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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Okay, I’m sorry, people. I got nothing else tonight. You can all just move along now, and come back tomorrow for another dose of dingleberry.
(Somehow, that sounds like it ought to be in a commercial for Post cereal.
‘Now with extra-juicy dingleberries! It’s part of a balanced breakfast!‘
Okay, see? See what I’ve gone and done? I told you I had nothing, and then you pushed me, and this is the cockamamie claptrap you get. Sometimes, you just have to trust me, you know? I wouldn’t steer you people wrong. Just trust me, for once.
Now… show me your boobs.
No? Ah, poop. Nobody ever trusts me. It must be that lecherous giggling thing. It’s the giggling, isn’t it? Or the leering. Can you see the leering? I really thought the monitor screen would hide the leering. Maybe I’ll start wearing sunglasses to blog. Eh.)
Anyway, none of that is the point. I don’t know what the hell it is — demented, perverted, maybe even maniacal — but it’s not the point. The point is that I’m out of juice for the night, metaphorically speaking. I’ve put all my creative squeezin’s into my standup set for tomorrow night. I even put in stuff like ‘Miss Sassychaps’ and ‘hot pink Speedos’ and a bit that involves ass waxing.
Um, just tangentially, really. It’s not all about… uh, ‘backyard deforestation’. Just a little bit. A one-liner, really. Just forget I mentioned it. It looked better on paper, okay?
Okay, that’s enough. This isn’t getting any better, and I don’t have the horses tonight to hoist it up by the petard and fix it. Or to bother looking up ‘petard’. I think it’s part of a flower, or something. It’s probably not important — I think it’s best if I just go to bed now. You folks stay as long as you like; just turn off the lights and let yourselves out when you’re finished, okay? Nighty-night, nice people.
Permalink | 5 CommentsI just had one of those ‘Bu-whaaa?’ moments. I got home, turned on the tube, and Queer Eye for the Straight Guy was on.
For many of you, that might be the moment. But that wasn’t the moment — I dig Queer Eye; it’s one of the few shows on television that features guys who are bigger slobs than I am.
(Meaning the ‘projects’, of course, not the ‘Fab Five’. Those guys couldn’t outslob me if they put on wifebeaters and highwater pants, and sludged ass-deep together into a bubbling tar pit, giggling and squealing all the way.
Man. Now there’s a mental picture I really didn’t need. And while we’re on the subject, would you still call it a ‘wifebeater’ if one of the Queer Eye guys was wearing it? Somehow, that just seems wrong. But what’s the alternative? Sweetieswatter? Hubbysmacker? Partnerpoker, maybe? I don’t have the answer. Frankly, I’m not even sure there’s a question in there anywhere. Let’s move on.)
So, anyway, I come home, TV goes on, there’s Queer Eye. That’s all peachy and fabulous. But just as I’m settling in to watch, I hear the food guy (Ted, I think it is?) turn to his buddies on the couches (they were already in the voyeur segment of the show when I tuned in), and say, without a hint of irony:
‘See, he’s never had the self-confidence to talk to a girl with a regular job. So he’s just been dating strippers all this time. This is going to be really good for him.‘
Um… yeah. Okay. Sure. Or to put it another way:
‘Bu-whaaa?’
Man, all this time I thought I was shy and… er, unconfident? Inconfident? Incontinent? Whatever.
Anyway, I always assumed I was pretty much scraping the bottom of the barrel confidence-wise. But hey — I never spent years hooking up with strippers, having raunchy sex for a while, and then moving on to the next one. How… um… horrible? Tragic? Wait, hold on. Bu-whaaa?
Eh. I wouldn’t have the energy for that nonsense now, anyway. I’m just not sure Ted and the boys are being entirely realistic about their new hetero friend’s habit of picking up the pasty-packers. Hey, it must take a little bit of self-confidence to pick up those girls. My hands shake just slipping bills into their netherfloss.
Uh… that is, they would shake. I imagine. You know, if I were into that sort of thing. Which I’m not, of course. Never. You readin’ this one, honey? Love you!
Permalink | No CommentsIs there anything (this side of UPN, anyway) that’s quite as exquisitely nauseating as farting — ‘in anger‘, if you know what I’m saying — while you’re brushing your teeth? One minute, you’re all ‘ooh, ooh, minty fresh and clean!‘, and the next, it’s ‘holy air biscuits, Batman — whose ass is in my mouth?!‘
Christ, I almost fainted right into the bathtub. I hate getting up early, dammit — can I go back to bed now, and have a ‘do-over’ in a couple of hours? Meh.
Permalink | 3 CommentsAh, that’s better. Eleven-thirty, and finally home from the office, done with dinner, and finished with the work I brought home. Now I can relax, watch some Simpsons on the tube, and catch up with you nice people.
(And you naughty people. I don’t see nearly enough of you naughty people. Yeah, you know who you are. Pervs.)
Anyhow, it’s been a busy week so far, but there is some good news — it’s not even April yet, and the damned New York Yankees are in last place in the American League East standings. Sure, it’s only thirty degrees here, and the BoSox are still getting their tans in spring training games down south. But half a world away, the Bronx Bumblers are getting their butts handed to them. And by the Devil Rays, no less! The Tampa Bay Devil Rays! Kicking the Yanks’ cans all over the diamond in Japan. And it counts! Woo hoo!
Of course, I might not be quite as hot and wiggly about baseball in a couple of weeks, when the wife and I go to our first Fenway game of the season. Now, I love baseball and all, but have you ever scrunched your ass into a freezy metal chair for three hours, with the wind whipping through your bloomers while you struggle to stuff popcorn into your mouth through your shivery, chattery teeth? It’s no picnic, I can tell you. It’s not nearly as pretty or as glamorous as it sounds, that’s for sure. All the pretty words in the world like ‘freezy’ and ‘bloomers’ and ‘mouth’ simply don’t do it justice.
I’ve never actually been to Fenway in April, to be honest. But I’ve been there in September — I think I may have left a testicle or two stuck to the seat, too. I can’t be sure; all I know is that I walked into the stadium with them, and when I got home four hours later, they were nowhere to be found. Maybe they fell off, maybe they stuck to the seat, and maybe they were just hiding way up inside me. I don’t know; all I can say for sure is that that shit was cold, dammit! Drinking those frosty beers probably didn’t help, but hey — you’ve got to have priorities, right? I’m willing to suffer a little bit of intestinal frostbite for a few sips of brew on a cold day. Never let anyone say I don’t have my head on straight, you got it?
Okay, that’s enough of the baseball talk. I know there are a few of you out there — poor, misguided, dropped-on-head souls — who don’t so much care for the baseball talk. I’m not sure what the hell is wrong with you, but it’s gonna take more than a couple of paragraphs to make you come around. I’ll work on you gradually, over a few months or so. Before you know it, you’ll be a baseball nut, too; it’s inevitable. It’s a slow, painful process, but it’ll happen. It’s a bit like Chinese water torture, only without all that icky moisture. That stuff will wreak havoc with your complexion.
(Oh, and by the way, just in case you’re interested in the state of my nethers — and you know you are — I can assure you that ‘the boys are back in town’ now. I rediscovered the little guys soon after that September game a couple of years ago. Of course, I can’t recall now whether they just warmed up and reappeared, or showed up on the doorstep, or got mailed back to me by a friendly Fenway attendant.
Hey, it was a long time ago. I’ve done an awful lot of things, and had an awful lot of beer, since then — the important thing is that they’re back, right? I’m not gonna examine the things to see if there’s an expired postage stamp on ’em; I’ve moved on. You really should, too.)
Okay, I really can’t leave you on that note, can I? Much as I’d prefer to get my sorry ass into the sack to sleep up for that nine am meeting I’ve got tomorrow, I simply can’t bring myself to end a post by waxing poetic about my testes.
(No, really, there’s no need to search through the archives to try to prove me wrong. Not that I imagine it would be difficult, but think about it — do you really want to read more about my ‘leetle freends’? Nah. Too much is way more than enough, don’t you think?)
Unfortunately, I don’t have anything rump-shattering (or earth-shaking, for that matter) to end with, so I’ll just ask you this: have you ever realized, after shaving, that you’ve accidentally left one or two hairs in a particularly annoying place, and that said hairs are going to bug the shit out of you all damned day? And further realize that there’s nothing you can do about it, because you’ve already left the house, and you don’t happen to work for Gillette or Schick, where you might be able to score a razor and nip off for a quick hair-grazing?
And no, before any of you in the peanut gallery decides to comment on it, I have not gone back to talking about my ‘nads again. Personally, I’m talking about face shaving, though I’ll happily open the discussion up to those having the same issues with leg or underarm shaving.
(I’ll less happily open the floor to back or ass shaving; nobody needs to hear about that, dude. On the other hand, if any ladies out there want to chime in about their, um, ‘deforestation’ efforts down under, I don’t have any problem with that. Just be sure to comment in a husky voice, and feel free to leave a piccy or two, if it helps to make your case. Nothing wrong with visual aids, now, is there?)
(By the way, in case you’re wondering, yes, I was sorely tempted to use the word ‘bushwhacking’ in that last paragraph. But I’m pretty sure that if I did that, I’d have to come up with yet another topic after this one. I’m having trouble enough ending on a ‘high’ note as it is.)
Anyway, bringing this train wreck to an end, my follicular adversary today was a bristly little bastard just south of the outside edge of my right nostril. It’s a little tiny bit of moustachery that I must have missed this morning, and it’s been driving me ape shit all day. Every time I’ve crinkled my nose or moved my lips today, that damned hair scraped against my nose, reminding me over and over that I should really put my contacts in before I pick up the shaver in the morning. I’m gonna go upstairs right now and take the little prickly prick out right now. At least I won’t have to worry about him for another few days.
So, with that, I’m out. It’s been quite the whirlwind post, no? We’ve covered the national pastime, the freezing (and presumed thawing) of my genitals, and my rogue facial hair. I’d say that’s quite enough for one night, wouldn’t you? Yeah, I thought you might. But I love you anyway, folks. Nighty-night!
Permalink | 4 CommentsSo, let me see if I’ve got this straight, then. First, the M&M people took the colors away. And they made some commercials about that, and we all agreed they were mildly cute. Fine.
And now, just a few short weeks later, they bring back all the M&M colors, and have new commercials to congratulate themselves on restoring the status quo? And we’re supposed to make with the huzzahs and the ‘much rejoicing’ again, for no reason except that these candymongers want to jerk our technicolors around? Well, I say screw them. Yes, screw them, and the nougat centers they rode in on. I’m so not impressed.
Hell, if it weren’t for the black and white commercials during the football season, I would’ve missed the whole monochromatic muckabout entirely. You see, our vending machine at work appears to be refilled once every presidential administration or three, so there are plenty of fun-colored M’s in there right now. Hell, there’s probably some bags in there with the original red dye they used to use; you know, the kind that caused spontaneous armpit leakage and genital throbbing in laboratory mice? That was after years of kids like me popping the things like little scarlet Flintstone vitamins, of course. I wonder if that has anything to do with my armpit throbbing, or the… um… the other thing. Yeah. Never mind. Nobody wants to hear about that.
Anyway, the machine never had any of those damned black and white dealies. I don’t know when they’ll show up, frankly, if ever. We have Fritos in there that could register to vote. Most of the animal crackers have died of old age already; now there are just bags of rotting cracker corpses sitting there, waiting for some poor hungry sod to come along and give them a decent burial. Poor little fake sugary animals. Where’s the ASPCA when you really need ’em, huh?
In a bit of almost completely unrelated news, my dog peed on the couch tonight.
(Okay, you can link through the ASPCA thing, I guess, since we rescued her from a shelter, but it’s really not much of a seque, frankly. She’s never even eaten an M&M, or so much as seen our candy machine at work. I doubt she’s even been in the office building. She doesn’t get out much. Lazy couch-pissing bitch.)
Anyway, it’s not so much that the dog copped a whiz on the cizzouch. Or ‘soiled the sofa’, if you prefer. Or ‘diddled on the divan’, if that’s the way your mind works. (Sicko.) But it’s not any of that, really — it’s just that… well… yeah, okay, it is that, dammit. The dog pissed on the couch! What the hell else could it be? Ungrateful little hairy-assed hag.
See, this is the dog that we took in, right out of the shelter, a few years ago. We brought her into our home, and we feed her, and water her, and give her nice soft blankets to sleep on. We pat her on the head when she meets us at the door, and we rub her tummy when she rolls over and looks pitiful. Well, unless she’s way the hell across the room; the bitch should know where to roll over if she wants her teats massaged, right?
(Yeah, yeah, I know. That’s nasty. Just think of it as one of those ‘Count the number of things wrong with this sentence‘ games. Me, I counted six. Of course, your level of moral outrage may vary.)
Anyway, the dog is just damned lucky that my wife found the evidence tonight. If it’d been me, the dog might be chained to the roof now, or tied down in the back yard, or stuffed in the oven. (Oh, don’t give me that look — I wouldn’t turn it on, dammit. I’m not a monster. Nor hungry. Right now, anyway.) Of course, it’s understandable that I would be harder on the pooch for this little transgression — it was my seat that she emptied her bladder on. Lousy fricking mutt’s got four cushions she could have sat on and let loose, and she just had to hop onto mine. Piss-spritzing fleabag, anyway.
Okay, that’s probably just about enough of that. It’s the last straw in convincing me to find a way to keep the dog off the damned furniture, but I still don’t quite know how I’m going to manage it. I’ve thought of ‘scat mats’, or spraying repellent of some kind on the couches. I’ve even considered rubbing my naked body all over the cushions, to mark them as my own. Or, really, just to pass an otherwise boring Saturday afternoon. Whatever — it’s all good.
But in the end, I’m not sure it would repel the dog. My wife would probably sit in the floor for a few weeks, but the dog seems to dig all sorts of funky smells and such. She might actually end up on the couch more. Which I don’t mind, frankly, as long as she keeps all her juices sealed up in their various pouches. But once she starts leaking on the cushions — and more specifically, my spot — then steps are going to be taken. Look, if I held my grandma to that rule, then the dog’s gotta follow it, too. I’d hate to think that I rubbed my naked ass all over grammy’s sofas for nothing. It’s a principle, dammit!
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