while locking himself into a bathroom stall… but I prefer not to think about that. That’s nasty. There’s not a roll of TP in the world big enough to wipe off the ick from where that line of reasoning leads. So let’s stick to the cell phone theory.
Of course, even then we’re treading in some pretty delicate territory. I mean, think about the person on the other end of that phone — he or she is getting a remote virtual tour of the inside of our office’s shitter, without so much as a warning or ‘look out!‘ or ‘you might want to turn your blender on for the next thirty seconds or so to drown out the noise I’m about to make‘.
Which would have been appropriate, frankly. Because this dude was clearly not a subscriber to the ‘silent but deadly’ policy of bathroom-going. Oh, no. Not he. Not even with a friend riding shotgun via telephone. He simply went in there, sat down, and started firing volleys, all the while chatting about grandma and weekend plans and who knows what else. I’d stopped listening by then — and only partially because of the horrific bowel-shaking backfires that were emanating from the seat next to mine. I simply couldn’t believe that the guy was having a conversation during all the fireworks. Hell, he had to raise his voice to be heard over the noise; I think I’d have just called back when I’d settled down a little. That’s what ‘redial’ is for, my man. No need to multitask. Relax, for chrissakes.
So, I wrapped up what I was doing, and got out of there post-haste. The very last thing I wanted at that point was to be hanging around when it was time for the guy to wipe. With one hand holding the phone, and the confined spaces of the stall there, anything could’ve happened. And who knows what the person on the other end of the line would’ve heard then. Something like a wind chime made out of rump roasts, slapping together in the breeze. You know, just for instance.
Anyway, that’s my rather disturbing story. I still don’t know how the conversation ended — I’m just glad the guy wasn’t talking to me, and that my grandmother could stay completely, safely, and mercifully out of the equation. She’s got delicate sensibilities, you know — I’m not sure her heart would’ve held up in a situation like that.
And now jeez, look at this — I’ve gone and written a whole damned post, after all. See what happens when you get me started? I’m not gonna be nearly as pretty as I ought to be tomorrow, with as little sleep as I’m gonna get. Ah, well. Always a duckling, never a bride, I suppose. Or… um, something like that. I think the lack of sleep is making me delirious — I’d better check out before my grandma and potty stories get mentioned in the same breath again. She might not get away unscathed next time. Later, peeps.
Permalink | 4 CommentsBefore I get to whatever the hell I end up pulling out of my ass tonight: Was I the only one who saw Eric Allen on ESPN News this afternoon talking about some team ‘matriculating the ball down the field‘? I’m not making this up. I mean, I know this guy’s an ex-player and all, but please — ‘matriculating’? Where the hell did that come from? Next he’ll be out there sponsoring petitions to keep people from masticating in public. Goober.
(And if you didn’t get that last bit, it’s cool. I got no beef with you — just don’t dress up in a suit and become a commentator on a national television channel. That’s all. No good can come from that.)
Okay, so what other trouble can we get into? Ooh, I know — I can tell you something I forgot about when I recently talked about how damned old I am. That’ll be nifty.
So, realizing that I’m a decrepit old geezer with one ass-cheek in the rocking chair has gotten me thinking — when the inevitable happens soon, and I finally wheeze my last breath, how do I want to be remembered? I’ve given this some careful consideration, and I’m not quite sure I have an answer yet.
First, I thought I might like to be remembered as having a ‘heart of gold‘. That sounds nice enough, right? It vaguely suggests philanthropy, or charity work, or being nice to children and old people — basically a lot of things that I’m terribly good at getting around to.
(Hey, I never said I was trying to figure out how I deserve to be remembered, dammit. This is one of those ‘glass half-full’ exercises, all right? Don’t be a parade-pisser.)
Anyway, after a while, it struck me that the whole ‘heart of gold’ thing really isn’t such a good deal. Think about it — you never hear people using that phrase to describe someone who you’d expect to have a ‘heart of gold’, do you? It’s never the ‘children’s hospital nurse with a heart of gold’ or the ‘elderly missionary nun with a heart of gold’.
No, the only time you actually hear ‘heart of gold’ used is when it’s actually a surprise — so you end up getting the ‘mafia hit man with a heart of gold’, or the ‘inner city crack junkie with a heart of gold’, or the ‘soulless, smelly, foul-mouthed, money-grubbing, grandmother-mooning ambulance-chasing pedophile trial attorney… with a heart of gold’. So, to actually be remembered that way, you’ve apparently got to basically be some sort of perverted, ruthless asshole, or it doesn’t work. And like I said, this is supposed to be an upbeat sort of thing here. So ‘heart of gold’ is out. Cheesy stupid phrase, anyway.
So then I thought I might like to be known as a ‘peacemaker‘. I’m not even quite sure what the hell that means — I think I heard it on the Simpsons once: ‘Remember me as a peacemaker.‘ It’s probably a famous quote from some guy I’ve never heard of who’s now long dead and gone. And, as far as I can tell, he’s not remembered as a peacemaker — from my perspective, he’s not remembered at all. I certainly don’t know who the hell it was. And if I did, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t remember him as a ‘peacemaker’; I’d most likely think of him as ‘the guy who said, ‘Remember me as a peacemaker”. I’m ornery that way.
And then there’s the problem of what exactly I’d have to do to manage to get myself remembered as a peacemaker. I mean, jeez — solve the Middle East? Get those crazy Korea kids back together again? Get Red Sox Nation to extend the olive branch to the damned Yankees? That’s some tough shit, people. I got a full-time job here, plus this blog, and my standup gigs — and occasionally, I like to kick back and watch TV, or play a little Madden, you know? I don’t have time for this ‘peacemaker’ nonsense. Please.
So, I’m not sure quite how, exactly, I want people to think of me when I’m gone. I’ve kicked around some other ideas — to be remembered ‘fondly’ (that’s for grandmas), or remembered ‘as a pillar of the community’ (way too self-righteous for me), or finally, remembered ‘for his light and fluffy biscuits’.
So far, I’m leaning toward that last one. Of course, it has the rather obvious downside that I don’t actually know how to make biscuits, but that’s no big deal. Actually, it’s a plus — once people find out that I never cooked biscuits, they’ll simply have to take as some sort of vaguely sexual euphemistic anatomical reference. A reference to what, exactly, I’m not quite sure. Still — ‘light’? And ‘fluffy’? And as a bonus, ‘biscuits’? Oh, yeah — that’s a good thing. I’ll take that, any day of the week. And I don’t have to get near any of that ‘peacemaking’ bullshit to get it, either? I think we have a winner, baby.
So that’s it — if you want to do me a huge favor, you’ll read the nonsense on this site, and then you’ll go back to your daily routine, and sometime later, as you reflect on what you’ve seen here, you’ll think back and say to yourself, ‘Boy, that Charlie… he’s not perfect or anything, but damn, how about those light and fluffy biscuits of his! Mmm-mmmm!‘
And preferably, you’ll do it in public somewhere, so other people will hear about my superior biscuitage. Or biscuitalia. Or however it is you choose to describe my light, fluffery, biscuity goodness. And then they’ll tell two friends, and they’ll tell two friends, and so on, and so on, and so on… until the whole world will remember me for this weird, slightly creepy thing that I just made up and don’t quite know what it means. Sweeeeeet. This Internet shit is cool, man. Now go spread the word, like butter on my biscuits, people. My light, fluffy, oh-so-tasty biscuits.
(Yeah, I just added that last part in for fun. You don’t have to mention ‘tasty biscuits’, if you’re uncomfortable with that sort of thing. Just stick to the light biscuit / fluffy biscuit script, and that’s plenty enough. We’ll leave the debate as to the tastiness of my biscuits to posterity. Maybe I can even get my biscuits remembered as having ‘hearts of gold’. Bonus!)
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