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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Hey, all — a bit of a late post tonight (or technically, tomorrow morning… well, technically, I suppose it’s ‘today morning’, but that’s just splitting hairs, now isn’t it?), but I wanted to tell you one quick thing that happened to me today.
(Okay, so maybe it’s not a ‘quick thing’. I’ve never really been ‘quick’ about telling you folks anything, come to think of it. Still, what I said up there in the last paragraph has a better ring to it than ‘Let me blather on for a couple of thousand words about next to nothing before finally wrapping up this train wreck and letting you get back to your life‘, now, doesn’t it?)
Okay, so anyway, here’s the thing: I woke up this morning at a few minutes past ten, to the sound of a lawnmower. Now, normally. this wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Ten-plus in the am is plenty long to sleep, and I’ve got no special aversion or allergy to the sound of a good Briggs and Stratton mower.
Unfortunately, though, as I shook my drooling self awake and gathered my wits about me, I determined that this was my Briggs and Stratton engine providing the concert. And that’s both ‘B’ and ‘S’, in my book.
You see, it’s my job around the house to mow the grass. My wife, she’ll whack the weeds (not euphemistically speaking, of course), and tend the flowers, and generally see to it that the lawn in is good order. But mowing — that’s my burden, and I’m happy to shoulder it.
Except… last week, I missed my window. On Saturday, I put off the job, thinking (and saying, too, as I recall) that Sunday would be just as good a day — perhaps even better — for the mowing extravaganza to occur. Only, as happens so often, it rained on Sunday before I could get down to my grassy business. And I get home pretty damned late most weeknights, so the grass had to wait a whole ‘nother week before getting its trim.
My wife, to her credit, was largely silent throughout this period. I caught neither hell nor shit nor grief during the week. However, it was made perfectly, crystal clear to me that the grass was to be mowed this weekend, come hell, high water, or hungry, hungry hippos.
And then, of course, I hurt my leg.
(And a big bunch of humbled, amazed and grateful thanks to all of you who wished me well after my calf-snapping experience. I’m feeling much better today, though still limping — yesterday, though, was a hobbled, hellish hoohah of cripplehood. I was not so happy, let me tell you. Now, better. Then, cranky. Let’s just focus on ‘now’, if that’s all right, eh?)
Anyway, that’s why it was a bit of a shock — and dread-inducing fear — to be awakened to the sound of my own lawnmower, perhaps being used in anger against me. As it turns out, my wife — as always, really — was cool about the whole thing. Still, even after my injury, I said I’d mow the lawn, no matter what. Never mind whether I really meant that I’d mow the lawn this weekend, or believed that I’d be well enough to mow the lawn — I said I’d mow the lawn, and that’s what I intended to do, or break off my leg trying. So I wasn’t quite sure what to expect when my wife came back into the house, the dirty deed already done.
But, as I said, she was all cool and shit. She knew it would have been a struggle for me, in my current condition, and she took one for the team. That’s just one reason why she’s the shiznit, you know? Never mind the fact that she still made me go shopping with her for hours this afternoon for bathroom vanities and accessories, or that I had to carry many of said ass-drooping heavy accessories up the thirty-plus stairs to our house. At least I got to do all of that (which I might expand on tomorrow, if I remember) on a fully-awake brain and a stretched-out, limbered-up (though still crippled) body. And that’s miles better than oozing out of bed, into a pair of shorts, and mowing the damned grass. So, really, I still owe her one. Cool.
Anyway, that’s my story for now — it’s bedtime, and I simply don’t have the mental bandwidth or the clock time to tell you abou the other things that went on this Saturday, from the shopping ordeal to the dinner out with friends to all the shit I caught for my recent gimpiness.
(Okay, so that’s all you’re likely to hear, now or later, about the hell I’m catching for having a bad leg. It’s like nobody ever limped before, in the history of mankind. Cut me some frigging slack, goddamit! Bitches!)
So, for now, I’m gonna limp off to bed. All in all, it turned out to be a pretty good day, which was not what I expected when that mower engine woke me up right outside my window. But in the end, all is well, and hey — now I don’t have to mow the grass for another seven days or more. Maybe I should snap something in my leg every week!
Permalink | 1 CommentHello, good morning, and welcome to this week’s Punchline Fever, folks. As many of you know, this is our little weekly chance to get goofy and dig into a nice juicy joke setup together. Sure, like most of the best things in life, some days are juicier than others. Hopefully, today will be a good one for juicin’. I do likes me my squeezin’s, folks.
All right, before this gets any damned siller, let’s review the rules for Punchline Fever:
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.
Got it? Good. Then let’s throw down this week’s entry:
Punchline Fever #13:
‘Dennis was always taught to ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you’. Of course, no one ever mentioned that he shouldn’t take it literally when it came to the cute new girl working with him at the fast food joint. Needless to say, the girl was awfully surprised when he ____________________________‘
That’s it, folks — get those punchlines rolling in, why don’t you? And if you’ve got any juices left, then check out all of the Punchline Fevers. Let’s keep this Friday rolling, whadda ya say?
Permalink | 8 CommentsPoop. I’m a cripple.
Okay, so I’m only a temporary cripple — I’ll be back to my old, bipedal self in a couple of weeks — but still, for right now? Yeah, a cripple.
You see, just a couple of hours ago, while playing in my league’s volleyball playoffs, I was running to set the ball. Not running particularly hard, mind you, or awkwardly, even. It was a pretty routine play, to be honest — ball straight ahead, legs moving in the same direction, tongue tucked inside my lower lip so as not to be hanging out and wagging inadvertantly… really, just business as usual. I think my fly was even zipped this time.
And that’s when, just a couple of steps away from the ball, I felt it — *pop*! It was like being nailed in the left calf with a baseball. I made it as far as the ball, plus one more hop, but I was in no mood to set, or even play any more, at that point. I just ran under the thing, caught it, and managed to groan:
‘Time out, time out, time out… dammitdammitdammitdamn… timeouttimeouttimeout…‘
So yeah, we lost that point. Apparently, you’re supposed to call ‘timeouttimeout, dammitdammitdammit, timeout‘ before you catch the ball that the other people on the floor are playing with. Lousy stinking rules.
But frankly, I cared a bit less at that point than I normally would. Now, I’m pretty competitive — I like to get in there and mix it up, and I let wins, and losses, hang around simmering in my brain for a few days afterwards. But just at the time, a few seconds after my leg going all wonky, I just wanted to have a nice lie down. Maybe a pillow. And a beer. I’d have probably accepted sexual favors at that point, if only as a pain-lessening therapeutic measure. I’m all about the therapeutics, you know.
Anyway, I hobbled over to the bleachers to work out what exactly had happened. Our team captain got busy conferring with the refs, to find out what would happen if I left the game then, but wanted to come back in later. I raised an eyebrow at him. Nothing. I raised the other one. Zip. I raised both, and said:
‘Dude. Look, I love you guys and all, and these are the playoffs… but I am so not coming back in. I don’t know what the hell just happened, but it’s not a ‘walk-it-offer’. I’m pretty damned sure of that at this point.‘
So, the game went on without me. As did the next one, when we won that match, and then the next two games, when we won the whole damned tournament.
(And before you get all snippy, there, Sanchez, I’ll have you know that we were playing well when I was in the game, too. We’d already strung together a winning match, and were ahead in the game I limped oiut of. So don’t get all ignorant on the ‘you wuz holdin’ back the team!’ tip, a’ight? Just step off, there, Cooter.)
Anyway, I whiled away the time talking to another guy on our team who’d had almost exactly the same experience last week, and had come tonight just to cheer us on. He’d been playing as normal, running around, then *bop* suddenly there’s a pop, a pull, and walking’s not nearly so much fun any more. He told me that his diagnosis was a torn plantaris tendon. I said, ‘a plain terwilla-what, now?‘. He lifted an eyebrow. I hung my head and apologized, and all was forgiven.
(See? I picked up on the signal. It’s an eyebrow! How freaking hard was that? Dude!)
Anyway, that ‘torn plantaris tendon’ thingy is the theory I’m working under, at least until I find out otherwise. But if that’s the case, the prognosis isn’t so bad. Apparently, this plantaris tendon character doesn’t actually do anything. It’s like some muscle-mooching hobo, just riding on the coattails of the shit in your leg that actually works for a living. You’re perfectly peachy without it.
Which doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt like hell to snap it in half like a piano wire, if that’s what actually happened. But long-term, there’s apparently no repair that needs to be done, no flavor of foot-tapping that I won’t be able to enjoy any longer. I can probably even still have my toes sucked occasionally, once I’m feeling a bit better. So the news is not all bad.
Still, for the next couple of weeks, I’ll be taking baby steps whereever I go. Literally, baby steps. I can see already — and more importantly, feel, rather forcefully — that stairs are going to be a problem. Especially in the downward type of direction — that’s no fucking picnic at all right now, lemme tell you. And apart from that, it’s suddenly a very bad idea to put my right foot in front of my left one, for any reason whatsoever. There will be no ‘Hokey-Pokey’ for this cowboy for a while, that’s for sure.
But I suppose it could have been worse. I don’t have any definitive evidence, but based on what I know so far, I’m thinking that this wasn’t my Achilles tendon, or anything similarly debilitating in the long term. And I didn’t sprain or twist anything that might take even longer to heal, and then keep happening every couple of weeks, just to torture me. No, with a bit of rest and some ice to keep the swelling down, this could be a one-time, couple-of-week ordeal. Hell, the guy who was telling me about his boo-boo was already walking again, less than a week later, with just a tiny bit of a limp. I wanna be that guy!
So, anyway, that’s how my night went. A couple of hours of exercise, a crippling injury, then a victory celebration with beer and chicken wings and ‘League Champion’ T-shirts. Me and the other crip got our shirts, too, even though we weren’t able to play in the championship match itself. I guess it’s the thought that counts, right? The spirit was willing, but the flesh was busy snapping in half and recoiling through a large muscle group, tearing and ripping away fibers as it went. Stupid flesh. Who invited flesh, anyway? Flesh has been nothing but trouble since it got to the party. Bitches!
Permalink | 5 CommentsAll right. I know I just ranted about TV commercials yesterday. And, um, come to think of it, again, just a few days ago. At the risk of turning this site into a full-time ‘boob tube bitchery’, I just can’t hold back here. Just one more, and I’ll shut up about it for a while, I promise.
But holy crap, would somebody tell me whose willy I’ve got to snap in half to get those damned Enzyte commercials off my television? Just let me know — I’ll hop in there with a crowbar or something, and — *sniggity-snap* — get this shit over with.
Because if I have to see that shit-happy grinning ‘Bob’ bastard and hear that sing-song whistly music, with the ridiculous voice-over just one more time — ‘Bob’s living large and steppin’ easy!‘ — I’m simply gonna have to hurl something through the TV screen. Or hurl on it. Maybe both. Probably depends on what I had for dinner.
Anyway, it’s bad enough that those commercials are really just advertising the merits of a pulsing, uncontrollable, six-hour hard-on. Believe it or not, I can actually get past that. Hell, Viagra’s been doing that shit for months now, and their commercials are vaguely amusing. Sometimes. Vaguely. A little. Eh.
But these Enzyte ads are just goddamned scary. That ‘Bob’ twink doesn’t look like he’s got a drug-induced chubby — the dude is frickin’ manic. He looks more like there’s a lamppost bent off all up in his urethra hole. Um, erotically, somehow, that is. I mean, he does look happy, after all.
But he’s too happy, and that’s what’s so freaking creepy about the whole thing. Look, I’m a guy. Now, I’ve never taken Enzyte myself, but I’ve certainly… um, well, let’s just say that I’ve spent some quality time in Woodytown now and then. And I’m not talkin’ about Woody Allen, either. I’m just saying that I’ve been in Bob’s neighborhood, albeit the natural way.
(Well, if you call flipping through issues of ‘Happy Hooters’ and ‘Jiggles ‘n’ Nips’ ‘natural‘, that is. I… um, yeah. I just read ’em for the articles. Ahem.)
Anyway, the point is, nobody has ever been that happy to be sporting a stiffy. Ever. Not even when it’s stuck in something. Or somebody, for that matter. Personally, I think Bob’s been confusing his bottle of Enzyte with his vials of quaaludes and crank he’s keeping in the medicine cabinet. And judging by the look of sweaty hysteria on his wife’s face, she’s dipping into the same well.
Or maybe Bob’s just slipping her the big throbby business six or eight times a day, and that’s why she looks so frazzled. Who knows? Who can understand these damned commercials, anyway? I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Enzyte’s really just a multivitamin, or an antacid. Or, more likely from watching the commercials, a highly dangerous and illegal mood elevator normally used to pull hippos out of their tranquilizer addictions.
Whatever. All right, I’m really done this time. I promise I won’t harp on some stupid-ass commercial for at least… oh, let’s say… at least a week. How’s that? Let’s just pray the douchebags at Old Navy don’t have one of their brilliant ideas for an ad before then. I simply don’t know how I’ll be able to contain myself.
Permalink | 4 CommentsI was talking to a friend a couple of days ago, when we stumbled upon one of life’s great mysteries. And I’ll tell you what it was, just as soon as this sentence is over… which is… now.
Why is it, of all the crappy local businesses that advertise on TV and radio, that used car lots and furniture stores have the absolute worst spots of all time? Is it some kind of weird union thing? Are they somehow obligated to use themselves in their ads, rather than real actors, and to stand there like broomstick-violated marionettes delivering lines with all the subtlety of Stephen Hawking’s voicebox? What’s the explanation, dammit?
Seriously, is there some sort of conspiracy afoot here? And what’s the connection between the used lemons on an oversized parking lot and bedroom suites in a gaudy showroom? None of the other local commercials — whether for restaurants, radio stations, realtors, or whatever — none of these people in these things get all googly-eyed and shouty-throated when they want to peddle their shit in our direction. What is it about a leather sofa or a ‘barely-used’ Dodge that makes people so frigging crazy?
And how is it that the people running these businesses get away with such flimflammery, anyway? Just because they own the joint and pay for the ad, they think it’s okay to dress up like an idiot and scream at us for thirty seconds at a time? Have none of them figured out that it’s not the way to go? You don’t see the people at Schick yelling at the top of their lungs at us:
‘Four blades! Four fucking blades, people!! It’s Quattro! Buy it! Shave with it! Four blades, dammit! Foooooouuuuuuurrr!!!‘
Or that big Hi-C pitcher dude getting all up in our bidness, trying to sell his sugary shit:
‘Yo, get your ass down to the store and get your Hi-C, fool! You don’t drink Hi-C, I’ll kick your pansy ass! I swear to God, I’ll break off part of my own head and cut you, gringo! Drink Hi-C!‘
So what’s up with the divan dealers and Peugeot peddlers, then? It’s not like people get especially excited about buying their shit, compared to other cool stuff out there, like electronics and tequila and mail-order brides. But it’s not completely boring stuff that would require that kind of lubed-up insanity to sell, either. I could see selling legal pads or nasal spray or tickets to a golf match that way — hell, something’s gotta get people excited about that snoozy crap. But used cars and furniture? I just don’t fricking get it.
Anyway, that’s what’s on my mind at the moment, I suppose. Hey, it’s better than another boring post about how much poopy work I’m doing, right? I never promised you people Shakespeare every day. Looks like ‘broomstick-violated marionettes’ is as good as it’s gonna get tonight around here. Ah, well. At least it’s free, eh?
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