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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Hey, 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.
Permalink | 8 CommentsLook, I know it’s his nickname. And I know that’s what they call it when someone’s taken out of the lineup at the last minute.
But seriously, when Ivan Rodriguez has to miss a Tigers game because of injury, do they really have to write a story with the headline:
Please. Now I’ve got this whole other mental image that I could have gone my entire life without. Thank you so much, you sportswriter numbnuts. I’m goin’ to bed. I can only imagine what sort of dream will wake me up screaming tonight. Bah.
Permalink | 3 CommentsWell, I suppose getting noticed for anything is better than being ignored, right?
Only… I’m not sure I’m so comfortable about what I’m getting noticed for lately. Namely, my recent rant about the ‘Girthy Hot Dog’ man.
(Jeez, I feel creepy just typing that. Somebody get me a shower and a Playboy, would you?)
Anyway, I figured that post — like most of my entries — would slip, virtually unnoticed, into the ether, never to draw attention again, after a few reads and a couple of (much-appreciated and lustily perused) comments.
Well. Seems I was wrong. Also seems I’m setting a bit of a trend. Or following a trend, and getting swept up in the sweet, sweaty girthyness of it all.
(Again, need a shower. Why won’t this creepiness scrub off?!)
Look, the point is, that post from Monday is getting a bit of early attention — two intrepid web searchers out there have already found this little site of mine through the following searches:
Bitches. I always said I wanted to be known for my girthitude… but not like this. Not like this!
And if you noticed, I’m one of the top results in both those searches. Two separate and distinct search engines have deemed yours truly a top resource — perhaps even an expert — for all of the world’s girthy weiner needs.
(For the love of all that jiggles in the night… there’s no shower wet enough to wash that one off. *shudder*)
Eh, I suppose I’ll just have to deal with it. And hey, if it gets more people interested in this drivel… eyeballs are eyeballs, right? Even if they are in search of girthitatious weenies. And I have found some pretty funny similar blog posts by hopping through the search results — at least I’m not the only one wigged out by this ad.
Of course, this post isn’t going to help matters. I must have blurted ‘girth’ in one form or another a half dozen times. That’ll keep the wiener-seekers knocking on the door for a while longer, I’m sure. Maybe that’s okay — maybe I’ll play this thing up, and try to become the ‘King of Girth’. I’ll change the name of the site — it’ll be ‘Girth ‘n’ Mirth‘. No, wait — ‘Girthy Giggles‘. How about ‘Plump Juicy Weiners and Steamy Buns‘? No? Too much?
Ah, well. I tried. And hey — at this point, I think we all need a shower. So at least I’ve managed to drag you into my nightmare, too. That’s something. Misery loves girthery, you know. Heh.
Permalink | 4 CommentsHey, folks. Look. Here’s the thing.
I got nothing tonight. And even if I had something, I got no time to get it to you. I put in sixteen hours at work yesterday (yes, Elmo, on the holiday — pity me, dammit!), got three hours of sleep, and put in another full day today. And now, my eyelids and ass are drooping to varying degrees, I’ve still got work to do tonight, and — oh, just by the way — it’s also my wedding anniversary.
(Yes, eight years, thanks so much. And ‘luckily’ — in an odd, vaguely sad way — my wife’s also buried under at work, and has been for the past couple of weeks. So when I wasn’t able to go out for a nice dinner and a night on the town to celebrate tonight, I didn’t find my clothes on the curb. As a matter of fact, I got home an hour or more before she did. And I scored points by ordering takeout sushi and Chinese food from a nice restaurant, so we’d have something tasty to eat in our jammy clothes at nine-thirty, when we finally got down to having dinner.
Anyway, it all worked out, even if it was a bit low-key. But we’re pretty low-key to begin with, most of the time.
Oh, and the flowers I brought home probably didn’t hurt, either. Hey, I’ve been doing this ‘married’ thing for eight years now — it’s not like I haven’t learned anything.)
So. Where the hell was I? Oh, right. ‘No time’. Gotcha.
Anyway, in lieu of being able to spend the quality time with you folks that I’d like to — and which you most richly deserve, of course — I thought I’d pass along an email that I just sent out to a few friends here in the Boston area. What with work kicking my ass up into my kidneys lately, I haven’t been doing many standup shows — and even called in to cancel a couple. But this should — should, dammit — be my last bad week for a while, so I’m gearing up again, and wanted to let the locals know.
And now, since I don’t have anything else to tell you, I’ll let you know, too. (Plus, I’ll do my besticles to get my last two shows, currently sitting patiently on the videocam, up and online soon.) So here’s the email I sent out — you’ll no doubt recognize the style, what with all the tangents and swearing and made-up words. (Hey, do what you’re best at, right? ‘To thine own drivel be true’.)
So, enjoy it, if you can. And hey, if you’re in or around Boston next week, stop by at a show and say hello. I’ll buy you a beer, and you can say, ‘Somehow, I thought you’d be girthier.‘ Or, um, something. Ahem.
Hey, nice people —
It’s been a while since I sent one of these mails out, but I’ve got a couple of shows coming up, and would just *squeal* like a happy little piggy if anybody wants to come out to have a look ‘n’ listen. Here’s the scoopage, for you interested parties:
On Sunday (Sunday! Sunday!), I’ll be doing a set at the Comedy Vault at Remingtons downtown. (124 Boylston St.; see their website for more info.) It’s a cool little joint, down in the basement of the place. And there really _is_ a vault down there, like in a real-life bank. No foolin’! The yuks kick off at 9pm; cover is either $7 or $10 (the web site’s not entirely clear on that point).
Then — then! — when your split sides and tickled ribs have just barely healed, there’s _more_ hilaritatiousness on Wednesday night, at the Comedy Studio in Cambridge. (1364 Mass. Ave, over the Hong Kong restaurant; see web site for more info.) And for that gig, I’m even *official* — no, really, I’m on the schedule; check it out! That show starts at 8pm, and cover is $7 at or near the door.
So, there you go. Many thanks and ‘I’m not worthy’s to all of you who’ve made it out to see a show or two in the past.
(Hey, if nothing else, you’ll have more fodder for your therapist. You’re all seeing shrinks, right? *Right?*
Eh. Come to a couple more shows. If you’re not mental yet, that oughta drive you over the edge. Eekers.)
Anyway, hope to see you at one show or the other. I may even manage to work up a different set for each night, so you can come to _both_, if you have that kind of tolerance for political wisecracks and over-the-top ass jokes.
(Not from _me_, of course. It’s those *other* comedians. Degenerate bastards.
Well, okay, maybe I’ll do just a _couple_ of ass jokes. I mean, I have to fit in, now, don’t I?)
All right, I’ll let you go now. Thanks for reading this far, and I’ll see you guys soon.
So, there you go. Now you can’t say I’ve never sent you an email, exactly. You may wish I’d never sent you an email, but there it is, anyway. Can’t take it back. Nyah. G’night, folks!
Permalink | 3 CommentsAll right, look — before we go any further, I’ve got to say something here. I’ve tried to hush up and just ignore it, but I just can’t do it any more. I have to speak out. This has gone far enough. So here goes:
Somebody — I don’t care who; anybody — but somebody has got to have a talk with that guy… I don’t know his name, but you know who I’m talking about. He’s the brother, or in-law, or random hanger-on or something, on ‘Life According to Jim‘, or whatever the hell that Jim Belushi show is called. What is the name of that show, anyway? ‘Fat Guy Variety Hour‘? ‘King of Queens West‘? ‘No, I’m Not Dead Yet — You Must Be Thinking of My Career‘? Anyway.
The point is, this pudgy little popinjay — that’s this other dude, not Jim; keep up with me here — has somehow scored himself a string of gigs hawking hot dogs, and other meat-like byproducts, on TV. The first few were all right — cutesy, sure, and a little annoying, but harmless. Like a lobotomized lawyer dressed up in a tutu, maybe. Just for instance.
The latest ad, on the other hand, is just unacceptable. It starts with a closeup of our frank-peddling friend, standing in front of a grill, weiner in hand.
(See? See? I told you it was unacceptable. But it gets worse. Stick with me.)
So, immediately, without any warning or one of those ‘Mature Audiences Only’ notices on the screen, our dude starts waving his weiner around and talking about how much he loves girth.
(Seriously. I am not making this up. I’m a little squeamish just writing about it. *shudder*)
Anyway, he goes on like that for the rest of the ad! It’s ‘girthy’ this, and ‘girthy’ that, and in between, he won’t stop waving that damned weiner around. Won’t stop, that is, until he grunts like an animal and chomps down on the thing, and then lets loose a guttural, ‘mmmm… girthy… Girthy!‘
Honestly. It’s like something out of a low-budget gay plumper porn flick. I can’t even look at the TV when the damned thing comes on. I’m afraid the image of this guy licking his chops and sinking his teeth into a ‘girthy’ frank is going to burn into my brain and haunt me. That’d trump the shit out of my current phobias, lemme tell ya. It’s like eight kinds of horrible wrongness rolled into one and loaded on a bunful of mustard. Ugh.
So please, won’t somebody make this man stop? Hasn’t this gone far enough? It’s goddamned hard enough for guys to eat a hot dog as it is, without this rube pawing at his girth on national television. I think Skippy needs a good hosedown, is what he needs. ‘Girthy’, indeed. Harrumph.
Permalink | 6 Comments
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