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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
It was a weekday morning much like this one when I first put fingers to keys and wrote the very first post this weblog would see. In it, I explained a bit about what I had in mind for the site — my hopes, my plans, and my hopelessly short attention span. That was one full year ago today.
In many ways, not much has changed around here. I still have big plans — and too little time to get to them. I still sprinkle ridiculous words like ‘snootful’ and ‘backwards-ass’ and ‘parentheseses’ liberally throughout my entries. And, of course, I still lose my train of thought at the drop of —
(Hey, something weird just hit me. I’m usually really good at identifying voices — commercial voiceovers, documentary announcers, cartoon characters, and the like. But I just figured out, after many dozens of episodes, that King of the Hill‘s Bill Dauterive is none other than one of my favorite characters, the inimitable Jimmy James of News Radio fame. Not to mention Milton from the movie Office Space. I don’t know how I missed it for so long.
No, I don’t know what the hell that has to do with anything. Look, these are parentheses, all right? I can talk about anything I want to in here. That’s what they’re here for, you know.
And no, I don’t really know what ‘inimitable‘ means. Shaddup.)
As I was saying, some things never seem to change around here. I dunno — maybe the meds and the support groups and the primal scream therapy aren’t working. But not everything has stayed the same since this baby’s inception. For one thing, this isn’t BlogSpot anymore, Toto. After a few months in the original digs, WTHWI? up and moved house to a private server, and the domain you’re soaking in right now. Besides that, there’s now just a dozen shy of 500 posts here, plus another 100-plus ‘100 Things’ entries, more than twenty standup comedy sets, and lord knows how many total words. (And how many parentheses. But now there’s another set. Woo hoo!)
Meanwhile, my particular set of circumstances have changed a bit, too. Oh, the important things have stayed pretty stable — my wife hasn’t thrown up her hands and left me yet, and we’ve still got our house, and the faithful family pooch. But the job I had when I started blogging is but a distant memory — I got laid off before my one-month online anniversary, and spent the next quarter looking for another spot. Hell, I’m not even the ‘new guy’ at my job any more — now I’ve got people washing my car for a change. Oh, baby.
More importantly, though, I’ve met — or at least ‘met’ — some of the coolest and most interesting people imaginable in the past year. Bloggers, readers, random bypassers — I’ve traded emails with all of them, and learned some pretty amazing things from everyone I’ve come in contact with.
(Yeah, ya grammar Nazis, I know it’s ‘with whom I’ve come in contact’, or something even more stilted, if that’s frigging possible. Just let it go, would you? It doesn’t even look right. Now get outta here before I dangle a participle where your gerund don’t shine.)
Anyway, it’s been a good year; that’s all I’m really trying to say. And if you’re reading this, then I’ve got you to thank for the magic.
(Unless this is your first time here, of course — if that’s the case, then you’re officially part of the magic of the second year. You’ll get your heartfelt thanks in due time. Wait your turn, there, Skippy.
Unless, of course, you’re sick of all this and you’re gonna stop reading now and never come back, in which case you’re not really helping anybody. Poopyhead.
Ah, but you’re bluffing, it seems, because you’re still reading. Your mouth says, ‘ew! ew! get it away!‘. But your eyes keep reading. Oh, yeah — I gotcha now.)
So, I suppose the point is simply, thanks. Thanks for stopping by, and for reading, and — if you’ve been so kind — for emailing or commenting to let me know what you think. Year number one at WTHWI? has been a blast, folks; I can’t wait to see what kind of trouble we get into together over the next twelve months. You guys rock!
Permalink | 12 CommentsSo, 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!
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