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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I’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 CommentsHey, is anybody else watching the National Spelling Bee on ESPN right now?
(Or for that matter, when it repeats in a few days, if you’re reading this then. And if that’s the case, isn’t this spooky? How could I know you’d be watching? I’m magic!)
Anyway, they’re down to the wire — just three socially stunted brainiac savants… um, er, I mean ‘spellers‘, left. There’s the obligatory kid of Indian or near-Indian origin, the token marginally normal one, and, of course, the wigged-out, home-schooled, chained-to-the-radiator nerd. And they’ve got a doozy this year, folks. This dude’s a flaming top-of-the-flagpole over-the-forehead wedgie just waiting to happen. Mussed hair, a sort of accidental mouth-breathing sneer, Coke-bottle glasses leaning off his nose… and the voice:
‘Definition… pleeeeeeeeeeese.‘
‘Language of origin…. pleeeeeeeeeeese.‘
(Yeah, I know, I know. I’m poking fun at a fourteen year old kid who’s got enough problems without me ragging on him. Like, for instance, working out how to get laid before he’s my age.
Okay, sorry. I couldn’t help that one — it just slipped out. But hey, it’s all right — I was way closer to being like this kid than the others when I was his age, much less a normal kid. Except that I couldn’t spell to save my A-S-S, of course. But I’m allowed to poke a little fun. And anyway, it’s not my fault that the guy looks like he was cloned off a boil on Stephen Hawking’s ass.
Damn. Did it again. Okay, I quit now. I’ll be good. Promise.)
Ooooh! Aw, that sucks. My new favorite kid just got taken out by some weird-ass word or other. I think it was ‘parrhesia’ — I didn’t catch what it means, but it looks like the unholy spawn that would be produced if ‘Parcheesi’ and ‘diarrhea’ ever got together.
(And believe me, folks, you never want Parcheesi and diarrhea to get together, under any circumstances. Just trust me on this one.
It’s not quite as bad as Twister and diarrhea, to be sure. But still — it’s not good.)
Anyway, there goes Hawkingspawn. That’s too bad — I like it better when the — um, lessee, I was gonna be nice, right? — the ‘quirky‘ one stays in until the end. That bee a few years ago when the finger-sniffing home schooled girl won the whole thing was spectacular. They should play that shit on ESPN Classic, once a night and twice on Sundays. That’s just never gonna get old.
So, now we’re down to two. There’s David Scott Tidmarsh, an ‘aw shucks’ kid from Indiana, and the bespectacled, quietly confident Coloradian Akshay Buddiga, methodical and relentless in his wordsmithery. Tidmarsh looks scared, every time he goes up to the mic — it looks like just a matter of time before Buddiga puts him away.
(And hell, it makes sense — the kids been spelling words like ‘Akshay’ and ‘Buddiga’ for years. He’s got a natural advantage. Seriously, ‘Scott’? ‘David’? Where’s the challenge in that?)
Oh, but wait! It seems our leetle freend Akshay has a problem — he’s gone over his ‘spellin’ time’, and the judges are going to keep him on a tighter leash for the rest of the way. Who the hell knew there was a time limit on spelling? What the hell is this, chess? Final Jeopardy? A panty raid? There’s no time limit on spelling! Shenanigans! I call shenanigans!
And damn, that cost him, too. They gave him the time spiel just after dropping ‘schwarmerei‘ on the kid’s lap. Holy shit. That oughta count as child abuse or something. ‘Schwarmerei‘? Who uses these frigging words, anyway? Haughty professors? Pedantic schoolmarms? Drunken, clueless bloggers?
(Yeah. Not so much the last one. I’m sure of that. Screw conversation — I can’t even use ‘schwarmerei’ in a damned sentence.
No, wait — that’s not true. Check this:
‘Schwarmerei.’
‘Gesundheit!’
Okay, so that’s a pretty crappy sentence. Look, don’t rub it in. Keep that shit up and you might find my jackbooted foot shoved up your schwarmerei, there, Skippy. And if anything’ll give you ‘parrhesia’, that’s it. Lemme tell ya.)
All right, this has just gotten silly. What the hell was I on about again?
Ah, the spelling bee, right. So, long story short, they put a huge countdown timer on the one kid, he panicked, and had to sit down. Then the kid from the Midwest stepped up, with two words to spell for all the marbles. And he did it. He sweat it out, and his voice cracked, and I thought — I really thought — he was gonna cry, right there in the middle of ‘autochthonous‘. But he got through it, and now a Tidmarsh is our king. Of spelling. And peeing his pants in front of a microphone. Still, the dude can spell.
So, it wasn’t quite as good as the finger-sniffer, but all in all, a pretty good bee.
(Hey, what can I tell you? Finger-sniffing makes everything better.
Yeah, don’t think about that one too hard. It’s really not that difficult to prove me wrong this time. Don’t go there.)
And now, I’ve gotta be honest — I don’t really remember what the hell the point was gonna be. Something about words, I’m pretty sure. Maybe I was gonna conjugate the verb ‘diddle’. Or learn all the swear words that Swahili has to offer. Or mention how I’m making an effort to work ‘cloaca’ into conversation whenever I get the chance.
Eh, screw it. I can’t remember. What do I look like over here, a Tidmarsh? Meh.
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