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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I think I’ve had just about enough.
Everywhere I go, and from just about everyone I talk to, I hear about what ‘they’ say. ‘They’ say you should do this, and ‘they’ say you can’t do that, and ‘they’ don’t want you sticking your tongue in that thing any more.
Well, I’ve had it. Who do these ‘they’ people think ‘they’ are, anyway?
Worst of all, I’m convinced these faceless, nameless bastards don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. ‘They’ dispense their little nuggets of advice into mainstream society, which then eats up the half-truths and misinformation, and hurls it back up in the general direction of any innocent bystanders — like me — who happen to be around.
Enough, I say. I’ll be silently complicit in this charade no longer. It’s time to dispel some rumors around here, people, and shine the sweet, sweet light of truth on the things that ‘they’ tell you. Screw ‘they’; what do ‘they’ know? ‘They’ can suck a wiggly furry one. Yeah.
So let’s clear the air on a few subjects where ‘they’ haven’t given you the real story. I think you agree that the world according to Charlie makes far more sense than what ‘they’ would have you believe.
‘They’ say: ‘The best revenge is living well.’
Charlie sez: No. Giving the douchebag who screwed you over a big fat swirly, pissing in his coffee cup, selling him out to the IRS, and then living well — that’s the best revenge.
‘They’ say: ‘You can’t hurry love.’
Charlie sez: No. When you’ve crammed yourself and a loved one, both half-naked and drooling, into an airplane bathroom at altitude, and you hear the pilot turn on the ‘Fasten Seatbelt’ sign, then you’ll frigging pick up the pace, or there won’t be any ‘love’ at all.
‘They’ say: ‘It’s always in the last place you look.’
Charlie sez: No. If it was in the last goddamned place I looked, then why would I be wasting my freaking time looking in the next place? Dumbass.
‘They’ say: ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder.’
Charlie sez: No. Absence may make the hands grow ‘fondlier’, and the palms grow hairier, and it’ll certainly make the bones grow jumpier… but the heart isn’t really involved so much. And would you really want your heart growing and shrinking like that? I dunno about you, but I’ve got a couple of lungs who would be pretty pissed off if the heart started swelling into their airspace every time my wife left the house.
‘They’ say: ‘Our love won’t pay the rent.’
Charlie sez: No. If you’re an attractive young lady, and you put satin sheets on the bed, hire a midget, and set a webcam up on the dresser, there’s actually a pretty fair chance that it will pay the rent. Or at least it’ll pay for the sheets and the midget. So really, what have you got to lose, ladies?
‘They’ say: There’s no time like the present.
Charlie sez: No. I was here just a few minutes ago, and it was pretty much exactly the fricking same as right now. And now. And… now. All those times are just like the present. Away with your lies!
‘They’ say: ‘If you want something done right, do it yourself.’
Charlie sez: No. If you want something done right that doesn’t involve carpentry, electricity, plumbing, surgery, power tools, upholstery, hula dancing, mountain climbing, sprinting, hostage negotiation, rocket fuel, open flames, meteorology, boxing, liquid nitrogen, European hookers, or any activity that involves the word ‘plunging’, then by all means, feel free to do it yourself. But really, what’s left? Changing the channel, and scratching your ass, basically. And who wants to do either of those yourself? That’s what spouses are for.
Okay, I think that’s enough for now. But I’ll tell you what — if you’ve been troubled by anything that ‘they’ have told you, let me know in the comments or in an email. I’ll drop in later with another post to try and answer all of your questions, and dispel all of their myths. Don’t be a slave to what ‘they’ tell you, friends. The wisdom of Charlie is the one true path.
(Yeah, okay, that’s not true, either. But I’m not quite as full of shit as ‘they’ are, so who are you gonna believe, eh? It’s a two-party system. You don’t have a choice!)
Permalink | 6 CommentsLook, I want to be the cool guy. I’d like to be hip, and fly, and ‘in the know’. Certainly, it would be nice to be called ‘the man’, or ‘Fly Dog’, or ‘that supafunky dude with the way-huge penis’. Sadly, some things are simply not meant to be.
(What? I’m not particularly ‘supafunky‘. ‘Supa’? Sure. ‘Funky’? Um, yeah, I guess, depending on what I had for lunch. Hey, what the hell did you think I meant?)
Anyway, I try to stay in touch with what the kiddies are doing, and saying, and inhaling, and listening to, and… wait, did I just say ‘inhaling’? Eh, whatever. I inhale lots of weird shit around here; I’m probably up to date on that front. There’s no telling what’s been up my nose. Slutty frigging nostrils. I got no control over the damned things.
But most of all, I do my best to keep track of what the cool kids are watching. But you know what? Apparently, my best sucks ass. I can’t watch this stuff. The OC? Please. Those people are way too pretty to be in my living room. Average Joe? Ugh. The ‘average’ guy is rich, smart, slim, and makes me look like a gap-toothed gargoyle. What’s fricking ‘average’ about that? Not interested.
I even tried to keep up with the new sitcoms, but I don’t think it’s working out. I just got done with Arrested Development. Now there’s a show I should like, right? The cast is cool, the critics love it, it’s all ‘thinky’ and different and shit — it’s even got guest stars like Julia Louis-Dreyfus and Henry Winkler and Amy Poehler. You can’t go wrong with that, right?
Apparently, you can. Or I can, anyway. Maybe it’s that I’m old enough to remember Soap, and how much this show reminds me of it. And how much I hated Soap, with a sneering, horrified passion.
(See? Even then, I wasn’t cool. Everybody was watching that frigging show, too. I don’t think I’m ever gonna get it.)
Maybe it’s something else — the constant voiceovers, or the cockeyed plot twists,
or the fact that there are never, ever any naked women whatsoever. I don’t know. All I know is that I can now say that I’ve watched the show once. And I can say that I have no desire to watch it ever again. So here I am, left behind by all the cool kids. Again.
And that’s all right, I guess. I’ll stick with my Simpsons, and my Family Guy reruns, and the occasional Futurama. I’ll kick it old school when Monty Python comes on PBS, and keep it real with South Park on Wednesday nights.
(Which I also just watched, by the way. Cool episode, but what the hell was up with the ending? Maybe I zoned out or something, but I’m awfully confused. This smells like one of those ‘To Be Continued’ bags of bullshit.)
Frankly, I think my lineup is way cooler than anything being babbled in network primetime these days. ‘Must-see TV’, my animation-loving ass. I’ve seen better plot devices in my damned microwave than in some of these hackneyed fool-assed sitcoms. Seriously, you want drama, intrigue, and adventure? Slap some tinfoil on a nice ripe orange, and nuke that puppy for thirty seconds or so. Anything can happen! Sparks! Explosions! Flying pulpy goodness! Think you’ll get all that on American Idol? I don’t think so, skippy. Thanks for playing.
So maybe I don’t need to be cool, after all. Which is good, because I wouldn’t know where the hell to start. Soon, I’ll give up all semblance of effort, strap on my ‘fat pants’ and a sweatshirt, and start watching Becker. And then Everybody Loves Raymond. And finally, Diagnosis: Murder, Matlock, and Murder, She Wrote.
Come to think of it, isn’t it sort of weird that the only shows the old farts seem to dig center around death? You know, given that many of them have an appendage or two in the grave already? You’d think they’d get off on the stuff with fast cars, boobly women, and dogs dressed up in tutus and lipstick. But no. Weird.
Ah, well. That’s just more for the rest of us. Ferraris and Cuthberts and gussied-up poodles all ’round! Huzzah!
(Yeah, so I watch 24. Hey, I’m not that out of the loop yet. And that’s the supafunky truth. Word.)
Permalink | 4 CommentsWell, it looks like we’re expecting six to twelve inches tonight.
(Yes, I mean snow. Yes, there are a multitude of penis jokes I could make now. And no, I’m not going to do it. I can’t do all the work around here. Knock yourselves out — go ahead; you’ve earned it.)
Anyway, I don’t know about your particular neck of the planet, but March snowstorms are sadly not so uncommon in the Boston area. A few years ago, there was even snow in April. Sure, it was April first (no fooling!), but apparently, it was a pootie-pile of snow, too. Like a foot, or close to it. Like — well, you know, like we’re supposed to get overnight. Dammit, I just put the snow shovel away, too.
So, I guess I’ll have to dig the car out tomorrow to get to work. Talk about adding searing, chronic back pain to injury. It’s bad enough to schedule nine o’clock meetings on holy happy Hump Days; is it really necessary to add a thick white layer of nasty meteorological inconvenience, too? That’s just rude. Bad universe! Bad! Naughty!
On the other hand, maybe enough of the freezy flakes will fall to get me out of work altogether. That would be sweet, especially as I’m starting to feel my annual March Madness-itis coming on. It’s this weird, uh, bug that hits every year, just as the NCAA basketball tournament is getting under way. It only seems to hit me on the weekdays when the games start at noon; it’s weird that way. Probably a virus or something.
Anyway, I should probably get some rest. Gonna have to be up extra early, if I want to get to that meeting on time.
And, infuriatingly enough, even if I don’t want to be there on time. Or at all. Or conscious at that hour. Work at noon, I can handle. Three in the afternoon, fine. At nine in the morning, I should be crumpled on a pillow somewhere, drooling profusely and dreaming about being a Viking, or Mongol, or fierce corporate raider. Something with pillaging, and maybe setting fire to stuff. That sort of thing.
But what I should, under no circumstances, not be doing at three hours before noon is sitting at a conference table, staring with droopy, watery eyes at the other poor saps in the room, trying to focus on whatever the hell it is that’s so damned important to demand that we get up before the chickens to chitter-chat about it. Maybe I’m just not a morning person, after all.
Yes, we’re all about the earthshattering personal revelations around here, folks. Boy, this ‘blogging’ thing really brings out the soul, don’t it?
Eh. Screw it. I’m off to bed. G’night, folks!
Permalink | 6 CommentsWell, hello, there!
I’ve noticed a few new faces around here today, many of you dropping by from Yahoo! It seems that this little tuft of the weblog merengue was added to the directory today, and appears in both the New Additions and Humor Weblogs sections.
So, big wet sloppy thanks (don’t worry; we keep towels in the corner, right over there) to all of you… um, Yahooites that have stopped by today. Feel free to look around; pour yourself a drink from the bar, if you like. Have a nacho, or a complimentary mint chocolate. Don’t cost nothing.
(You know, come to think of it, is ‘Yahooites’ the correct term? Something just doesn’t seem right about that. How about ‘Yahoosters’? ‘Yahoovians’?
I’d call you ‘Yahootenannies’, but I have a strict personal rule about not referring to a group of strangers by any term that sounds like it could be a euphemism for genitalia. Not until the second date, anyway.
So if you want me to whisper soft, sweet ‘Yahootenanny’ nothings in your ear, then you’re gonna have to come back, and get to know me a little better. Oh, I’ll put out, but I’m not that easy. I’m old-fashioned that way.)
Anyway, welcome to all the new folks; if you get lost or confused or just horribly grossed out, just ask one of the regulars for help. Apparently, it’s possible to build up an immunity to this crap after a while. Me, I still get nauseous sometimes, but the tequila and Guinness cocktails usually take care of that. You can only imagine the dreams I have, but the sour tummy goes away. Like anything in life, it’s a tradeoff.
All right, that’s enough for now. I’d better get back to work. Whoever you are and whereever you’ve come from, I hope you enjoy your stay at Chez Charlie today. I know I will. Now where’d that bottle of tequila go, anyway?
Permalink | 6 CommentsWell, it’s time for this week’s Blogger Idol. Let’s see what’s on the menu this time around.
(Click icon to see all Week Nine posts)
Week Nine: ‘Letter to a Celebrity’
All right, I’m not gonna waste any time. Here’s the letter I’d write:
Dear Keanu,
I know you’re out there. I can feel you now. And I know what you must be thinking:
‘Hey, I could do that! Whoa, dude!‘
Well, I’m here to say: ‘Whoa, dude, indeed‘. Don’t go there, my friend.
Oh, sure, it looks easy. Make a few silly movies, mug for the cameras, never take yourself too seriously. You know you’ll never be a truly respected actor — if you ever hear ‘Reeves’ mentioned among the pantheon of greats like ‘Bogart‘ or ‘Pacino‘, or even ‘Connery‘, then you can be pretty damned sure someone’s throwing poor Chris Reeves a bone, not talking about you.
(Dude, Johnny Mnemonic? Sure, you’re allowed one stinker — Tommy Hanks recovered from Joe Versus the Volcano, and Costner even got over Waterworld… kind of — but you used up your ‘do-over’ with Bogus Journey. People don’t forget so easily.)
Still, that’s water under the bridge. You found your vehicle in The Matrix; you don’t really have to act, per se, and all the action and effects confuse us into thinking that you’re the king of it all. And that’s what frightens me, see? You’ve played your cards just right, said all the right things (with no inflection or anything, but still, the right things), and you’ve managed to pull off a double-whammy:
You’ve become wildly popular with a certain percentage of people — a sort of cult hero, even — while still appealing to the general public with your ‘aw, shucks‘ willingness to recognize and embrace your own caricature. You’re at the top of your game, with little left to prove; you’re still dashing and charming (with a broad enough definition of ‘charming’, I suppose), and the world is suddenly interested in what you have to say.
Remind you of anyone, Keanu? Because it reminds me of lots of people, and now I’m hiding underneath my covers trying not to pee myself in terror.
(So far, it’s working; I just — oh. No. Never mind. Ick.)
Anyway, I find it hard to believe that you’d have followed along this far, what with all the big words and all, so I’ll spell it out for you. Think about who’s been in your situation, more or less, in the past twenty years or so — entertainers with a goofy, ‘salt-of-the-earth’ side who’ve managed to gain popularity and respect while still laughing at themselves, along with the rest of the world.
Sonny Bono come to mind, perhaps? How about that Ronnie Reagan fellow — you know, the one who made that movie with the monkey way back when. Or that wrestler-turned-actor guy; Ventura, I think his name was. Ooh, and the big tall guy from Twins, and that sappy Kindergarten Cop flick. What was his name again? Sputzenflinger? Schwartzenhumper? Something like that; I forget. And don’t even get me started on that Gopher guy from the Love Boat. I don’t know how he weaseled his way in there.
Anyway, do you see a trend there? No? Think hard, Keanu — this is important, dude. All of these people have something in common. No, no, besides the fact that you can’t figure out what they have in common. Pay attention, dammit!
Look, all of these people — harmless boobs and jesters at one time in their life — all went into politics. And you know what that means, right? No. No, you don’t. *sigh*
(Maybe I should have sent this to Reagan’s monkey friend. He’d have an easier time following along. Jeez.)
What it means is that these people are now, or were, in charge of making decisions on behalf of thousands — sometimes millions — of other people. And that makes them outrageously dangerous boobs and jesters. And I don’t want to see you go down that road, Keanu. Honestly, I think you should only be responsible for as many people as you can count. So you can go up to twenty, dude — that’s a nice little harem, or a commune, maybe — but I don’t think you go any higher. Well, okay — maybe twenty-one, if it’s a harem. But that’s kind of gross. Let’s move on.
Anyway, the point is this — forget everything I’ve just told you. I’m assuming that won’t be a problem for you, but please, for the love of all that is left that is holy in the world, do not — repeat, do NOT — get the wild idea in your head that you should run for office. Of any kind. I’m not sure you could handle treasurer of your own fan club, man. Seriously, just take a load off and relax.
Because if you do ever throw your hat in the ring — or drop your hat, for that matter, or step on it, or eat it, or just about anything — then people are going to vote for you. In droves. And I for one think that this country would be just a bit better off without a candidate in the ‘Whoa!‘ party, running with the ‘Kill the Machines‘ platform. Really, I just think it’s best.
I hope I’ve impressed upon you the importance of… well, of not doing much of anything, really. Hell, you’re a good-looking, rich Hollywood type — go buy a couple of mansions, and get that harem started already. I could so live through you vicariously doing that, rather than debating the merits of your ‘excellent!’ fiscal plan with a ‘bogus!’ dude from the opposition.
Please — I’m begging you. I don’t sleep well as it is. Please don’t subject me, and all who I hold dear, to a speech where the economy, or some war, or the drive to educate children, is described as a bus. Picking up speed. That we can’t let dip under fifty miles an hour. Oh god, please. Look, I’m crying, just thinking about it. Have mercy, Keanu!
Warmest Regards,
Charlie
P.S. While we’re at it, could I ask another favor, dude? I’m out of stamps, but would you mind terribly forwarding a version of this letter to… lessee, Jim Belushi, Billy Crystal, David Duchovny, Harland Williams, ‘The Rock’, Drew Carey, Jim Carrey, Vin Diesel, Robin Williams, and just about everybody who was in those Lord of the Rings movies.
Oh, and maybe ping those guys Jimmy Kimmel and Adam Carolla, too, while you’re at it. Those guys are great on TV, but I wouldn’t exactly trust them with national secrets if some Eastern European floozy was to try to bang some information out of ’em; you know what I’m saying, comrade? Whoaski!
So there you have it, folks. My desperate plea to a celebrity, on behalf of… well, everybody, more or less. I don’t really want to think about what things might be like with one of those guys at the helm.
On the other hand… how much worse would it be, really? President Keanu would probably do away with all that nasty reading comprehension testing in schools that gives the kids so much trouble. And those ‘State of the Union’ addresses would be a hoot with Robin Williams or Jim Carrey in the big cushy chair. And Carrot Top or Harland Williams could… well, um, they could… er… well, shit. I guess it could get worse, after all.
Fear the trend, boys and girls. Fear it!
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