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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Just a couple of quick notes before I get out of these pants and call it a night, folks — there are some links that you just might be interested in. Surely, you’ll find at least one or two here that Gitchee your Goomies. Or, um, something. Anyway, on to the links:
In the ‘from mostly strangers’ category, we have:
My Week Seven Picks for Blogger Idol. Actually, I wrote the post on Friday, but — yes, I’m new to MovableType, goddammit — never actually posted it. It sat there, in the blog directory, as a draft, but inactive. So nobody could see my picks all weekend — horrific, ain’t it?
Yeah, I’m a frigging tool. What can I tell you?
Look, just go check out my picks for last week. Or click on the icon below to see all of the idolly goodness. Mmmm-mmmm, delicious!
Okay, moving on. Next on the docket is something from the ‘sort of me, but not exactly’ category.
Namely, I’ve been accepted as a reviewer for the venerable, highly respected, authoritative blog evaluation service known as The Weblog Review.
(What? You thought blogging was already wasting enough of my time? Silly reader. I’m still sleeping three, sometimes four hours a night — I’ve got plenty more time to kill with this kind of crap.)
Anyway, if you’re interested in a somewhat less silly and more grounded Charlie, then… well, hmmm. Try Sheen, maybe. Or Chaplin. Charlie Tuna, perhaps? I dunno; it’s not really important. But if you want to see my reviews of other people’s sites, then you can always check out my Weblog Review staff listing. Or better yet, go have a look at all the stuff at The Weblog Review. They’s good people.
Last, but not least, I want to throw out a shout-out. Not to ‘my baby’s mama’, nor to ‘all the pimps and the bitches in the hizzouse’, but rather to a long-time reader and commenter who’s just tonight decided to dip a trembling toe into the murky, rough waters that are ‘blogging’.
(Yeah, let’s not tell her that I’ve already peed in the pool, all right? Baby steps, people. Baby steps.)
Anyway, please join me in welcoming Lisa over at Am I Invisible or What? to the world of bloggery. She’s just getting started, but definitely keep an eye on her.
But Lisa, don’t think you can’t come still hang around here, too, okay? I know you’ll be busier now, but you’ll simply have to find the time. Remember, sleep is way overrated.
Permalink | 8 CommentsNow that was a Sunday, folks.
Up at eleven, my favorite hoops team won, and I’ve been watching TV and fiddling with the blog all day. I finally made it outside at around nine pm, to take out the trash. This is how Sundays were meant to happen.
Now all I’ve gotta do is get my mortgage paid for me, and the day will have been complete.
(Frankly, that’s got nothing to do with the current state of Sundayhood. Somebody wanna pay off my mortgage on a Tuesday, I’m game. Thursday? Abso-fuckin’-lutely. Monday? Well… it’s not my first choice, but sure, what the hell? When you’re doggy-paddling in debt like this, you tend not to be particularly picky about the nature of the life preserver you’re tossed.)
Let’s get back to the current situation, though. I have to admit that I didn’t follow the perfect Sunday script — I actually put on pants today, for one thing. Not only that, I’ve still got ’em on. Real pants, too — proper, presentable, go-outside-without-inciting-a-riot pants. They don’t even have hearts on them, or ‘Kiss This!’ in big block letters on the ass.
(Not like the tux I wore at my wedding. But that was on a Saturday, not a Sunday. So it was cool.)
Still, all in all, I managed to get through pretty much the whole day without doing anything of substance, and that’s a good thing. Now I’ve just got an hour or two of dawdling to go (hey, hey — that’s ‘dawdling, dammit, not ‘diddling; what does this look like, Friday to you?), and the day will be officially over.
Of course, then it’ll be Monday, and I’ll just be pissy and bloated and crampy as usual. Not even my ‘Kiss This!’ dress pants will save me then. But that’s a thing to worry about tomorrow. Because tonight, it’s Sunday, and I’m not gonna worry about anything.
Now let’s just get these pants off and make it official, shall we?
Permalink | No CommentsI’ve got a doctor’s appointment coming up this week. There’s going to be check-upping, and blood-taking, and blood pressure-measuring. There may well be cup-peeing, and there’s a fair chance of coughing-during-a-crotch-cupping. I can only hope that this time, that kind of shit starts after I get into the doctor’s office. Those old ladies waiting for their meds are relentless, man.
In any case, it could be worse. I’m still young enough that I don’t have to go through the discomfort and squeamishness of a prostate-fondling. At least, not unless my primary physician is willing to buy me dinner and take me out on the town first.
(Hey, I’m not made of stone, people. You get a doctor spending cash to feed you, you’ve gotta put out, right? Somebody back me up here.
Um, yeah. Pun unintended on ‘back me up’, all right? Let’s just forget my prostate ever came up, okay?)
Anyway, I have a feeling this isn’t going to be a particularly pleasant visit with the ol’ doc. I’ve been a bad boy lately — lots of work, little exercise, and way bad eating habits. Perhaps not the worst eating habits in the world — I’m not popping pork rinds, or scarfing chicken wings for lunch every day. You won’t find me snorting burrito squeezings off a hooker’s back anytime soon. So it could be worse.
(And come to think of it, is a hooker’s back worse than a hooker’s front, nutritionally speaking? Maybe it’s dependent on just how far up or down you go on the front or back; it seems like you could get into different sorts of gastronomic difficulty, depending on where exactly you decided to commence your snorting. And, of course, how hard you chose to nostril-suck those squeezings.
It turns out to be very complicated, when you take a good, hard look at it. It’s a wonder anything ever gets snorted off hookers at all, really. I suddenly have a new respect for rock star coke fiends.)
But the point is, I’ve not been eating well lately. There’s been too much pizza, too much takeout food, and too much sugary crap. My blood’s gonna be just swimming with the kind of crud that gets very stern looks from health professionals. Very stern looks, indeed. Maybe even an extra crotch-cupping. And believe me, with my doc, that is not a good thing. Dude looks like Perry Mason with a bushier ‘stache. It’s not cool.
That wasn’t always the case, though.
(Well, wait a second. As far as I can say, it is always the case that this guy has looked like an overstuffed, portly porn star. That’s the only look he’s had in the two-plus years that I’ve known him, so maybe it’s permanent. For all I know, he came squirting out of the womb that way. But that’s not what I meant.)
What I mean is that it wasn’t always the case that I had a guy like this for a doctor. He’s my most recent, but not my only, physician. I even had a woman for a doctor once, several years ago — now that was an experience.
She wasn’t ‘gorgeous’, per se, but she wasn’t a potbellied John Holmes lookalike, either. Not by any means; in fact, she was quite attractive, which is just about the most unfortunate kind of doc a guy can have, provided he doesn’t live in some sort of alternate reality bizarro ‘Penthouse Letters’ world. And trust me, folks — a lot of strange things happen in my life, but a wild night of monkey lovin’ with a hot doctor and a jar of tongue depressors is not in my cards. I’m frankly not even sure I have cards.
Anyway, I only had one checkup from my lady physician, but it was pretty nervewracking. Not because of my diet or workout habits at the time — frankly, they were a helluva lot worse then, but I was too young to be worried about such trivial matters as personal health or life expectancy. Rather, I spent the entire first twenty minutes of the checkup with a single thought running through my head:
‘When she tells me to cough, don’t get excited. When she tells me to cough, don’t get excited. When she tells me to cough, don’t get — ‘
What’s that, doctor? Drop my pants and cough? Um… okay. Any chance you could morph yourself into a bored, matronly old type for a minute? No? All right, fine — grab away, lady. Mi saco es su saco, if you know where I’m coming from. And if you don’t… well, you’re about to. I just hope those hands are warm.
In the end (pun intended this time), the exam went just fine. I coughed as requested, and that was the end of it. No health problems, no extracurricular jiggling, and — perhaps most importantly — no standing at attention, down there, during the whole procedure. And that’s just peachy. These healthcare professionals can forgive a lot of nonsense from their patients, but I’m thinking that a poke in the eye with Captain Happy is not going to go over big. That’s all I’m saying.
All right, I forget what the hell my point was. I’m sure it had something to do with my impending doctor’s appointment, and how I’m not looking forward to being lectured about the crap I’m eating. Or having my goodies grabbed, even if it is in the name of medicine. I dunno — maybe I can clean up my act — and my diet — in the few days I have left. Erase the effects of weeks of bad habits in a few short days? Yeah, probably not. I suppose I’ll just have to go in there and take my medicine like a man. Dammit!
Hell, the least I can do is practice my coughing. No point in going into my checkup completely unprepared, right?
Permalink | 5 CommentsSorry for the light content today, folks. Too much work, plus a temporary site glitch, and I’m too pooped to rant tonight. But what I will do — just ’cause I loves ya — is let you in on my picks for this week’s Blogger Idol. So let’s lather up and party down, why don’t we?
That’s it for tonight. I’m spent. Or beat, or tuckered, or whatever word that means ‘tired’ that you’re not going to try to turn into something sexual. I’m usually up for that sort of stuff, of course, but really, right now I need the sleep. I’ll see you nice folks in the morning.
Permalink | No CommentsAll right, folks — it’s time for this week’s Punchline Fever. If you know the score, then skip on down to this week’s setup. If you’re new to the game, then peep this, bro (or sis; we’re all about the sis’s around here, too):
The rules of Punchline Fever are as follows:
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 it, folks. Now get out there and make me proud!
Punchline Fever #3:
‘The ‘airline with an all-nude staff’ seemed like a good idea at the time. But they had to close down when the passengers started ___________________‘
Oh, this one’s gonna be fun, folks — hop in there with your best punchline, and feel the fever! And don’t forget to check out the main Fever page for a glimpse at all the hilarity. Happy Friday, everybody!
(Quick note: on the main PF index page, the comments for this week’s edition may be a little wonky, b/c the page is hand-edited, not blogged, and I’m still figuring out how to make that page display comments made here.
So feel free to use the main index for your weeks 1 and 2 Punchline Fevers, but until I grow a brain big enough to figure this out, you may want to keep week 3 comments right here. Now start punching!)
Permalink | 22 Comments
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