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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Damn. The pressure’s really on for next week. I’m starting to get nervous.
You see, this upcoming week, I have… nothing going on. Zip. Zilch. Boobies.
(Sorry, did I say, ‘boobies‘? I think I meant to say, ‘bupkis‘. How embarrassing.
Still, we have to go with the contestant’s first answer, right? I’ll take the hit for my mistake. Boobies for me next week! Huzzah!)
Okay, so technically I have a little bit going on — there’s some work I’ve got to do, and a semi-show on Wednesday, and the daily posts here, of course — but compared to the whirlwind that has been the last few weeks, my dance card is refreshingly, mercifully… terrifyingly free. I’ll explain.
For the past month or so, I haven’t seen much of my house. As you can see from the ‘Standup Standup’ section on the sidebar, I did seven shows in January, and tonight have my third in February. Now, I love doing these open mikes, and it’s great fun and practice, but that’s ten evenings out of forty or so in this still-young year that I’ve been out and about. I’ve also been playing volleyball twice a week — less some weeks, but three times last week, for another ten or twelve nights away from home, sweet home. It’s pooping!
(I can say that, right? If it’s okay to say you’re ‘pooped’, then the process of getting there is ‘pooping’, right? It makes perfect sense.
What? Nobody says that? Well, why the hell not? Are you shitting me?)
Anyway, the point is that I’ve been not ‘home and snuggled up in my PJs and bunny slippers by a roaring fire with a hot cup of cocoa and my favorite shawl’ more nights than I have been ‘home and snuggled up and blabbedy blah, nobody’s really gonna read this whole fricking quote the second time, are they?’ But that’s all changed, at least for this week. This week, there’s just one show. One volleyball night is finis until fall, and the other has an off week. I’ll be out tonight, but then I fully expect to spend six of the next seven fabulous nights right here in the ‘comfort of my own’. But it gets better.
Monday’s a holiday, albeit a fairly bogus one.
(Seriously, ‘presidents day’? How many countries actually celebrate, ‘Hey, look, we managed to find someone to lead us!‘ Day? And it’s never for the present goobered leader, either — it’s for all the previous people who’ve been thrust into the gaping maw of the office and spat out the other end. ‘Ooh, ooh, look, we elect presidents! Let’s have a party!‘
I dunno — sounds like the kind of bullshit a king, or some slimy dictator, would call. Look, Independence Day I can understand. Even, if I really try and get just the right kind of drunk, Flag Day. But how many parents with school-aged kids — or any citizens, for that matter — take the time on Presidents Day to crack open a frigging encyclopedia, or do a web search, to learn the first damned thing about the prior leaders of our country, anyway? Your average schmuck on the street knows, at any given time, who Washington, Lincoln, Kennedy, and the last three schmoes in office were. And s/he thinks that Ben Franklin was in there somewhere, and probably that he led the Boston Tea Party.
Look, if you want to save this holiday — and I would argue that it doesn’t need saving — then dedicate each year’s ‘special day’ to a different president. Go in order, or randomize it, or — better yet — start with the obscure ones first. And for chrissakes, get some corporate money behind it! Nothing gets off the ground these days without high-profile sponsorships. Really, do you want some vague, meaningless, largely ignored holiday, or would you rather have events like this once a year:
‘The Sixth Annual President’s Day Extravaganza, featuring Martin ‘The Little Magician’ Van Buren
Narration by James Earl Jones and Katie Couric, with Carrot Top as our ‘man on the street’
Featuring musical guests Lee Greenwood, Nelly, and a very special duet by Justin Timberlake and Gerald Ford
Proudly brought to you commercial-free by your friends at Pepsi, Philip Morris, and the Ford Motor Company‘
Yeah, you know what, never mind — let’s just bury this freakin’ holiday, instead. Nobody needs that kind of shit on a Monday.)
All right, where the hell was I, anyway? Oh, the ’empty’ week I’m about to have. Got it.
So, no work on Monday, and home every night except Wednesday. I’ve even got less to write and bitch and cajole about blogwise — I was just upended in the King of the Blogs competition, and things aren’t looking so hot for staying alive in Blog Madness, either. So there go a couple of posts a week of filler material, asking you to vote, or begging you to read, or being handed a free topic on which to write. Sure, I’ve still got Blogger Idol, but things are definitely going to be a lot quieter around here for a while.
And that’s the scary part, you see. Here at home, and in this space, I’ve been putting things off, pooh-poohing projects because ‘I haven’t got the time‘. Well, now that’s not gonna fly any more. I do have the time, and there are a dozen things that I should be doing — even a few that I’d like to be doing, however challenging they might be — but have been able to keep at arm’s length since Christmas because there just aren’t enough hours in the day to tackle them. But now the hours are flooding in, I’ll soon be awash in free time (relatively speaking, anyway), and… well, frankly, that whole ‘PJs by the fire’ thing is sounding really good. Eep.
I’m afraid that I’ll look back after the next week or so is over and find that I really didn’t accomplish anything (except pissing off a bunch of foamy-mouthed flag-wavers over my Presidents Day rant, most likely). And then, soon enough, I’ll be swamped again, and the list of shit I’m not doing will just keep growing and growing, ad disgustum.
So that’s why I’m taking a pledge, right now, to get at least one freaking thing done this week. Come hell, high water, or holy hand grenades, I will accomplish one of my many goals before next Sunday. You heard it here first, folks — it might be one of the blog features I’ve been thinking of, or I might feel the muse and move the whole enterprise off of Blogger, finally. Or I might finally set the stereo up to CD-transferitize those vinyl LPs I’ve been lugging around for fifteen years. Maybe I’ll read a few of the mounting pile of books on my desk, or get serious about evaluating my standup bits, or paint the trim in the damned living room.
(Okay, so I’m not gonna paint the trim. I’m fighting that one for the rest of forever, or until my wife physically throws the dropcloth over the couches and dresses me in my painting clothes. In my world, that trim is gonna stay just the way it is, flaws and all, until we move out of the house. Not because it looks perfect or anything, mind you — it’s just an awful pain in the ass to paint around all the crap in that room for a few little niggling spots that nobody (except us) notices, anyway.
I’m sure she’ll put her foot down one of these days and demand that we finish it, though. My only hope then is to distract her somehow while she’s trying to slip my painting pants on. I suppose I should probably just stop wearing underwear until then, to improve my odds. Hey, I can’t predict when she’s gonna finally snap — better chafed than sorry, right?)
Anyway, something is gonna get done. I just don’t know what, yet. I’ll decide that later — it’s only Sunday afternoon, you know. I’ve got a whole week to get something accomplished, right? Baby steps, people — baby steps. Right now, there’s a set of pajamas, two bunny slippers, and a soft couch downstairs with my name written all over them. Free time, here I come!
Permalink | 2 CommentsHey, thanks to all who voted in the last round of Blog Madness. It seems that I just squeaked out a win by the nib of my pen, and am still alive.
If you’d care to vote again (and read two posts that I personally think are pretty damned funny, then hop on over to the current elimination round and read ‘This One’s for the Ladies…‘ from The Hard Life, then compare and contrast with my own ‘Can I Buy a Damned Clue, Please?‘, pick your favorite, and viggity-vote, people. Vote like a pro.
(Unless you’ve chosen the other guy’s post; in that case, you’re free to vote like an Alzheimers-addled octagenarian Floridian.
Hey, don’t knock it, people. Those might be the only votes I get.)
Anyway, check it out, and the other Blog Madness matches, too. You might just find a new read or three.
Permalink | 2 CommentsMy parents got me a bag of ‘wasabi peanuts‘ for Christmas. Or my birthday last summer, I forget. I doesn’t really matter — the point is that these things were sitting around unopened for quite some time before the Super Bowl a couple of weekends ago. We had a few people over to watch, so I decided to whip out the ‘hot nuts’ and see who might enjoy a taste.
(Okay, so that last sentence got awfully perverted all of a sudden. Look, you know what I mean. Or not. Either way, I’m gonna keep going; this train is moving on.)
Anyway, there were exactly two takers for the little wasabe balls — me, and a friend of mine, T. He had two of them, maybe three. I ate three or four of them. Let’s just say that we were not altogether satisfied with our tasting experience.
The bag of nuts is still in the kitchen. They mock me, sneering, from the countertop. ‘Eat us,’ they chant. ‘Eat us — what are you, chicken?’ Bastards. They can eat me. I want no part of their little reindeer game.
Until today, that is. In a fit of ‘if I didn’t learn from it, how could it have been a mistake?‘ bravado, I tore into the package again after lunch, and popped one of the little green monsters into my mouth. And then another. And another.
And folks, I’ve got to tell you — it was not a wise decision. I’m kind of a dumbass sometimes.
See, I love spicy food. Indian curry, Mexican sauces, Buffalo wings — the hotter the better, and keep ’em coming. I don’t care if I’m sweating; I’ll tell you when it’s too hot. Just bring me a towel and another bowl of chili — hey, a beer to go with that would be nice — and let’s do this thing. Life’s too short for bland food — I’ll eat meatloaf and carrots when I’m dead, dammit.
But wasabi is different. It’s like horseradish — a whole different class of hottitude. Most peppers burn your lips and mouth — it’s the oil you have to worry about. But with the radishes, it’s… well, I don’t know what it is, frankly. Something airborne, maybe, aerosoled out of the hot stuff and up into the nose. Too much habanero pepper, and you’ll cry and sweat and burn, but it’s a good kind of hurt. A double dose of wasabi, and the back of your throat will melt, your nose hairs will curl and fall out, and you’ll snort like Mr. Ed doing a line of coke. Like I said, different.
And these peanuts are fricking serious with the wasabi, let me tell you. The shit is not spray-painted on there, or even brushed on. They gunk that green goo on there — the damned things are still vaguely peanut-shaped, but they’re huge — like big green golf balls or something.
(Okay, so maybe not that big. Hey, I can’t help it. Guys are always overestimating the size of their peanuts, right? It’s genetic, or something.
Just be glad I wasn’t discussing my pretzel sticks. Now those are huge. Fricking enormous. You hear me, ladies? Enormous.
Meh. Nobody’s listening. Damn. Well, now who’s gonna lick the salt off these things? Dagnabit!)
Seriously, there’s probably an eighth of an inch of wasabi coated on each peanut. And frankly, that’s just too damned much, people. There’s no safe way to eat these little bastards. I’ve tried another dozen or so, and cannot for the life of me find a method that doesn’t leave me with the ‘back the fuck up; I’m about to cough up a hairball‘ look on my face.
(Yeah, you usually only see that on cats. But our dog does a lovely impression, just before she upchucks kibble all over our rug. And I was in a fraternity in college, so I’ve had plenty of experience with that face, both viewing and making. Trust me; I’m an expert over here.)
Anyway, I tried the following, with varying degrees of non-success:
I see now that I should have just left the bag alone, and maybe had a cookie. Or a couple of crackers. Or battery acid. Any of those things would have been far, far preferable to my experience with the wacked-out wasabi peanuts. But I learned my lesson this time — after just a few nuts, I closed up the bag, got up, and put the bag away.
In the kitchen. Back on the countertop. Where the nuts immediately started taunting me again. ‘Hey, chico, come suck on this, you big baby!‘
Lousy frigging nuts. I’ll put up with that crap for a few days, but I think we all know that I’ll be back again, eating the stupid things, falling out of my chair, and likely blinding myself again. Honestly, I’m not the wiggliest dildo in the sex shop, if you know what I mean.
Still, in the end, I’m gonna win. I’ll eat all those little bastards, and there’ll be nothing left but that empty damned bag. It might take me a couple of years, but I’ll do it. (And certainly, nobody else around here is jackassed enough to beat me to it.) And then, I’ll have won. I’ll have lost my sense of smell, and possibly gone completely insane, but I’ll have won, and that’s all that’s important. No foodstuff is gonna come into my house and pimpslap me around — just you watch. I’ll shut those nuts up yet. Mark my teary-eyed, dizzy, huffy-nosed words.
Ugh. I think I’ll lie down for a while. Somebody get those damned Pikachus outta here, would you?
Permalink | 6 CommentsWell, this is not the way to start a long weekend, I can tell you that.
I’m still at work, just itching to make some semblance of progress on my project so I can declare ‘mini-victory’ and get my sorry ass home for the evening. There’s a program running right now, as I type, and if it works, I am so freaking out of here. I shit you not.
You know, as an aside, I’ve been giving that little euphemism quite a bit of thought lately, in all of it’s various forms. ‘I shit you not.‘, ‘Are you shitting me?‘, ‘I wouldn’t shit you!‘, and the ever-popular, if somewhat enigmatic, ‘Don’t shit a shitter.‘
I don’t know whether you’ve ever really considered this little group of sayings, but it begs the question — who in the hell decided that a good analogy for ‘lying to someone‘ would be something that sounds like ‘forcibly expelling that person out of your ass‘?
And more importantly, why the hell do we go along with it? Honestly, is there ever a time when you really, truly want to ask someone, ‘Pardon me, ever so sorry to trouble you, but I really have to know — are you, right now, physically shitting me?‘
I’m thinking not. For one thing, if that’s really what’s going on, you’re better off not knowing. On the other hand, if that is what’s happening, then I’m pretty sure there’s no way you could not know, and therefore no reason to ask. I know some people out there who struggle with that whole ‘self-awareness’ issue, but really, I have to believe that if you’re being shat, you couldn’t help but notice. It’s got to be pretty obvious.
Which is exactly the opposite of the situation when someone is lying to you, which is really the point, of course — the analogy doesn’t make any damned sense. (And here, you thought all along I was just going to beat the literal ‘shitting’ thing into the ground, and then leave you hanging. Tsk. Silly reader.)
Anyway, I think we need a replacement for this whole ‘shitting you‘ thing — something that better captures the uncertainty and guardedness of what is really at issue, namely whether one person is willfully misinforming another, whether for fun or profit. (Or both. Who’s picky?) We should have a euphemism that matches the mistrust, vulnerability, and moral indignation that comes with suspecting you’re being lied to.
(Yes, that’s right, I said ‘moral indignation‘.
No, I don’t know what other kinds of indignation there are.
Yes, I’m just repeating something that I’ve heard a million times, without really thinking about it.
No, I haven’t really actually heard it a million times.
Yes, I’m already regretting this whole set of parentheses.
No, I’m apparently not ready to straighten up and stop this nonsense yet.
Yes, I’ll get back to the damned post, in just a minute.
No, you really have no control over when it’s going to happen.
Yes, I think I’ve finally learned my lesson, and I’ll never use ‘moral indignation‘ again because it’s redundant and superfluous.
No, I don’t know what ‘redundant’ or ‘superfluous’ mean.
Yes, I know this has gone on long enough, I’m truly sorry, and I’m going to end it right now.)
(No. No, you can’t spank me as punishment. Don’t get me started again, dammit.)
Anyway, I say we need something that better captures the essense of ‘Hey, dipshit, are you lying to me?!‘ I’m not sure I have the final answer, but perhaps something along the following lines would be more appropriate substitutes for ‘Are you shitting me?‘:
See? Now there’s some shock and outrage, and some realistic accusation! That’s the kind of thing we need to be saying to each other — it makes our intentions so much clearer, don’t you think?
So, I tell you what — I’ll get things started. Whenever I think somebody suspects that I’m lying to them (not that I would, of course, but you know how paranoid people get), I’ll turn one of those phrases above into my declaration of innocence. Like so, for instance:
‘Hey, dude — would I secretly masturbate in public when I think no one is looking? Come on!‘
Um… oh. That was probably not the bext choice of example. Ouch.
On second thought, just never mind the whole thing. I’m cool with ‘Would I shit you?‘, whether it really means anything or not. I see now that the status quo is the way to go. I have opened my eyes and seen the one true path. Just forget I said anything at all. And, um, especially that last thing, if you would, please. That’s really not the sort of thing that needs to get around. I can barely look grandma in the face as it is. *sigh*
Permalink | 5 CommentsFolks, I don’t know quite how to tell you this. Let’s try it in stages:
First, the good news. I did, as expected, receive my twenty thousandth visitor to the blog this morning.
Better still, the visitor was not some pimply teenaged boy searching for animated Pammy porn. (Which I don’t actually have — are you hearing me, Pete?)
(However, if you’re interested, you can read about my earlier experience with waves of huffy horndogs lusting after cartoon boobage.
I thought the saga was over, frankly, but my mention of a certain boobly blonde minx yesterday has driven droves more of them over here. I really should be more careful what I put in my posts, I suppose. I wouldn’t mind the extra eyeballs; it’s just the other body parts they bring along that I take issue with. I’ve had to put plastic down on all the flat surfaces — it’s out of fricking control!)
Anyway, back to the matter at hand.
(Heh. ‘At hand‘, see, ’cause that could still be the wankers looking for the porn? Get it? ‘At hand‘?
Oh, screw it — I’m tired. Make your own goddamn double entendres for a while, then. I’m taking a break.)
So, back to the original point — milestone visitor, check. Not from a search engine, check. Actually, the visit seemed to come from a bookmark of some kind — there was no referer that I could use to track who the person was. All I had was an IP address.
So, on a lark, I swept back through the comments that have been left here over the past few weeks, thinking that maybe the person had been here before, and had perhaps commented on something. And, as it turns out, she had, and she had. Finally, I had a name to put with the IP address — I knew the identity of lucky number twenty thousand. And what’s more, she’s even got a blog of her own. Yes, folks, our fantabulous winner is:
Sabrina of LoserGenius Just Can’t Win
What’s so unbelievable about that, you ask? (Or maybe you don’t, if you’re a regular around here and have a good memory for these sorts of things.)
Well, the kicker about Sabrina being my twenty thousandth visitor is, she was also my ten thousandth visitor, too! I don’t know how the hell she does it!
Maybe she’s got a tap on my SiteMeter stats. Maybe she checks in thirty-eight times an hour, and I just haven’t picked up the pattern. Maybe she’s got a lucky leprechaun stuffed up her butt. Honestly, I don’t know. All I know is that history has repeated itself, and it couldn’t have happened to a nicer girl.
Hey, she even started her blog after ‘winning’ the last little milestone contest, so in a way — a wrongheaded and misguided way, I’m sure, but still a way — I feel a bit responsible for helping to ease her into the blogosphere. So choke back that disappointment, if you were hoping that you would be my big number two oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! (Yeah, you Office Space fans’ll get that one. That was my ‘Oh!‘ face.)
Anyway, put those feelings aside and check out Sabrina at LoserGenius Just Can’t Win. Sure, based on my experience with her, it should be called ‘WinnerGenius Can’t Frigging Lose, Apparently‘, but it’s still a cool spot to hang out in. And maybe she’ll even share what I’m getting her off her wishlist for being the lucky customer in the right place at the right time. Again.
As for the rest of you, I’m afraid you’re gonna have to wait till fifty thousand visitors for your next shot at a prize. Of course, that doesn’t mean that I won’t be moved to generosity before then, somehow or other — there’s always the chance that someone will get me a writing gig, or a comedy audition, or email me naked pictures of themselves.
(Okay, that last option is only open to a select few, I’m afraid. Mark‘s out of the running. As is Scott. And Andy, and Matt, and nef, and Buzz. J‘s excluded, too, as are Jeff, Brad, and TJ. But not the other one, of course.
Anyway, I love you guys, really… but you’re guys, so I don’t love you quite that much. You’ll just have to concentrate on helping me further my career if you want free swag from me. Stripping down to your skivvies is simply not gonna get it done. I hope you understand.)
Okay, so that’s about it for this post. Once more, congratulations and thanks go to Sabrina. And now that this place has twenty thousand eyeballs under its belt, it’s time to start working on the next twenty thousand. I certainly hope you’ll all be on board. Cheers!
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