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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Christ, I’m falling apart.
Somehow today, without knowing quite when or how, I pulled a muscle in my back, right below my left shoulder blade. It hurts when I do various things — like shrug, for instance, or blink, or think about ponies. But it seems to be most painful when I sigh heavily. And since it happened at work, I did a lot of heavy sighing. A lot of heavy, painful, pitiful sighing. Ouchies.
Then, just a few minutes ago, sitting in the floor in my living room, I did… well, something. To my groinal region. I’m not sure what, exactly, I did, or how it happened — all I know is that lifting my left leg is not a good idea right now. It feels like my hip is wiggly down there somehow, like I shimmied when I should have shook. Or twisted when I meant to twirl. Or wiggled my watusi in not quite the right way.
(Of course, some would tell you that there’s no good way in which to ‘wiggle your watusi’. I don’t buy into that personally, but I do believe that if you wiggle it more than twice, you’re just playing with it. And you’ll probably need a towel. Ick.)
Anyway, like I said, I’m falling apart. For any of you still younger than my thirty-four years of age, I really can’t recommend it. You should probably find some way of avoiding this age, if you ask me. Maybe sleep from thirty-two or so right up into your forties, when people apparently start telling you that you look ‘distinguished’.
(Now, on the other hand, people just say things like, ‘What the hell happened to you?‘ and ‘Hey, didn’t you used to be Charlie?‘ Oh, and, ‘What is that, hair coming out of there? For Chrissakes, shave that thing!‘ Yeah, that’s gotta be my favorite.
People. I never did like people, anyway. Bunch of bitches.)
But I think I’m gonna take it easy tonight. No running up and down the stairs, or stripping naked and doing the hokey-pokey on the porch for the neighbors. And there’ll be no shaking it like a Polaroid picture tonight, either.
(Not that there ever is, really. I don’t have the rhythm needed to ‘shake it like a Polaroid picture’, I’m afraid. I’m lucky if I can jiggle it like an Etch-a-Sketch. Yeah, they don’t let me on the dance floor any more. Too much collateral damage.)
In any case, the point is that I’m gonna try to rest up tonight, and hopefully come back as good as new tomorrow. Or at least as good as my tired wrinkly old thirtysomething self gets, which is far from ‘as new’, dammit. I lost that ‘new car smell’ quite a while back. And you really don’t want to know what odor replaced it. Trust me.
Anyway, there’s no guarantee that a night of rest and sleep will do anything for me at this point. At my age, I’m just as likely to wake up with a sprained wrist, or stiff neck, or missing a leg. Honestly, it’s a new ailment every day, it seems. Only today, it was two. The old skinbag I live in must be doubling up for Mondays now. Oh, frigging joy. Maybe I’ll get to look forward to this every week. Meh.
Permalink | 5 CommentsHeya, folks. Just a quick entry, I’m afraid, to mention that there’s really no entry to speak of tonight. This weekend has kicked my ass, chewed me up, spit me out, turned me over and boxed my little jowls. Hell, I didn’t even know I had jowls!
(And trust me, folks, there is no body part that you want to discover the existence of by having it boxed around roughly. This is the second time it’s happened to me, and I haven’t enjoyed either experience. Plus, I’m not sure I would have ever needed to know what a ‘uvula’ was in the first place, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.)
In any case, I apologize for not getting to you earlier today, but now I’m just pooped, and pooped all over. I’m pooped from my pinkies to my pate, with pooped-up stops at my prostate and pancreas. Even my privates are pooped. (But please, don’t let that get taken out of context. That’s how rumors get started, you see.)
Maybe it’s my own fault — maybe I bit off just a bit more weekend than I was prepared to chew. Certainly, it was jam-packed full — there was a play, with dinner and drinks out one night, and dinner (and drinks again, of course) with friends on another night. There was some CD burning (in the ‘making songs more portable’ kind of way, not the ‘Tipper Gore with her panties up her ass’ sort of way), and much TV was watched, with baseball, Simpsons, and Iron Chef America prominently featured.
(And never mind that the show pretty much seems to exist solely to kiss Bobby Flay’s snarky ass. The original appeared to be fixed most weeks, too. But for me, Iron Chef isn’t about ‘theater’ — or even ‘theatre’, if you’re one of those people who has your hoity stuck up your toity. Or you’re European. Or both, but I don’t even wanna think about that combination right now. I’m exhausted already, remember?
Anyway, I don’t watch Iron Chef to see who’s gonna win, or because I’m convinced that one day the ‘Chariman’ is going to cook and eat the loser, or even to play some silly, contrived drinking game based around how many times the commentators can say the word ‘luxurious‘. Though, come to think of it, that last one is a damned fine idea; somebody get working on that, would you?
But the point is, I don’t see Iron Chef as being about any of those things, really. To me, Iron Chef is all about one creative cook crafting a culinary crescendo of cockamamie crap that the other can’t match. It’s all a game of gross-out one-upmanship, to see who can sink to the lowest, ickiest depths and still put something palatable on the table:
‘You’re gonna use rat livers? Fine. I’m making soup from gutter scrapings. Once I add the bay leaves and tarragon, it’ll be a masterpiece!‘
‘Oh yeah? Well, I just used jock sweat in my bernaise sauce, and have a batch of petroleum jelly ice cream hardeding as we speak. Top that, bee-yiotch!‘
I swear, they should just stop fucking around and make pus the secret ingredient one of these weeks. Or skunk. Now there’s a challenge, people!)
All right, where the hell was I, anyway? Telling you what a busy weekend I’ve had, I think. Eh, we’ll go with that. I got nothing better right now.
So, I just wanted to check in and apologize to all of you for not having the energy to write tonight, but I’ve really got to hit the sack. It’s too bad that this — this, um… thousand-word-or-more mini-opus… is all you’re going to have to remember me by until tomorrow.
Sheesh. Even when I can’t write, I write. Well, I’m pulling the plug on this one right now. I didn’t have the time to write when I started this entry, and now that I’ve spent a half an hour writing about how I’m too pooped to write, I really don’t have the time. I’ve gotta get my beauty rest, folks — as they tell me around the office, tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my job. Catchy, no? And oh-ever-so-uplifting. Feh.
But I’m kind of stuck, what with needing that paycheck and all. They’ve got me by the short and curlies, I’m afraid. The only way to fight back is to spend the next several hours unconscious and drooling, and dreaming of fantastic riches, or at least a private office. Or something involving honey mustard and a Bond girl. Whatever. I’m not so picky about the dreaming part. But the key is, I’ve got to hit the sack to get to any of those happy places, so that’s what I’m off to do. Hope you kids have a great night. Don’t let the bedbugs bite!
Permalink | 2 CommentsOh boy, oh boy, oh boy.
I wasn’t sure it was gonna happen. Really, I wasn’t. I wanted it to happen, and I thought it was gonna happen, but then it was a little iffy, and then it got complicated, and then I forgot about it for a while, and then… um, and then, and then I think I went to bed, and then I took a shower, and had some cereal, and then there was some other stuff, and I watched some TV, and nothing much really happened. But then, out of the blue, it all came together and all of a sudden, it happened.
(And no, ya dildos, I’m not talking about losing my virginity here. Or sex of any kind, actually. If it were anything that interesting, I’d have gotten to the damned point by now. Hell, I’d have put up billboards. Trust me on this one.)
Anyway, it happened, and there’s no going back now. Decisions have been made, schedules have been set, and reservations have been… um, reserved. So it’s official: This blogger is going to London.
That’s right — in just a couple of short little months, the lady of the manor and I are going to spend six rainy, dreary, humid days and six dark, damp, stormy nights in the heart of the British Empire.
(Personally, I pushed to spend a couple of days in the ‘liver of the British Empire’, as well, but we decided we didn’t have time to make it to Dublin and the Guinness brewery. Maybe next intercontinental trip, eh?)
Anyway, I’m stoked to finally get to go to London — I’ve been wanting to see England for years, and I’m pumped way up. I’m ‘all jazz hands and hard-on’, as they say.
(Okay, ‘they’ don’t really say that. I’m pretty sure nobody says that, in fact. Other than me, of course. My hands and hard-on have always marched to a different beat, you know.
Now how’s that for a mental image you really didn’t need? Don’t say I never haunted you with anything, folks. Just walk it off now. You’ll be all right.)
Soon, we’ll have to pick up a guidebook or something, so we can set an itenerary. But I already know a few places I want to see — Big Ben, of course, and Trafalgar Square, and Buckingham Palace. But any old tourist can see that stuff. I want the real London experience. So I’m gonna get down with the places a lot of visitors miss. Like the Ministry of Silly Walks, for instance. See, the tour buses don’t go through there. And then there’s the bunker underground where ‘Q’ works all his technomagic. And 221B Baker Street, where Sherlock Holmes lives. Ooh, and Austin Powers’ apartment — I gotta see that. I hope that Shagwell girl is there; now there’s a cheeky bird, mates.
In any case, it’s all set up, and it’s going down in July. If you want me to bring you something back from the ‘old country’ — Euros, maybe, or English muffins, crown jewels, that sort of thing — get your requests in now. It’s first come, first serve, and my suitcase will only hold so many of those big fuzzy black hats the guards wear, you know. So you’d better hurry your ass up. Yo, it’s elementary, Holmes. Word.
Permalink | 5 CommentsWell, that was a pretty miserable Punchline Fever earlier today. And rightfully so, frankly. Looking it over again, there’s really not a lot of potential hilarity there. Many thanks and kudos go to my good buddy Scott-san, for giving it a try (and putting my lousy attempt to shame). At least I came in second, right?
Anyway, in my defense, I have to admit that I dropped the ball this week, starting with item #1 in the rules. (That’s the one that claims I’ll spend the week thinking of a setup, for those of you who can’t be bothered to look it up. Lazyass.) So I was a bit on the spot this morning, and late for a 9am meeting when I came up with today’s premise in the shower. Hey, it seemed funny there. Everything seems funnier when you’re naked and wet.
But funny or not, it was all I had, so I went with it. I apologize to any of you who stopped by today to leave a punchline and went away with that ‘what the fuck?‘ look on your face.
(Yeah, I know that look. I get that a lot, believe it or not.
Oh, shut up. Nobody asked you, anyway. Poopyhead.)
In any case, I’ll promise to give you more to work with next week, if you’ll do me the favor of coming back and working with it. (And no, I don’t say that to all the girls, thank you very little.)
So, moving on. Speaking of people I need to thank, I want to send a warm, fuzzy shout-out to one of my very most favouritest people — the ‘Saucy Aussie’, the ‘Cantankerous Canberran’, the ‘Diva Down Under’, the one, the only, the lusty and cheeky… Monkey.
(Okay, so that came out more like a ‘boxing match introduction’ than a ‘shout-out’. I’m new at this sort of thing. Just deal, all right?)
Anyway, in addition to the myriad of other nice and naughty names I could call Monkey, there’s now another to add to the list — ‘mommy’. For you see, my Mommy Monkey has dragged me, kicking and pupating, into the strange and confusing (and oh-so-copulous) world that is Breedster.
(Right. As though I needed another reason to obsess over copulating. Or ingesting things. Or worrying about what color my poop is.)
Anyway, if you’re interested in joining in the fun, drop me a comment or email. Assuming I can find a willing partner bug, maybe I’ll make you one of my kids. And really, wouldn’t we all feel better if you just got it over with and called me ‘Daddy’? Yeah. I think so. Who’s your buggy daddy, baby?
Permalink | 2 CommentsHallo, hallo, hallo, what’s all this, then?
Why, it looks like a Friday. Well, we can’t ‘ave a Friday without a Punchline Fever, now can we? Wouldn’t be proper. So let’s get down to it, shall we, ladies and gents?
For those of you unfamiliar to our little Friday exercise… well, where the hell have you been? Get with the program, already!
Sorry, sorry — that was rude. The person responsible for writing this blog has been sacked. Won’t happen again. And as a show of good faith, here are the Punchline Fever ‘rules’, in case you need ’em:
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.
It’s as easy as one, two, three. (Well, technically, ‘one’, ‘bee’, ‘iii’, but you get the idea.) So, without further nonsense, let’s get to this week’s Punchline Fever:
Punchline Fever #10:
‘Jill wanted to impress the cute new guy in her office, who also happened to be deaf. So she learned enough sign language to ‘sign-sing’ ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ at his welcome party. Unfortunately, she didn’t quite get the response she’d expected, and learned later that she’d inadvertently signed out _____________________________‘
Have at it, folks. I can’t make this joke a milk-snorting gigglefest on my own. You’ve got to pitch in, too. And if you’re still in the ‘elping mood, then bop on over to the main Punchline Fever page and throw down some punchlines in the archives. There’s plenty more where this one came from. (‘Plenty’. ‘Nine’. Whatever. Just make with the ha-has already, would ya?)
Permalink | 5 Comments
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