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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
So, like a lot of bloggers, I regularly check my site logs. I like to see who’s checking in, where they came from, what they’re looking for, that sort of thing.
And certainly, I’ve noticed some trends in the past, with respect to the search terms that bring folks to this site. Most of these are pretty much my own doing, of course — a few months ago, for instance, I blogged about Stripperella, and horny toon-hounds have been clogging the fat pipe to my server ever since.
More recently, I’ve ‘earned’ search engine hits by spouting nonsense about subjects like spelling bee contestants, Spongeboob, and — god help me — girthy hot dogs. Unfortunately, I think I pretty much deserve whatever attention I get from that kind of crap.
But over the past few months, I’ve found one search coming up over and over, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never said a damned thing about it:
‘olsen nip slip‘
Seriously, I don’t remember ever mentioning anything along those lines. But, that particular set of search terms seems to lead an awful lot of people — horny, frustrated, generally unbalanced people, presumably — to this site. And so, I’ll try to give you what you’re looking for. Gotta be a good host, right?
I have to admit, though — I really don’t see the attraction. The whole thing seems just a bit perverted, if you ask me. And I go along with some pretty kinky stuff, too… or, well, I would, I think, if anyone ever asked. But this one — this ‘olsen nip slip — that’s just kind of sick.
Still, I said I’d try to deliver, and so I will, personal distaste be damned. And I’ll be honest — I’ve done some pretty thorough searching out there on the web, and I’ve seen some pretty startling things during my quest. I did not, however, actually find a picture that seems to be a verifiable ‘olsen nip slip. Unfortunately, these are the best I could find:
| Olsen w/’come hither’ pucker | Olsen & friend, looking coy |
| Olsen, ‘all dressed up’ | Olsen, in robe, grinning |
Well, there you go, people. No ‘nip slip‘, per se, but I gave you what I could. And why the hell you’d want to lay eyes on those nipples, anyway… well, I just don’t know. Maybe it’s the ex-football thing. I mean, you expect the occasional sexual deviant, but jeez — so many searches! What the hell’s the attraction, anyway?
Permalink | 2 CommentsEarlier this week, I went to a doctor-prescribed physical therapist to get some advice on my leg. I tore a calf muscle a few weeks ago, then did it again last weekend. It’s apparently not that severe, as such things go — the therapist told me he wasn’t ‘impressed’ with the swelling or limping. I told him I’d try to do better next time. Then I hobbled out the door and keyed his damned car. Smartass.
(Nah, I didn’t really do that. I had no idea which rusted-out Honda Civic in the parking lot was his, anyway. And I didn’t have time to key them all. Not until he fixes my leg and I can run around again, at least.)
Anyway, he was a nice enough guy, so it was all right. I don’t have anything against him, really… other than the fact that he is a guy. This is physical therapy, dammit! And I’m a guy — aren’t I supposed to get some young, just-out-of-school, hair-flipping, ex-cheerleader blondy type? Not that that sort of thing would particularly do much for me, either, given the wife and all, but if somebody is gonna spend twenty minutes rubbing the back of my leg, couldn’t it at least be someone I don’t mind imagining in a pair of thong panties?
(And just for the record, I’m pretty sure this guy does not paint a fetching picture in one of those ass-floss gadgets. Yeah, I can say that with a fair degree of certainly.
Hey, what can I tell you? My mind wandered. He was the only one in the room. There was leg rubbing. Leg rubbing! Meh.)
Okay. Running screaming away from that mental image… that’s gonna keep me up tonight.
So, anyway, after Sir Knead-A-Lot was done with my calf, he listed out a few exercises I should be doing, so I don’t rip the thing again. Fine. There were a couple of simple stretches — good leg forward, bed leg back, and stretch the back of the leg as far as you can. No problem.
(Well, some problem, of course, since fully stretching that leg would feel a lot like having it fileted and split open like a jumbo shrimp tail. But still, they’re pretty straightforward exercises. I can deal.)
Finally, though, the guy tells me this:
‘Oh, one other thing — it’s good exercise for your calf to balance on that leg. Just whenever you have a minute or two, try standing on the bad leg for thirty seconds or so. That’ll help strengthen the muscles.‘
Okay, now you’re all caught up. So, on to the ‘doofus’ part.
Now, I’m a good little patient — even if they apparently won’t hook me up with a ‘naughty nurse’ type, the bastards. (What the hell are my HMO copayments for, anyway?!)
So, I’ve been diligently doing my best to heal — icing down, taking it easy, and yes, even doing my exercises. Including the circus-style balancing doohickey. And that’s what got me into trouble today.
I was on my way to lunch, riding down the elevator, when I thought, ‘Hey — what better time and place to get in some good medicine, right? Let’s get exercising.‘
Before I go any further, you should also know that our building has the slowest goddamned elevator in the world. So, I had time to stretch one way, and then another way… do some ab crunches, a couple of pull-ups… and six or eight lopsided jumping jacks… before I remembered to try the balancing thing. So I gave it a shot, just about the time the elevator slid past the third floor.
So, picture this — when the door opened on two, unexpectedly, because a gaggle of businessmen decided they couldn’t haul their fat asses down one flight of stairs, there I was. In the elevator. Standing on one leg, making that ‘balancing face’ — you know, with my eyes all wide and googly and my tongue hanging out of the corner of my mouth. I tried to save face, as it were, but it was too late — they caught me, doing a damned flamingo impression on the elevator like some brain-damaged douchebag. It didn’t help that the car gave a little shimmy as it settled, sending me falling and flailing into the middle of the suits trying to clamber aboard. Perfect. Just friggin’ perfect.
I almost got off the elevator right there, so I could wait a few minutes and then limp down the stairs after all the witnesses had safely fled the scene. But I decided to gut it out, and rode the rest of the way down with them. Hell, I even made the best of it — once the doors closed, I hopped up on one leg again and gave them a ‘Heh? Heh? You know you wanna try it.‘ look.
Nobody went for it, of course, but I had a good time. At my own expense. Again. No love, folks; no frigging love at all. Come on, now. Ain’t nobody gonna feel sorry for the crippled boy with the bum leg?
Permalink | 2 CommentsYou know, I always knew my life would turn into a glamorous TV show. I just never thought it’d be some shit from the Home and Garden network.
See, the wife and I are having some work done on the old plumbing.
(No, that’s not an uncomfortably personal euphemism. We’re really having work done. On our plumbing. In our house. Our old house. See? Old plumbing. It ain’t kinky. Keep yer pants on, dammit.)
Anyway, just like one of those real-life home improvement shows, we signed up to have some work done on the bathroom. New toilet, new sink… we’re even having some pipe laid downstairs.
(Look, I told you — it’s not a euphemism. It’s actual pipe. Really being laid.
Not, uh, in the euphemistic way, though.
Oh, don’t give me that look. Perv.)
So. We find a contractor, and he’s got himself a plumber, and some carpenters, and some electrical dude or other, and a plasterer, and… oh, it’s like the frigging SuperFriends. One of ’em talks to the animals, and another one can shoot fire out the six inches of asscrack hanging out of his pants. But my very favorite is the one who apparently has the power to turn invisible when I want to know when the whole stinking lot of ’em is gonna be the hell back out of my house. Our ‘two-week’ job is now entering week six, and there’s a whole laundry list of shit left to do — staining, painting, fixtures to be installed… I think I might even have a drippy faucet.
(Look, for the last time, it’s really the faucet. Not the ‘faucet’.
At least, I hope to hell that’s what I mean — my wife said she’s gonna have one of the contractors take a wrench to the thing. Eep.)
Plus, just like in every damned one of those home design shows on TV, we’re over budget. All we’re missing is a smarmy host, with fake hair and bleached teeth, to wander through our bathroom with a camera crew, pointing at joists and chuckling over the sconces. Assuming we have sconces. I don’t even know what the hell ‘sconces’ are. I tried to ask one of the contractor guys, but he said it’d cost me fifty bucks. Bastards.
As far as I can tell, though, things are starting to wind down. It looks like the heavy lifting has been done — that would be whoever picked up the cash hoisting it into his wallet, of course. But I think they’ve put the saws and tools away, and are down to the ‘soft’ stuff. The easy stuff. Yea — dare I say it? — the quick stuff. We might just have the house back to ourselves by autumn, after all. Call it our ‘fall sweeps’. *sigh*
Permalink | 2 CommentsHey, all. I’m afraid I don’t have any hilarity planned for you tonight. Still, the news isn’t all bad (or good, depending on your point of view). Of course I couldn’t neglect you completely; not for a whole day.
First of all, I want to give a big honking shout-out to my friend Shelli over at Not Me, for featuring this little endeavor of mine in one of her ’round up’ entries, this past Friday. Shelli, you’re the best, and I’m thrilled and honored to be part of your series. And in a Berlin song, too — how cool is that?!
Now, besides that, for any of you insane enough to be interested, I’ve also uploaded and formatted not one… not two… not even three, for the love of smack-crazed hookers… but four clips from my recent comedy shows.
(Yeah, don’t try to watch ’em all at once — you’ll either go blind or crazy. And probably both.)
Anyway, if you’re interested, they’re up and just itching to be watched. Three of ’em are more or less the same set, but they (hopefully) get better and better over time. Now you too can watch the evolution of a comedic opus about the size of my penis.
(Frankly, you could ask for more, but you couldn’t realistically hope to get it. This shit ain’t Shakespeare, after all.)
So, if you’re into it, check the shows out — they’re all available under the ‘Standup Standup’ section over there on the left sidebar. Ah, hell, just in case you’ve got a shorter attention span or lazier mouse finger than I do, here are all the links you need, right here, to catch up on the last couple of months of comedy:
That’s all there is, folks; I hope you enjoy it. I’ll be back tomorrow with some ridiculous thing or other — until then, have a great end of the weekend. Toodles!
Permalink | No CommentsHave you ever noticed — whenever ‘testicular’ comes up in conversation, there’s never anything good following it? Seriously, for an adjective that you’d think guys would be pretty sensitive about, it’s never used in a positive way. It’s always ‘testicular cancer’, or ‘testicular hemmorhaging’, or ‘testicular painful throbbing’. Isn’t that kind of sad?
I mean, can’t we just occasionally throw ‘testicular’ a bone? Every once in a while, can’t somebody mention ‘testicular massage’, or ‘testicular aromatherapy’, or even ‘testicular non-painful throbbing’? Must we pre-wince, every single time we hear the word ‘testicular’? That’s all I’m saying.
On a related note, all of this reminds me — once again, just like a couple of weeks ago — how easy it is to confuse certain similar-sounding words. Like… oh, I don’t know, not to flaunt my own embarrassing boobery, but let’s say… ‘testicular’ and ‘vehicular’. Just for instance.
I suppose the distinction shouldn’t have been too hard to figure out — ‘vehicular cancer’ doesn’t make much sense. And ‘testicular homicide’… well, that’s just silly. Not because such a thing couldn’t happen, of course. But if it did, clearly it would be called ‘death by testes’. Much catchier. And shorter. It just makes sense.
For those who are wondering, I never had the same linguistic switchery happen with ‘vaginal’. Maybe there just aren’t many words that sound like ‘vaginal’. Or maybe it just never came up in conversation much — clearly, that wasn’t a concept that I had much experience with during my early, formative, and more easily confused years. Obsessed with? Sometimes. Experienced with? No. Sadly, no.
If it’s any consolation, though, I did have trouble for a while keeping ‘clitoris’ straight from ‘Lavoris’, which is the mouthwash brand my grandfather uses. You can no doubt imagine what a confusing childhood I had. I had a whole other thing in mind about what ‘minty fresh breath’ entails. And boy, was I ever surprised to find out the truth. Twice. I’ll never look at dental hygeine quite the same way again.
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