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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Oh, man. I feel like I’ve done nothing in the past sixty hours or so but watch basketball.
Now, of course, that’s not literally true. There’s been… um, well, sleeping. And beer drinking, though of course, most of that happened during the basketball watching. (And much of it happened because of the basketball watching — this shit is nerve-wracking, dammit!) And I seem to remember making a couple of ‘tinkle trips’ in there somewhere. During the commercials, of course.
But honestly, since coming home from work on Friday night, there’s been little going on around here except hoopage and balling, balling and hoopage.
(Meaning basketball, of course. If I ever get a solid two-and-a-half days’ worth of any other kind of ‘balling’ around here, you’re not gonna hear about it here. You guys are cool and all, but there’s no way I’m gonna risk jinxing it ever happening again by describing it to the world. This is one blogger who doesn’t ‘ball and tell’.
‘Hoopage’, on the other hand, I’ll freely discuss. Just as soon as I figure out what else it could be a euphemism for. I just hope it doesn’t have anything to do with ‘clanging one off the rim’. *shudder*)
All right. What was I talking about, anyway? Rim-clanging? Balling? Basketball?
Yeah, let’s go with basketball for now — that seems like the safest option.
So, the more hoops I’ve watched this weekend, the more I’m convinced that we need to find a way to make our daily work routines more like big-college basketball games. I’ve even started putting together a list of improvements that I think we could make. And since I’m certain that you nice folks would want to be in on the ground floor of such an exciting enterprise, I’ll let you in on my little list. Here’s what I’m thinking:
Long, Baggy Shorts: Now, don’t get me wrong here. I’m as big a fan of dress slacks as the next guy.
Which is, basically, no fan at all. Those bastards tug, and pull, and chafe, and generally rub my boys all up in the wrong directions. Screw dress slacks. I wear jeans to work, anyway.
But you know what? Even jeans aren’t good enough — I want those big-ass baggy pants the kids wear on the court. There’s nothing bad about them — they’re comfy, they’re festive, they’re roomy, and just think of the ventilation! I don’t know about you, but I could get so much more work done, if I weren’t constantly yanking fabric out of some crevasse or other down there. Baggy pants are the way to go, people!
Personal Fouls: Now, this is key. I don’t know how we get these called — I’m not thrilled about having refs roaming the corridors, either — but somehow, we’ve got to make this happen. You know how the boss walks in and asks, ever so innocently, whether you have room for just one more thing in your inbox?
*Tweeeet!* That’s a foul. Flagrant. Intentional. Despicable.
How about when your email goes down, and the systems people take days getting it back up?
*Tweeeet!* Well, that there’s a technical foul, of course. Two of those in the same game, and your ass gets kicked out, right?
Of course, there’s still the matter of figuring out exactly what a ‘game’ is, and what you get for getting fouled. You can’t very well shoot free throws in the conference room to settle this shit. Maybe it should involve an exchange of cash, or switching into the primo parking spot for a day; I don’t know. I don’t have all the details worked out; I’m just the visionary. You’ll have to help me with the little stuff, folks.
Sneakers on Hardwood: Sure, walking around in loafers and wingtips on those noise-cancelling carpets is okay for a while. But don’t you just feel more active in your sneaks? And especially on a nice parquet hardwood, where you can hear your every step and pivot. It’s just easier to believe that you’re accomplishing something when every little pitter and patter reverberates around the office. And sure, you could get a similar effect by wearing clogs, or those clown shoes with the horns in them, but it’s just not the same.
Do the hardwood thing, folks. And then strap on the sneakers. That *squeak squeak squeak* you hear is the sound of progress!
TV Timeouts: So, for those who don’t know, after every four minutes of game time in college, there’s a ‘TV timeout’; in other words, the cameras cut away for a couple of minutes, so you can go get a sandwich, take a potty break, or grab a beer from the fridge. Maybe you see where I’m going with this.
I’m thinking that every office, every day, every hour, call a five-minute ‘TV timeout’. For those five minutes an hour, you’re off the clock and get to do whatever you want — slug down a martini, scarf down a snack, make a quick phone call… hell, if you’re fast enough, you can pair off and have sex. All it takes is a little planning, tear-away undies, and a quick trigger on the old joystick, if you know what I’m getting at.
Anyway, how sweet would that be? (No, ya perv, not the shot at a ‘nooner’ — plus a ‘oner’, and a ‘twoer’, and a ‘threer’, and so on — with that hot secretary down the hall. Keep your mind out of your pants, would you?) I’m talking about the timeouts; five minutes an hour, every hour, plus halftime. Er, lunchtime. That’s what I meant — lunchtime. See? See how the borders are blurring? This is really coming together, people.
Cheerleaders, Cheerleaders, Cheerleaders: Sure, sure, I know what you’re thinking — ‘he just wants the chickies in short skirts because he thinks it’ll be hot’. Well, not so fast, there, Mr. Pokeypants. It’s not like that, okay?
Look, all I’m saying is that it would be nice to get a little recognition for a successful project, or a well-written meeting agenda. It would be inspiring to have your name chanted during ‘crunch time’ of a big pow-wow with important clients. It would be encouraging to see and hear cheers — designed just for you — while you plow through your email or fill out your TPS reports. Right? Right?
And yeah, let’s not kid ourselves. It would be friggin’ hot! If you need me, I’ll be in the base of the human pyramid. Nothing like hanging out in your office, down on all fours with a handful of pom-pommed women crawling on your back, now, is there? *nnnnggggghhhhhh*
So there you have it. A full list of ways to improve our workaday lives by taking a page or two from NCAA basketball. And really, isn’t just about everything about college hoops better than our office drudgery? Well, except for the tattooed, sweaty men and all the extracurricular ass-patting, of course. But get rid of those, and I’ll take the basketball way of life any day. Swish, baby!
Permalink | 1 CommentSo, I’m torn. Now I just can’t decide.
See, yesterday, I read an… um, interesting little story over at Lucky’s site. And, of course, I couldn’t resist commenting. (Look, I’m a smartass. It’s what I do. ‘To thine own snark be true‘, right?)
Anyway, Lucky was nice enough to send me an email response, to congratulate(?) me on making light of her — and I’m quoting here — ‘vaginal misfortune‘.
Well, needless to say, I was ecstatic. Giddy, even. I immediately wrote back to say that I would absolutely be using ‘Vaginal Misfortunes’ as a name, just as soon as I form a band, or write a book, or buy a boat, or have a kid.
(All of which are more or less equally unlikely. Except the kid thing. That’s just never happening.
But if it does, then ‘Vaginal Misfortunes’ it is. That’ll teach the lousy kid to be born. Ungrateful snotty bastard.)
Anyway, I was happy all day yesterday. Lucky was my new hero, and now all I had to do was find something that needed a name. I was heady with excitement. I skipped to meetings, and grinned my shit-eating grin, and generally annoyed the bloomers off of everyone who got near me.
(No, more than usual. Seriously. I know — it hardly seems possible, does it?)
Today, though, all of that’s changed. Now I’m conflicted. Confused. I’ll say it again — torn. For you see, today I took a quick look through my referer logs for the site, and I found that someone — some mysterious and troubled stranger out there — found this site by using the following search string:
orgasmic testicle manipulation
Well, dammit. ‘Orgasmic Testicle Manipulation‘. I don’t know who the hell goes around Googling that sort of thing (or how I ended up the number four hit on Google’s list, for that matter). What I do know is that ‘Orgasmic Testicle Manipulation’ can give ‘Vaginal Misfortunes’ a serious run for its money, any day of the week.
And now, I don’t know what to think. Each title has its own special, nasty, disturbing charm. But which is better? Let’s take a closer look:
Vaginal Misfortunes —
Pros: It’s a bit shorter, and catchier; it would probably fit on a coffee mug; I got it from Lucky, who’s really cool; at six syllables, I could probably work it into a haiku; it makes open reference to genitalia
Cons: Lucky might want it back someday; it covers a whole range of topics that we’re all probably better off not thinking about
Orgasmic Testicle Manipulation —
Pros: It would fit perfectly in a limerick — everything rhymes with ‘manipulation’; I can’t think of anything else that has the acronym ‘OTM’, so I could use it, too; it would look great on a T-shirt; of all the kinds of ‘testicle manipulation’ out there, it’s by far the best
Cons: I got it from a stranger, which is never good for anything involving the terms ‘orgasmic’, ‘testicle’, or ‘manipulation’, much less all three; it would look a tad unwieldy on my business cards
Aw, hell, I can’t choose. And frankly, maybe I’m not meant to. The two names are two halves of a whole, peas in a pod, boobs in a bra. Maybe Fate, or Nature, or that old guy George Burns played in those movies a few years ago, has delivered the two names to me as a matched set, not to be split up.
(Some things are like that, you know — would Abbott or Costello have been funnier without the other? Would Merrill or Lynch have made as much money? Would it really be worth having sex with just one of the Barbi twins? I think not.)
So I guess I’m gonna have to buy two boats, or write two books. ‘Cause I’m sure as hell not having twins, ‘Barbi’ or otherwise. Meh.
Permalink | 6 CommentsSo, is it wrong that when I see one of those spam emails offering to ‘ampl1fy your c0ck!‘, I envision someone holding a microphone to my groin, to see what the little fella is saying?
And should it be troubling that I imagine that my trouser buddy would then tap the mic gently, and pull the old, ‘Testes, testes; is this thing on?‘ routine?
(Tsk. Penises. So predictable. What’re you gonna do?)
While we’re on the subject, should I be nervous about what my ‘ampl1fied c0ck’ would say, once it got, um, warmed up, so to speak? I mean, let’s face it — Mr. Wrinkles isn’t likely to recite Shakespeare down there, or engage in lively debate about the subtleties of Nietzsche.
Not unless by ‘subtleties’, you really mean ‘underpants’. And by ‘debate’, you mean ‘sweaty pawing’. And by ‘Nietzsche’, you mean… well, actually, the little one-eyed wonder would probably give Nietzsche a shot, if you let him. He’s really not terribly discerning down there, left to his own devices. You can’t leave him alone for a minute.
(It’s a bit of a problem at times, frankly. I’ve had to resort to keeping him on a leash lately, ever since the, um, ‘bagel incident’. I’d rather not elaborate; let’s just say that I can never go back into that deli. And I’ll never look at ‘cream cheese’ quite the same way again. Yeah, don’t ask.)
Anyway, what would an ‘ampl1fied’ willy have to say? I can’t imagine it would be anything terribly poetic. I’d expect it to be pretty repetitve, actually — honestly, isn’t that the original ‘one-track mind’? You’d probably just pick up a long string of:
‘Oh, mama… oh, mama… oh, mama… oh yes, mama!‘
Or maybe:
‘Gimme, gimme, gimme, gimme, gimme, gimme…‘
Or how about:
‘I’m a little teapot, short and stout… this is my —‘ *ahem!*
Er, yeah, not that last one, so much. ‘Stout’ doesn’t sound so hot. And let’s not go down the ‘short’ road, all right? Forget the fact — if you can — that you’d have to picture the little wiggler actually singing for that last one to make sense. Nobody needs that image in their head while they’re trying to get to sleep at night.
(Yeah, you’re welcome. I’m only here to help.
Oh, and if that didn’t get you, then just try to figure out where the ‘handle’ and the ‘spout’ would be. That’ll keep you awake. Disgusted, and awake. Welcome to my world.)
Anyway, I suppose we all know that’s not really what the emails are advertising; it’s just a rather curious choice of words. Not incorrect, necessarily; just curious.
(I suppose if you spam long and hard enough, you eventually start leaning rather heavily on the thesaurus. It probably gets pretty boring otherwise.)
In any event, I just devoted several hundred words to the topic of talking penises. And you just spent ten minutes or so reading it. I’m frankly not sure which of us is worse off at this point, but neither of us is in great shape at this point. Why don’t we just toddle off to bed now, and let’s get a fresh start tomorrow. I’m pretty sure we can only go ‘up’ from here. Sleep well, friends, and do try not to think of teapots, won’t you? I’ll see you in the morning. Cheerio!
Permalink | 3 CommentsHappy Friday, boys and girls! It’s time once again for ‘Punchline Fever‘! For those of you who are ‘Fever‘ virgins — oh, you adorable little things, you — here’s how the game is played:
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.
That’s all there is to it — now strap on your jokin’ pants and catch the Feeeever!
Punchline Fever #5:
‘It was bad enough that Larry mixed up the phone numbers for the phone sex line and the car dealership. But things really got confusing when ____________________.‘
And there you have it — your Fever for the week. And try your hand at all the setups on the main ‘Punchline Fever‘ page. It’s contagious!
Permalink | 12 CommentsHey, again, all.
Well, I’ve watched a helluva lot of basketball, and I’m pretty damned pooped, but I said I’d be back again today, so here I am. Thanks to all who left messages about all the assheaded, boobered crap that ‘they’ say. How’s about if I take a crack at a few of these, to give you the real scoop on a few matters. I think it’ll be eye-opening. Maybe even mind-expanding. Hell, your heinie might even dilate. This stuff is that shocking. You never know.
Okay, I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. Let’s just do this thing, all right? And if none of this makes any sense, try reading the original post. I won’t guarantee that it’ll make any damned sense, but it’s worth a shot. Now for round two, based on your suggestions:
‘They’ Say: ‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.’
Charlie Sez: No. A bird in the hand will shit down your sleeve. I don’t know what that’s worth to you, but I’ll take the two birds with the bush, myself. I mean, um, the birds in the bush. Right. It’s not two birds with bush; it’s two birds in the bush. Still, it’s better than canary crap creeping down your arm. My answer stands.
‘They’ Say: ‘Two’s company. Three’s a crowd.’
Charlie Sez: No. Two’s company, all right. But three’s a setup for a really, really hot Penthouse Letters story. I think this time, I’ll be a pizza boy. Oh, momma.
‘They’ Say: ‘Bored people are boring.’
Charlie Sez: No. Not true. Anyone can be interesting, if you just learn to see their inner beauty, and the special, unique qualities that set them apart. Of course, if that doesn’t work, you can always get them liquored up, slap tutus on ’em, and take ’em to the office with you. That’ll get you a lot of things — quite possibly including ‘fired’, ‘arrested’, and ‘pregnant’ — but none of them will be ‘bored’. I’ll guarantee you that.
‘They’ Say: ‘People who hide nothing have nothing to hide.’
Charlie Sez: No. People who hide nothing are nudists. And they’re usually the people who should be hiding things, for the sake of unscrambled eyeballs everywhere. Wrap a towel around that pasty flab, would you? That’s just not right.
‘They’ Say: ‘It’s not the heat; it’s the humidity.’
Charlie Sez: No. It’s the heat. Heat with no humidity is just… I dunno, fire, probably. But heat with humidity is… well, 9 1/2 Weeks, as far as I can tell. Now that’s hot, folks. *Rrrrrrawwwrr!*
‘They’ Say: ‘Why put off for tomorrow what you can do today?’
Charlie Sez: No. Some things are simply made to be done later. Like paying taxes, for instance, or taking out the garbage, or getting off the crank. Or, in my case, getting on the crank. I’ve just never been able to clear out my schedule long enough to give it a shot. Oh, well.
‘They’ Say: ‘It takes one to know one.’
Charlie Sez: No. I know plenty of jackasses, and I’m certainly not — what? Oh, shaddup. Fine. I know dogs, too, and… oh. Right. Smartasses? No? Cynics? Misfits? Hmmm. Well, I know my wife — how’s that? I’m a lot of things, but I ain’t no wife. Not this side of prison, anyway. That counts, right?
‘They’ Say: ‘Never burn your bridges.’
Charlie Sez: No. There’s nothing wrong with burning your bridges. You just have to be sure to douse them with gasoline first, then light ’em hot, burn ’em bright, and hide the crusty, charred remains when you’re done. In other words, if you’re gonna piss somebody off, make damned sure you have a good time doing it. Get it on tape, if you can. The look on the person’s face is always priceless.
‘They’ Say: ‘Nothing’s sure but death and taxes.’
Charlie Sez: No. It’s also absolutely certain that I — and every other guy I know, or will ever know — will never win the lottery, last three rounds with Tyson, look good in a pair of Speedos, voluntarily ask for directions, or truly understand why women go to bathrooms in groups. And all that’s on a good day. Just imagine all the shit we can’t manage on Mondays. Ugh.
Hey, that was fun! A couple more rounds of dishing the truth like this, and ‘they’ are gonna be out of business for good. Maybe we can do it all again sometime. You gotta keep an eye on those ‘they’ people, you know. Don’t ever let up.
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