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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Well, this just sucks donkey ass.
(You know, before we go any further — why is it that donkeys are the preferred animal for negative sucking euphemisms? I’ve heard ‘suck donkey dick’, ‘suck donkey balls’, ‘suck donkey dong’, and, of course, the simplest, just ‘suck donkeys’.
But why donkeys? Why not elephants, or badgers, or spiny anteaters?
Well, all right, I suppose I understand why we’re excluding spiny anteaters. This is ‘sucking’ we’re talking about, after all. Still. Is this a good thing for donkeys, career-wise, or not? Is it really ‘good just to be mentioned’, if all people ever talk about is how horrible sucking your various private parts would be? I’m just not sure.)
Anyway, what sucks right now is my leg. You ‘long-time listener, first-time caller’ types may recall a post from a few weeks ago in which I bitched about screwing up my leg playing volleyball. Well, I limped and gimped around for a couple of weeks, until I was more or less better — really, more less than more, if that makes any sense.
In any event, let’s just say that I wasn’t running any marathons in those first two or three weeks. Or running anywhere, for that matter — I took one jogging step across a street, to avoid being splattered by an onrushing Subaru, and whined and whimpered over the ouchies for the next hour. Steps were no fun, either. Or walking. Or standing. I was pretty much a big fat baby weenie for those first few days.
(Dammit, I said ‘for those first few days’. Nobody wants to hear from the peanut gallery, understand?)
So, this past Sunday, after nearly a month of that shit, I decided I was well enough to play softball. Actually, I played the week before, but had the good damned sense to ask for a ‘courtesy runner’, to keep my gimpy ass off the bases and in relative good health. But that was boring. Safe. Sensible. Smart. Clearly, I couldn’t continue on that path.
Thus, on Sunday, I thought I’d test the waters with my nearly newly-healed wheel. It was still a little tender, but felt no worse than a bruise. So, I limbered it up, stretched it out, and jogged around like an old fart, feeling the leg out. And it felt fine, so I declared myself ready to go. Our team was at bat first, and I was hitting second in the order. Piece of cake.
So, of course, I got up to the plate, dribbled a little grounder down the third base line, and tore towards first to beat out a hit. At least, I planned to tear towards first — what actually happened, apparently, is that I took my first step, and something other than me tore. Something down there, in my oh-so-recently-gimpy leg. First step. That was all it took.
And now, here I am again, two and a half days later, still schlepping and sliding around like Gimpy Joe McClubfoot. And that — that’s what sucks donkey dongles. Or donkey diddles, or whatever the hell I said up there in the beginning.
So, it looks like a trip to the doctor’s office is in order. I thought I had a pretty good handle on what happened initially, but if I’d been right, it should have cleared up in a week or two. Clearly — and I know this must be hard to believe — but clearly, I was mistaken. Who’d have thunk it?
Hopefully, it’ll be something all cool and shit — I mean, if it’s gonna be this big a pain in the ass (or the calf) for this long, then it might as well be a snapped tendon, or a ripped-through muscle, right? Oooh, or leprosy. It could be leprosy, maybe. Or how about rabies? That’d be impressive, anyway.
Yeah, it’s probably just a little sprain or something. Hell, at my age a hangnail could drop me on my ass for a couple of days. So there’s no reason to expect this to be anything cool, but it’s probably time to see what I’m dealing with. Maybe I’ll at least get crutches out of the deal — nothing wrong with some sympathy here and there, you dig?
Just remind me to stay off the damned softball field for a while. Bitches!
Permalink | No CommentsI’ve recently rediscovered granola bars.
Not that they were lost to me, exactly. I didn’t miss granola bars while they were gone, or anything. I wasn’t pining for granola bars. In fact, I barely even noticed. I even thought I was ‘regular’. Thought.
But a couple of weeks ago, while scrounging for a tasty snack, I stumbled across a granola bar. I hadn’t had one since I was a kid, and my mom was on some health kick or other. And frankly, I couldn’t remember how I felt about them. I always used to get them confused with rice cakes — they both sound like they’d taste like petrified packing peanuts, but one of them was actually tolerable. I could just never remember which, so I decided to bite the bullet — or ‘bite the styrofoam’, if I was wrong — and give granola another try.
And frankly, it wasn’t bad. (So yeah, remind me never to eat rice cakes. I’ve apparently been repressing the horrible memories of those things by confusing myself into thinking they were something else. So they’re probably even worse than I’m imagining. How, I’m not sure. Putrid petrified packing peanuts? Pickled putrid petrified packing peanuts? Platypus piss-puddled pickled putrid packing peanuts? Puke-peppered —
Okay. I’ll stop. Sorry.)
Anyway, that first granola bar was pretty good. Crunchy. Sweet. Only barely cardboardy. So, a couple of days later, I had another, and then another. And now, just a couple of weeks into this whirlwind granola adventure — yeah, I need to get out more; shaddup, dammit — now, I’ve got a whole box of those crunchy, tasteless bars in the kitchen cabinet.
(Well, to be fair, a whole box minus one. I mean, I’m not gonna just let the things sit in the cupboard, now, am I? They’re here to be chomped, dammit, and I’ve got just the chompers to do the job.)
I find it interesting, though, that my particular brand of granola bar (heh — two weeks of the things, and now I’ve got ‘my brand’; jeez) is the ‘official‘ granola-based snack of both the Professional Golf Association and the… um, the…er, the tennis player thingy. What is that one again? The Professional Tennis Association (PTA)? Nah, that doesn’t sound right. Professional International Tennis Society (PITS)? Yeah, I doubt it. Pro Union of Tennis Zealots? Anyway, the tennis thingy. You know what I mean.
Look, the point is, an ‘official’ granola snack is not something that I would’ve thought pro golf or pro tennis really needed. I suppose I don’t picture Tiger Woods or the Williams sisters stuffing their gobs full of granola before a big tourney. And lord knows I don’t picture them expunging the stuff over the next three days. I have enough trouble sleeping as it is.
Honestly, I’d think granola would be the last thing you’d want lining your stomach when you’re out there lobbing irons onto the green or scurrying after drop shots at the net. Or maybe next-to-last — after all, they’re not rice cakes. But it’s still gotta be like playing with thirty pounds of wood chips in your stomach. I have a lot of trouble believing that the people actually on the tour spend much time with the sponsor’s product. That’s all I’m saying.
And that’s all I’ve got for tonight. I just spent an hour waxing less than poetic about granola bars. Actually, it’s got me a little bit hungry now. Hell, I’d go eat one of those things now, if I thought I wouldn’t be up in the middle of the night getting rid of it. But that granola is powerful stuff — I’d better wait till morning, just in case. Nighty night, folks.
Permalink | 2 CommentsCan anybody tell me exactly when gas station owners turned into slimy, money-grubbing weasels? Anyone able to pinpoint that one for me?
I just noticed it this week, but I’m pretty sure it’s been going on for a while. Here’s how I found out:
I needed gas yesterday, on my way to work. I usually go to a filling station near my house, but was already near the office when I noticed that old ‘Silver Betty’ was almost dry.
(Yes, I named the car. Yes, I call her Silver Betty. No, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
Moving on.)
Anyway, the stations near the house are full-serve affairs — most of the stations in Massachusetts are, for reasons that aren’t really clear to me.
(After all, it’s not like New Englanders are known for ‘friendly service with a smile’. So why insist on foisting often-surly gas attendants on us at every possible turn? It’s a mystery.)
“Well, I knew to avoid the single button — that’s always either diesel fuel or the extra-expensive, diamond-filtered, stored in gold-lined tanks, uber-octane six-dolla-a-gallon juice.”
Here’s the thing — I ended up hitting a gas station close to the office, and said station happened to be a self-serve jobbie. So I got out to pump my gas, with work and lunch and a dozen other things on my mind. To the pump I went, distracted and absent-minded, dreaming my dreamy little dreams. I swiped my card, and turned a small sliver of my attention to the buttons on the pump. There was a single button and a nozzle on the left, and four buttons and another nozzle on the right. Pretty much the standard gas pump configuration these days.
Well, I knew to avoid the single button — that’s always either diesel fuel or the extra-expensive, diamond-filtered, stored in gold-lined tanks, uber-octane six-dolla-a-gallon juice. That left the other four buttons, representing various octane grades and exorbitant prices. Fine.
So, I punched the first — meaning left-most — button, looking for ‘regular’ gas. In less expensive times, I might go a grade or two higher, but I’m not sure it’s really necessary, frankly. Betty doesn’t knock, Betty doesn’t ping, and she seems quite happy with regular-octane food. Plus, the ‘regular’ stuff they put out now is pretty pure — it’s not like the seventies, when filling up with regular meant a half-tank full of butane, methane, propane (and propane accessories), and a smattering of beaver spit. We’ve moved past that now. There’s almost no beaver spit in regular gasoline at all.
But imagine my surprise and chagrined frowny-facing when I took a closer look and realized that by pressing the ‘first‘ button — historically, the lowest-octane choice — I’d actually selected the highest octane, most expensive, sock-it-to-ya-wallet ultra-premium rocket-grade petrol. I’d been duped! Shammed! Shenaniganized!
Bitches!
Now, sure, if I’d paid a bit more attention, I wouldn’t have been in that mess. And, I wouldn’t have paid nearly sixty bucks for a tank of gas. I’d have still paid forty or so, but hey — gas prices are gas prices. I don’t begrudge the station managers the current going rate per gallon — that’s just part of the game. But to reverse the buttons, after years of going low-to-high octane, so creatures of habit like me (read: ADD-afflicted flighty douchebags) accidentally pick the wrong grade of gas? Now, that’s just fucking mean.
Anyway, I just thought you should know. They got me, but maybe it’s not too late for you. So take a close look at the pump the next time you buy gas, people. As soon as a few people wise up to their current scam, I fully expect these bastards to randomize the buttons altogether. They’ll probably switch ’em up from day to day, or change octane ratings into letters to confound us, just to screw with our heads. And our wallets. Slimy gas bastards, anyway. I’d like to stick a nozzle in their tank and pump. Bah.
Permalink | 10 CommentsHey, amigos y amigas.
I don’t have too much for you this evening — I just got back from a lovely dinner of tapas and sangria… and more sangria, and then more sangria, and then we had some sangria — and it’s just about ‘lights out’ time for me. Tomorrow’s a big day — got to play a softball game, do some work, and do a comedy set tomorrow night. So I’m gonna need my ‘beauty sleep’ to be at the top of my game.
(While we’re at it, some ‘shortstop sleep’ wouldn’t hurt, either. Not to mention some ‘not getting my ass fired sleep’ and a little bit of ‘getting through my set without having rotten tomatoes hurled at me sleep’. Those would help, too.)
So, yeah, I’m afraid I can’t stay long to chat this time. But I couldn’t neglect you completely today — I simply couldn’t — so here I am, checking in before beddy-bye time.
(Checking in with what, I haven’t quite figured out yet. But I’m here, anyway. And that’s half the battle, right? The shitty, meaningless, pointless half, perhaps, but still — half. Some nights, I’ll take whichever half I can get, you know?)
Anyway, I’m not sure quite what to ramble on about. I spent the vast, vast majority of my waking hours today doing work — right here, on this very same laptop — while trying to make sure I had suitable background TV to distract me just enough, but not too much, so that I could keep up a reasonable pace all day without going crazy. Of course, it’s a very fine line between ‘working while the TV is on’ and ‘watching TV when you’re supposed to be working’. And I was never much of a ‘fine line’ type of guy. So I may be up really, really late tomorrow night, doing all the shit I was supposed to get done today.
(Which was really, of course, shit that I was supposed to have done last week. And in some cases, shit I should’ve finished last month, or last quarter, or earlier. Hell, I’ve got shit at the office that was due before I even got hired there — that’s how bad it’s gotten.
I’m drawing the line at deadlines I missed before I was even fricking born — I’m getting closer to that stage, but haven’t quite reached it yet. I’ll keep you posted.)
Anyway, that remaining mound of unfinished bidness is just one more reason for me to wrap up here and hit the hay ASAP. And between that and the several glasses of sangria rousing the rabble in my tummy, I’d say the time is nigh. Tomorrow’s gonna be enough of a challenge as it is, without adding sleep deprivation to the list of my problems.
So, I’ll bid you adieu for the evening. And I owe you a little slice of hilarity, or what passes for same around these here parts. I’ll try to make tomorrow’s post just that much more extra special… but honestly, how well is that likely to go, eh? I’ll barely have time to unzip and whiz tomorrow, much less craft a well-organized and lovingly curated comedy opus.
But, I’ll hopefully have more fodder, at least, than I do now. So, I’m off — sorry to run in and out so shockingly, soberingly soon, but we’ll get ’em tomorrow, eh, Tiger? Until then, remember this motto I just thought up:
‘Keep your ass in your pants, and keep reaching for the sangria‘
(Hey, it’s not much of a slogan, but it’s all I have right now. You try coming up with this crap on a half-dozen glasses of the stuff. Bah.)
All right, I’m Audi — g’night, folks! Peace out.
Permalink | 2 CommentsHoly hell, is it Friday again already? Where do the workdays go? Could I possibly have slept through another five?
Well, it hardly seems possible, and yet Senor Calendar tells us that it’s time to kick off another weekend, so here we go with the latest Punchline Fever. Strap on your thinking thongs, folks, and let’s get to it. But first, a quick review of the rules:
1) I’ll sit around, day and night, thinking of a short but flexible setup for a joke.
B) I’ll post the best setup I can think of, but with a blank where the punchline should go.
iii) Then it’s up to you to come up with your best line, and leave it in the comments, for all to snicker over.
That’s how she’s done, people. Now let’s have at it.
Punchline Fever #16:
‘Baseball’s Montreal Expos are looking for a new home city in which to play, and one of the strongest candidates is Las Vegas. Now, at first glance, ‘America’s Pastime’ and ‘Sin City’ don’t seem like a natural fit. But I think it’s a chance for some creative marketing — just think how much more exciting a trip to the ball game would be if ___________________________________’
That’s all there is to it. Now fire up those funny bones and hop to it — that blank’s not gonna fill itself. And once you’re done with that one, there are plenty more in the Punchline Fever archives. So get crackin’, and crack us all up. I’m taking a few hours off. Peace.
Permalink | 10 Comments
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