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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Hey, 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.
Permalink | No CommentsI 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 Comments
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