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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Look, here’s the thing — if you don’t want me to stare at some part or other of your anatomy, then for the love of peanuts, don’t wear clothing over said parts that has writing on it.
I like to think of myself as a reasonable man. (I’m not, particularly, but I like to think that. I like to think a lot of things.) Anyway, if you put words in front of me, then I’m probably going to have a good, hard look, and have a go at making some sense out of the damned things. It seems like a perfectly natural thing to do, frankly.
Meanwhile, I’m a man. And not a particularly scrumptious, hunky chunk of beeferoni, either.
(No, don’t fret; it’s okay. I know — I’m comfortable with it. I’m not the Elephant Man or Louie Anderson or anything; I’m just never going to be mistaken for a boy band alum. Or an ex-soap opera star. Or David Hasselhoff. Or for that matter, David Duchovny. Or even David Hyde Pierce, for what that’s worth. And don’t get me started on David Alan Grier; I’m not even in the same ballpark.)
And that’s all right. I’ve come to terms with my average, anonymous looks. But the upshot of my undreamyness is that women generally aren’t interested in having me peruse their persons, or any parts thereof. I can look ’em in the eyes, and maybe I can get away with the occasional peek at a hand, or an elbow, or the bottom of a foot, but that’s about it. Any sort of extracurricular ogling is going to be met with extreme prejudice.
(Not, of course, that I’d engage in any such sort of behavior in the first place, being happily hitched and all. All of this is so theoretical. We’re clear on that, right? Sort of? Just a little?
Sure, I might be tempted to sneak just a tiny peek, once in a while. You know, just out of curiousity. There are people out there that have parts that I don’t have; sometimes, I like to check those bits out, just to see what they’re like.
Look, if some unfortunate soul had a couple of big lumpy humps growing out of their back, you’d sneak a look if you could, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t stare, because that’s rude, of course, but you’d give ’em the old once-over with the eyeballs; you know you would, because you don’t have those things, and you’d be interested to know more about them. It’s just human nature — it’s nothing to be ashamed of.
So… you know, just think of boobs as two big lumpy front-humps. That’s all they are, really. And people are naturally curious; it’s really more a question of anthropology than anything when guys stare slack-jawed at a titillating twosome of tatas. Um, other guys, that is. Of course. Again, with the ‘theoretical’ thing. Ahem.)
Okay, so you get the idea. As a filthy, dirty man, I’m rather predisposed to notice certain areas of certain bodies. But the brains in charge of those bodies really don’t want me perusing their proverbial parking lot, looking at their wheels.
(Much less kicking the tires, or taking anything for a test drive. I’m not gonna be fiddling with the gearbox, putting the top down, or — heaven help me — getting my nozzle anywhere near the gas tank.
How’s that? Have we beaten this automotive euphemism horse to death yet? I sure as hell hope so — you don’t want me to get out the ‘moonroof’ references. Really, you don’t.)
So, the problem is, it’s these same certain types of people who are most likely to wear clothing with words covering their chesticles, or their assitalia — sorry, are the official medical terms confusing? I apologize.I don’t want to leave anyone behind here.
The point is, if you wear a pair of tiny little sweat shorts, and I can see ‘ABERC’ or ‘ROMBIE’ on the bootycheek closer to me, then you can be fairly certain that I’m going to stretch my neck to find out what the rest of this little ass-puzzle says. Maybe you’re a fan of… um, ‘Aber Cookies’, whatever those are. Or you went to good old ‘St. Grombie’ college, if such a place exists. I don’t know for certain. But if you’ve intrigued me with the letters on one of your ass-halves, then I’m going to have to try to find out. And if that involves staring glassy-eyed at your rumpterior — or, in extreme cases, chasing you down and flipping you over so I can see what the hell your pants say — then I can’t really see how I’m to blame.
Still, I get some pretty funny looks. ‘Funny’, dirty, horrified… whatever. I still say these ladies are bringing the unwelcome attention on themselves, with all that ill-positioned writing. (I also say that dammit, it can take me fifteen minutes to read ‘B C’ on a woman’s shirt, if I’m having a bad brain day. Yeah. I like to say a lot of things, too, actually.)
Anyway, that’s all I’m saying — you can’t have your cake and eat it, too. More specifically, you can pimpslap a guy for getting googly-eyed over your gazoombas, or you can use your chest as a ‘boobie billboard’, and invite the world to have a look. But you can’t do both. It’s not fair, really.
Seriously, you don’t see me running around the neighborhood with my fly unzipped and streamers tied to my weenie, and then complaining that people aren’t looking me in the eye when they talk to me. (Or run away from me, or arrest me and take me to jail.) Or standing on the sidewalk out front with my pants around my ankles and ‘Leggo My Eggos’ written in Sharpie on my bare ass, then geting all huffy when folks concentrate on that instead of whatever jibberish I happen to be spouting at the time. See? It’s just ridiculous.
And… um, hmmm. Look, I’ve gotta be honest. I forgot what the hell my point was. Suddenly, I’m just hungry for frozen waffles, and I’m wondering whether those streamers would hurt. Eh, never mind the whole thing. I’m gonna find a Sharpie and go have some fun with the neighbors. You folks talk amongst yourselves. I’ll catch you later.
Permalink | 2 CommentsUgh.
I don’t know about you people, or what kind of work you fill your days with, but if you’re anything like… well, everybody, frankly, then you’ve had your ass squeezed through a day like the one I just finished. So you’ll sympathize when I bitch about it for the next half-hour.
(Or maybe you won’t. Some of you are just petty that way sometimes. I told you I don’t know about you…)
Anyway, most of the crap that was flung in my direction today was pretty standard — a parking ticket, broken headphones, too little sleep, an early meeting. I can handle that stuff — I’m pretty accustomed to these sorts of attacks on my sanity. You get used to it after a few dozen years, you know.
But today, I made the regrettable mistake of compounding my own problem. I’m sure there’s some analogy I could make here, like ‘shooting myself in the foot’, or ‘pissing on myself to put out a fire’, or something about shoving something up something, or… um, something. But those uncomfortable, disturbing images aren’t the point. When I finally sign up for therapy, maybe — but now, no. Not the point.
The point is that after all the nuisances outside my control today, I decided to get something accomplished. That was my first mistake. I should have just taken stock of how lousy the day was going, cut my losses, and crawled my tuckus back under the covers. Sometimes the easy way out is the right way out, you know?
But that’s not how it went down today. No. Today, I had ambition. I had drive. For a while, I think I may have even had a bit of verve. (But, of course, the penicillin cleared that right up. Yes, thank you — I’ll be here all week.)
Anyway, my big mistake was to dive in on ‘that thing‘. You’ve all been there, I suspect; you’ve had ‘that thing‘ hanging over your head, at some point or another. It’s different, depending on your job and situation, but there’s often some… thing that you just know is gonna take forever, and be far more complicated and take more time than it has any right to, and will suck you into its gaping maw of suckyhood for hours, if not days, and in the end, will leave you a blubbering, slack-jawed lump of smoking flesh. Maybe for you, it’s a project plan you’ve got to put together one of these days. Or it’s a good, old-fashioned gutter cleaning. Hell, this time of year, it might just be tackling your tax forms.
Whatever it is, it’s not pretty. When you can put it off, you do. When you can manage not to think about it, you don’t. But those times are few and far between — this monkey is perched squarely on your back, peering over your shoulder and breathing sour nothings into your ear until you break down and do the damned dirty deed.
(No, not that dirty deed. That might help keep your mind off of things for a while, but that’s not the ‘deed’ I’m talking about. At least, I hope you don’t think about ‘the deed’ that way, with disgust and derision and trepidation. Hell, even hookers feel better about sex than that.
Um… from what I hear. From… uh, friends. Of friends. Of acquaintances, who have relatives who know people who have met hookers. Once. Yeah. Something like that. Moving on, then.)
Anyway, the point is that three o’clock this annoying afternoon was no time for me to decide to tackle my current demon, which happens to involve integrating a truckload of subtle changes in one version of this computer system I’m working on with an assbasket of different modifications in another version of the system. That’s about as much as I can tell you about it without boring you to the brink of suicide; suffice to say that coming up with one, fully-working version of this bastard is going to take one hell of a lot of tedious, delicate, repetitive, eye-straining, brain-draining, soul-squeezing work. And that’s what I spent the last six and a half hours of my workday, until nearly ten pm, trying to start.
Why? I don’t know, frankly. Certainly, I’m not normally so ambitious about these things. I’m happy to sit in my corner and keep my mouth shut, and hope I can put off horrendous shit like this indefinitely, or at least until I can get myself some help, or fired, or dead, or something. Anything would be better than diving into a project like this one, all alone like this.
But that’s what I did, and I really can’t say why. I’m starting to suspect that it’s because I’m simply not very bright, when you get right down to it. Certainly, I’ve never been the smartest person I know. And clearly — since I’m the one taking on this nightmare, instead of someone else — I’m not the brightest person in my office. Frankly, there’s a pretty good chance that I’m not the smartest person who’s ever worn these pants.
(Yes, that one’s for you folks who noticed that my standup clip from last week is up, even though I forgot to mention it. Or maybe it’s for everyone else, since I used that line in my set. Either way, I’m pimping the clip now, so go watch it.
Seriously. This post isn’t going anywhere in particular; you might as well try it out. I’d hate to think you were coming away from here with nothing tonight.)
I suppose what really matters, or will in a few days, is that I got off my ass and had the stones to try and get this task done. It’s a long road, but at least now I have a shot at getting it finished. And it’s true — it needs to get done, somehow. So I suppose I should be happy that I made progress tonight. The journey of a thousand steps and all that, right?
Yeah, right. Fuck that noise, man. I worked on this shit for six hours, and I’ve only licked the tip of the nipple on top of this mountain. Um, metaphorically speaking, of course. The point is, I’ve got many, many more hours to go before I can call this thing ‘done’, and move on to the next Herculean pile of poopyness. Eh, now I’m all grumpy again, just thinking about it. Man, I knew I should have just crawled back into bed this afternoon. Screw it — I’m goin’ to bed. See you playahs on the flip side.
Permalink | 1 CommentOkay, I have a question. It may seem a little odd. By ‘normal person’ standards, anyway — if you’ve been reading my shit for any length of time, on the other hand, it probably won’t seem out of the ordinary at all. Tame, even — there’s only nudity in the middle part of the topic, and no boobs at all until the end.
When, to be fair, there are rather a lot of boobs. Which ends up being the point, actually. Look, maybe I should just start over. Forget you saw any of this — I don’t want to give away the ending.
(Like one of my posts ending in a heaving mound of breasticle talk would be a ‘surprise‘. This is not a ‘whodunit’, people. It’s not even a boob-dunit.
Heh. Boobdunit. I’ll have to remember that.)
All right, seriously, that’s enough — I’m starting over now. Just scratch everything from your memory starting from right… right… wait for it… now!
Okay, I have a question. It may seem a little odd.
(So far, so good, eh? I’m rather proud of myself this time — I didin’t go on and on about the ‘little odd’ part at all. As a matter of fact… oh. Oh, dear. I’m typing this out loud, aren’t I? You’re seeing every little bit of this aside out there, aren’t you? Well, piss.
You know, sometimes it’s as though I don’t have a brain at all. I’m convinced that there’s a little hamster or pterodactyl or something pedalling on a wheel in my chest to keep the breathing and the heartbeat thing happening. If I had to depend on my brain for anything really important, I’d have lurched over dead by now. Lousy fucking brain.
Come to think of it, an animal in my chest cavity would explain the occasional shooting pains, too. And the scary noises. I really should look into an X-ray one of these days.)
Okay, forget that whole bit, too. You were never meant to see any of that. Let’s just call it ‘Take Two’, pretend it didn’t happen, and never look each other in the eye again, shall we? Three’s a charm, then — here we go:
Okay, I have a question. It may seem a little odd. But have any of you heard of this show called ‘Ambush Makeover’? Because it’s really got me in a tizzy, frankly.
Now, I haven’t actually seen the show, myself. For one thing, it’s one one of those ‘women-only’ channels, like Lifetime, or Oxygen, or the LPGA Network. And for another, it seems to be on during the daytime, so I’ll probably never end up watching it. Now that I’m gainfully employed again, I’m not near a TV during the midday hours. And when I was out of work… well, let’s just say that I will stoop to some pretty low levels — and I have, people; somehow, I’m sure that’s not difficult to fathom — but I will not be caught watching the crapcasts that are shown during the day on television. No soap operas, no Judge Judy, no ‘very special Montel‘ shows for me. Nuh-uh. I ain’t goin’ out like that.
And besides, I’ve got an internet connection here, and an enormous hard drive. And seven hundred gigs of internet porn beats the caboose off some bullshit soap opera any day of the week. And twice on Tuesdays.
(And yes, ladies, you heard me — it’s an enormous hard drive. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Oh, it’s real. And it’s spectacular!)
Anyway, circling back to the topic before I have to start over again, something about this ‘Ambush Makeover’ show just gives me the creeps. I haven’t seen it, and yet I’m disturbed by the very concept.
(It’s a little like trying to think about your grandfather’s penis. Um, you know, for example — I just want to make sure you folks are feeling what I’m feeling, here. That’s the mark of an effective writer, no?
So remember, just think of something you haven’t actually seen, but that is creepy and disturbing to consider, nonetheless. Like your grampa’s ‘wee wrinkly winkie’. Just as a ‘for instance’. Help me help you, folks. Help me… help you.)
So, as I understand it, the concept of this ‘Ambush Makeover’ thing is this — the people running the show pick out some ugly duckling (pointed out to them by a close personal ‘friend’ of the subject, no doubt), and shower the person with wardrobes and hairdos and loofah rubs and such until he or she is deemed fabulous. It’s a bit like Queer Eye without all the strutting, or Designer’s Challenge with a frumpy person as the victim, instead of a dreary, cluttered room. Or it’s like Home Movies, only without the voiceovers, and the quirky sense of humor. And it’s not animated. And the same people don’t show up on each episode. And… um, stuff.
(Okay, look, that Home Movies analogy was way off, okay? I mainly just wanted to work it in there, since I’ve started watching it again recently, and I really dig it. But it didn’t really fit, so just ignore that part. Hey, I was right on with the other two shows — what the hell do you want from me, anyway?)
But what really lathers my nipples — and not in a good way, if that’s possible — is the premise of the whole enterprise. They’re basically grabbing someone off the street and saying:
‘Hey. You are one ass-ugly bit of fluff, you know that? And frankly, someone you know and trust and hold dear to your heart can’t stand to look at your hideous mug for even one more day. So we’re here to fix your sorry Elephant Man ass, whether you like it or not. Deal, bitch.‘
Now tell me, folks — is that really the message we want to be sending in today’s society? ‘Get pretty, or we’ll get you pretty’? Frankly, I find the whole thing disturbing. I’m sure part of it is some sort of ‘everyone is beautiful, in their own way’ moral outrage, and that I’m railing against a society that puts so much emphasis on the unattainable goal of perfect beauty. A piece of me is probably concerned more for the emotional well-being of these people, and yearns to break the loop of negative reinforcement about their bodies and their appearance that must haunt them every day.
Mostly, though, I just don’t want my sorry ass pulled into some van and dropped off at a salon for primping. That is not the sort of shit that I want to have to worry about, on top of all the other neurosis and phobias that I have. And the more shows like this that there are, the more likely that someone I know is going to decide they’re fed up with seeing my bad haircuts, my unmanicured nails, and my sloppy rugbies and jeans, and subject me to the hellish nightmare of a forcibly foisted fascist fashion-fest. (Fuckers!)
But honestly, it’s not just me I’m concerned about. Seriously, think about it — now that the trend has started, where will it end? Surprise bikini waxes? Surreptitious liposuctions? ‘Ambush Boobjobs’?
I can just picture it now — young women whisked off the streets and stuffed in a van, with their husbands or boyfriends beaming from the sidelines. Cut to the operating table, with the girl under the knife, and the guy waving bags of saline in the doctor’s face:
Dude: A ‘D’! ‘D’! I said, make her a ‘D’ cup, doc!
Doc: I canna do it! She canna take much more, sir!
(Because, you know, all plastic surgeons specializing in breast enhancement surgery talk like Scotty from Star Trek. Yeah.)
Dude: Forget the rules! Damn the torpedos! And to hell with the boobslings! Here — put this one in. And this one. And here’s another. Stuff ’em in there — woo hoo!
Doc: Ay! Take cover, men — she’s a-gunna blow! Aiiieeeee!
Okay. Maybe it won’t go quite that far. I’m just saying, people. You can never be too careful. So please, if you ever see a bunch of people trying to stuff me into a van, please, for the love of all that is shiny and smooth, help me fight my way out of it, would you? When I’m ready for a goddamned makeover, then I’ll schedule one myself; I don’t need some cock-knobbed television show to do my dirty work for me. Let’s fight the power, folks!
Permalink | 6 CommentsOkay, this is going to come as a big surprise to all of you. Especially you regular readers — you’re going to be shocked. Your flabbers will be gasted. You may even pee, just a little. See? Shocking.
Anyway, here’s the thing — I’ve decided that I suffer from a certain deficiency. A gap in my personality, a hole in my persona — a character flaw, if you will.
(And frankly, I’d prefer that you would. Somehow, a ‘hole in my persona’ doesn’t sound very good. It either seems like something that would require painful surgery to plug up, or the kind of thing you’d see in one of those kinky pr0n emails. Or both, if you’re into that sort of thing. Pervert.)
Okay, what was I talking about again? Oh, right, my revelation. Okay.
So, it’s come to my attention lately that I have a bit of personal growing to do.
(And again, the pervs chime in, eh? ‘Personal growing’ just too good to resist, is it? Oh, you sad, sorry people. Go watch VIP or something, would you? I’m trying to make a frigging point here.)
Now, I’m sure that those of you who’ve read any of my stuff, or run into me out there in the real world, would agree that there are a whole canyonload of things that I could work on to better myself. And it’s true — I have my weaknesses, like anyone else. I could be a better listener, for instance. A little self-confidence now and then would be nice. Sometimes, I wish I were more gracious, more easy and honest and comfortable with people.
(Okay, maybe just ‘easy’. That sounds like fun, all by itself. Or with a side of Jell-O, even. Whee.
Actually, I take that back. I’m not sure I really want to include our favorite gelatinous treat in my kinky sexual escapades. Even if they’re imaginary. It’s not that I don’t like Jell-O, really. Of course, I don’t, if you get right down to it — there are frankly not that many places where I’m interested in seeing a bunch of lumpy jiggling going on. And ‘the end of my spoon’ is not one of those places. Not even close.
But that’s not what keeps me from including the stuff on my bedroom supply list. The thing that really frightens me about combining Jell-O and jiggy-getting is their old catchphrase. Remember? ‘There’s always room for Jell-O‘.
Well, that’s great and all, but they never say exactly what there’s supposed to be room for Jell-O in. And with all those orifices flying around during sex, I’m not ready to risk somebody taking that slogan literally and shovelling the stuff somewhere I don’t want it. I think I do plenty of jiggling as it is, got it?)
Anyway, the point is that there’s a whole litany of things on my ‘To Become’ list. One of these days, when I finally get past this whole ‘working five days a week’ nonsense, I hope to have time to work on some of them. In the meantime, though, the list keeps growing. And the results of the latest bout of disappointed self-discovery are simply too shocking to keep to myself. And here’s the big news:
I’ve decided… I need more… focus in my life.
See? Outrageous, isn’t it? Crazy talk! Just because it took me fourteen frigging paragraphs of drivel, and Jell-O, and some nonsense about gastered flabbers, or flabbing gasters, or flabby geezers, or whatever the hell I was talking about back there, suddenly I need more focus. Preposterous.
It’s not just this train wreck of an entry, though. Nor is it solely the rest of the rambling, inane, boobery drivel on this site. Certainly, that’s reason enough — hell, it might be reason enough to have me committed some day. I wonder whether anything I write can and will ever be used against me in a court of law. That would suck ass.
(Hey, speaking of focus, and not having any, Mr. Burns on the Simpsons just said:
‘I’ll be squeezing my Bobo in no time.‘
This is just one more example of why I should — nay, why I need — to compile a list of Simpsons quotes taken out of context, and work them into everyday conversation. Or just spout them randomly at inappropriate times during boring conversations. I’d get a hell of a kick out of whipping the above line out and using it next time I’m asked to give a status report in my next group meeting at work. ‘Squeezing my bobo’, indeed. Excellent.)
Okay, look, just forget this whole thing. I obviously can’t stay on track. Fuck it — I’ll work on ‘focus’ tomorrow. Or sometime. Hey, if that’s the worst thing on my list I never get around to fixing, I’ll be much better off than I am now. Right now, I’m gonna finish watching the Simpsons. Self-improvement can suck my ass. I’m too busy to better myself. Meh.
Permalink | 9 CommentsWell, here we are again — just another few hours left in the weekend, before we have to throw the yokes back on and get back to the grind.
(Yeah, I’m sure I’m mixing metaphors in there somewhere, but frankly, I’ve never been yoked nor asked to grind anything, so I can’t say for sure whether the two are mutually exclusive. Maybe you can ‘yoke and grind’; I don’t know. Sounds like something you’d want to try with some Barry White playing in the background, actually, but that’s not really the kind of ‘grinding’ I was going for.)
Where the hell did this weekend go, anyway? I mean, they always end too soon, but this one just evaporated — soon, there’ll be nothing left of the weekend but the sweet memory of loafing on the couch, and a little puddle of Sunday spittle on the pillow. Kind of brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it?
(Oh. No, sorry, that’s just drool on your cheek. You might want to turn the pillow over before you rest your head there again. That’s nasty, man.)
Actually, I’ve got it pretty damned good in my office, compared to many of the work-schlepping schlubs out there.
(Or is that ‘work-schlubbing schleps? I’m always getting my ‘schl-‘ words confused.
Well, except for ‘schlong’, of course. Now there’s a word you only accidentally use in conversation once. Seriously, I wanted my boss to know his report was something meaning ‘inferior or shoddy’, but I never meant to call it ‘schlong‘. That was not a particularly pleasant project meeting. Really. Not at all. Almost as bad as when I asked for a ‘Christmas boner’. I’ve really got to read my dictionary more carefully.)
Anyway, I don’t have it so bad. My office doesn’t have a dress code, for one thing. No ties, no dress shirts — I can even wear sneakers, if I want. In the summer, I’m thinking of pushing for ‘pants-optional Tuesdays’, to see where that goes. Partly, I think it’ll help keep us cool. But mostly, I just want another excuse to show off my cool man-thongs.
(Okay, okay, I can’t back that up. Er, so to speak, that is. The truth is, I don’t own any ass-floss of my own. Still, the idea of a pantsless office makes you wonder — how many of your coworkers are wearing those crack-catchers, anyway? And can you guess which ones? And perhaps even more interestingly, how would you figure out whether you were right?
Sorry. These questions just sort of pop into my head. I think I have whatever horrible, debilitating mental syndrome that Jeff guy from Coupling has. Or am I just being paranoid? Are other people spontaneously struck by the thought that ever person in the meeting with them was completely naked only hours before? Or that every pair of lips in the room has, at one time or another, been locked in squirmy, wanton embrace with another person’s lips? Or… other parts? Am I the only one who gets through meetings like this? And for the love of lacy panties, is there a cure?)
All right. Where the hell was I, anyway? Seems like I was talking about work, somehow. It was probably something about the relaxed dress code, or the flexible hours, or that they let me juggle at my desk between meetings. And no, ya guttertramps, that’s not some sort of sick, twiddly euphemism. Not this time, anyway. But keep your eyes open — you never know when these things will change.
But all this talk about work is starting to get me all, you know, floppy inside. As relatively cool as my workplace is, it’s still an office, and therefore not something I really want to have on my mind on a Sunday night. I’ll be shuffling my sorry ass in there soon enough tomorrow morning, so I’m gonna wrap this up and get the hell to bed before my Sunday slobber runs out. It’s just not a weekend without some drool on the old pillowcase, right, kids? And tonight, it might just be mine. Bonus! G’night, now.
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