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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Today was an odd day. An awful lot of my Monday revolved, one way or another, around apparel. Gather round, and have a seat — I’ll tell you all about it. Pull up a chair. Have some nice hot tea. It’ll be fun. Really.
So, when the clock struck midnight this morning, I was — finally — unpacking the last dregs of my suitcase from the holiday break. Oh, all the important stuff was already out, washed, and long ago put away — the undies, and the tube socks, and the SpiderMan Underoos. You know, the essentials. But there were still a couple of things there — a couple of dirty T-shirts, and a sweatshirt I didn’t get a chance to wear. There may have been a rugby in there, too — hell, that’s just about all I wear; the odds are pretty damned good. And finally, at the very bottom of the suitcase, was a new navy dress shirt that I got for Christmas.
So, I dealt with all the other shit first. Tees in the laundry, sweatshirt in the drawer, rugby back in the closet. It all took maybe twelve seconds — blink, and you’d miss it.
(Okay, so that’s not quite true, I guess, unless you’re one hell of a blinker. Seriously, twelve seconds would be a pretty damned impressive blink, don’t you think? Maybe not if you’re kissing your sweetie — twelve seconds of eyes-closed goodness is nothin’ when you’re getting a little lippy love. But just sitting there, twiddling your thumbs? Twelve seconds isn’t a ‘blink’; it’s damned near a friggin’ nap.
But, wouldn’t you know it, I digress. Let’s see what’s going on back at the ranch.)
That left me with my new button-down shirt. Now, this should come as a surprise to approximately none of you, but I don’t get all ‘gussied up’ very often. I wear dress shirts for weddings, funerals, and job interviews, and vanishingly rarely in between. So it’s been a while since I’ve actually bought — or, more to the point, unwrapped — a brand new button-down.
And holy shit, folks — there is a lot to it! I honestly had no idea. It took me fifteen mintes to extricate this stupid damned shirt from all the paraphenalia that was attached to it. And when I was finally done, I had the following:
one new navy blue button-down shirt
eight stick pins (one of them slightly bloodied… yes, I’m a clumsy boob)
one clear plastic neck-liner thingy
one slightly larger cardboard neck-liner thingy
one tag that had been held on by one of those little white plastic doohickeys with the flattened ends
another tag that had been tied around one of the buttons with a piece of string
one sticky clear strip of plastic with ‘Large’ written on it over and over
one large piece of chest-shaped cardboard, pulled from within the bowels of the folded shirt
That’s one hell of a lot of ‘fixins’ for a shirt that I’m going to wear maybe twice in my life, folks. I may well have spent more time getting it unwrapped and jammed on a hanger than I’ll ever spend with it on my back. And I think I still have a pin stuck up my left nostril. All in all, I’m not sure it was worth the effort. I don’t know why I wear stupid damned shirts in the first place, anyway.
Next up today was getting bundled up for work this morning. But not quite as bundled up as the past few days. See, it’s been something like six degrees Kelvin around here for the past week. So in order to go outside, I’ve had to strap on a coat, and gloves, and a scarf, and a hat, and any other warm, fuzzy thing I can get my hands on. Earmuffs, small rodents, feral cats, Richard Simmons… it really didn’t matter. Anything that might keep me warm.
(Though I was a little annoyed by the cats licking my face all the time. And I don’t even want to tell you what Richard tried to wiggle his tongue into. That really is one disturbed, hairy little man.)
Anyway, today was different. Today, the mercury finally made its way back into the twenties — downright balmy by New England standards. So I had decisions to make this morning — wear the coat, or leave it at home? Don the hat, and look like Krusty the Clown for another day (yes, I’m in dire need of a haircut), or go without? Wrap the scarf around my neck for warmth, or the dog’s legs for entertainment? These are all important questions, of course, not to be taken lightly.
In the end, I went with the coat, but left the hat and scarf at the house. In other words, I allowed ninety percent of my heat to escape through my wild and woolly hairy head, and another five percent to leak out through my exposed neck. But at twenty degrees, even that’s not so bad. Even five percent of my usual heat is enough to keep the ol’ brain moving, and the legs churning, and the crotch fired up. Er, well, maybe not ‘fired up‘, per se, but at least… outside the body. Which is nice. I didn’t see my testicles for nearly a week during the cold snap — it was nice to know they’re still… ahem, hanging around. So to speak.
Yeah, let’s just move on before I say something like that again, all right?
So, wrapping up this apparel trifecta, I’ll admit that I realized this morning that I had a little… problem. Nothing too alarming, or deal-breaking — in other words, nothing that would force me to get back in the car and come back home to fix. Still, there were some issues down there, and they weren’t going away. That’s right, friends — today was a ‘bad pants day’.
I’m not sure exactly what the problem was. Things were okay in the… waistage area. Apparently, being sick in bed for four days cancelled out all the Christmas cookies I ate, so there hadn’t been any ‘unsightly expansion’ that I was aware of.
(Well, okay, maybe a little, when I watched an episode of Family Guy before work this morning. Damn, that Lois is quite the little number, ain’t she?
But that, um, ‘unsightly expansion’ was only temporary… and wasn’t really in the waist area, exactly. And… well, I don’t really like to talk about it. My wife gets all catty when I talk about Lois too much. Moving on.)
Anyway, something was going on with my pants today, and I never did figure out exactly what it was. But no matter what I did, I just didn’t feel comfortable in my own denim today. It pulled at the top of this leg, and then bunched at the back of that knee, and then wiggled around and yanked itself all up in my bidness. Every time I turned around — or bent over, or did any sort of ‘riverdancing’ — there was some bit of my pants giving me grief.
And it was constant, all day long. Tug this, adjust those, furtively look all around and then yank that out of my ass… I couldn’t concentrate all day, until I finally got home and could get comfortable. Then, I could finally relax, and lounge in any position I wanted. I tell you, folks — thank heaven for those SpiderMan Underoos. They saved my ass again. And this time, quite possibly literally. Ahhhhhhhh.
So, that’s it — an unusual day of clothing-related nuisances and annoyances. And tomorrow, I’ll have to go back to work and ask everyone what the hell they said to me all day today. I wasn’t really listening, what with misadjusted pants legs and denim seams halfway up my hoohah.
(If I, you know, actually have a ‘hoohah’. I really never was much good with these technical medical terms.)
Ah, well. Maybe tomorrow will be better. I’ll have no complicated shirts to unwrap, for one thing. And the temperature will be up in the twenties again, so I shouldn’t have to worry about hats and scarves and Eskimo mukluks, which is nice. And my pants… well, the pants are a real unknown, I’ve gotta admit. Maybe I’ll just wear my Underoo bottoms to work — hey, people may snicker and point (more than usual, that is), but dammit, I’ll be comfortable. And really, when you get right down to it, isn’t that what’s most important?
Um… it isn’t? What do you mean? You’re saying ‘keeping your damned job’ is ahead of ‘comfort’ on the list? I see. Well, shit. Guess I’m back to those itchy, scrunchy, wiggly bags of denim again. Can’t I ever win, just friggin’ once? Bitches!
Permalink | 3 CommentsHey, boys and girls.
Well, our good friend Buzz has decreed today the fourth… um, commemorative Blog It Forward Day.
(Wait, no, that’s not right. It doesn’t ‘commemorate’ anything, as far as I can tell. What the hell would it be? It’s not ‘annual‘. ‘Periodic’? ‘Pseudomonthual’? ‘Nearly random’? Whatever. Let’s just move on, shall we?)
So, who to pick, who to pick? So many juicy sites on the ol’ blogroll… ooh, I know. Let’s do this one:
Shelley at Cynical: A Life is way cool, very clever, and too funny. She’s also — if you can believe my Technorati report — the second person ever who was nice enough to link to me!
(That was a whole 194 days ago, and she got beat out by less than an hour by J of J’s Notes. And he’s pretty damned cool, himself — go have a looksee!)
(Ed. Note, 03/14/03: That was back on the BlogSpot site… but Shelley was still one of the first ten to re-link me once I moved. How cool is that?)
Anyway, back to Shelley. I love her dry wit, the way she crafts a story — her long posts crack me up! — and she even (occasionally) mentions boobies. Or just boobs. Or glands. *gulp*
Add to that her two-plus years of archives, way-cool design, and the fact that I might just get to meet her this weekend… and there you have my Blog It Forward choice for today. So go give Shelley some love, and tell her that Charlie sent you. Or Buzz, since he’s sort of responsible, too. Or hell, just lie, and say that you found her all by yourself, if you want. Ungrateful bastards.
But the important thing is that you go — go on, shoo. Go see Shelley. I’m done here, and I won’t be back until tonight. Nothing more to see here; move along to Cynical: A Life for all of your Monday mid-afternoon comedic needs. I’ll catch up to you later. Bye, now!
(What? No… no, get out of here. Look, I’m just turning out all the lights, and sweeping up the place. Really, show’s over. There’s no encore, or anything. Get outta here before I release the dogs, all right? Seriously. Go. Don’t you people have homes?)
Permalink | 4 CommentsI started my first-ever fire last night.
Okay, so that’s not entirely true. But I did start my first-ever intentional fire last night. Or at least the first that I’ve started all by my widdle self, without close adult supervision. Truth be told, there was loose adult supervision — my wife was milling around, looking for extinguishers and fire blankets and burn unit emergency numbers. Oh she of little faith, and little fire insurance. Bah.
Anyway, last night we christened the fireplace.
(Well, again, that really depends on your definition of ‘christen’, doesn’t it? We started our first fire in the fireplace last night, but not everyone would count that as a ‘christening‘. Some people would say we christened it when we bought the house. Others would consider the fireplace ‘broken in’ the first weekend we spent in the house, when I peed on it to mark my territory. Still others wouldn’t consider it ‘christened’ until my wife and I have gotten busy on the hearth — otherwise known as a ‘diddle by the chimney’.
Personally, I say we properly introduced ourselves to the fireplace last night, when we burned our first logs and produced our first batch of soot. But trust me — I’m still gonna angle for some ‘hot ‘n’ heavies’ on the hearth. Those fireplace gloves and bellows sitting over there just scream kinky. Rawr!)
In any case, the fire last night was really nice, and actually pretty easy. The previous owners left us some wood to work with, and my wife picked up some fireplace tools and starter logs yesterday afternoon. All I had to do was toss on a couple of logs (well, limbs, really — the fireplace is pretty damned small), light the starter, and sit back to watch the conflagration.
(Hell, lighting my damned propane grill should be so easy — out there, I’m always afraid I’m gonna blow the damned thing up, or singe my eyebrows, or catch my shirt on fire and melt it to my nipples. Yes, these are the sort of things I sit around and worry about — grill explosions and melted nipples. Is it any wonder I don’t sleep at night?)
The only inconvenient thing about this fireplace is the width. The opening is only about twelve or fourteen inches across, and much of the wood the last people left is longer than that. Some of it, I can fit in diagonally, or shwoop up the flue like some kind of fireplace-sized anal thermometer or something.
(How’s that for a disturbing image? Yeah, folks, if I’m goin’ down that nasty kind of road, I’m taking all of you with me. That’s how it works, people.)
So now, we’ve got to go out and buy some sort of power tool or other — a ‘saw’, I think it’s called — to cut some of that wood down to size. Either that, or we have to get a big-ass tall ladder, so I can get up on the roof, and drop that shit down the chimney to burn it. Either way, it’s clear that we’re once again woefully short on equipment, not to mention experience or basic homeowners’ knowhow. Maybe now you can see why I think my nipples are in jeopardy — at any given time, I could easily find a way to injure them, or flambe them, or accidentally lop them off.
Awright, that’s what — two, maybe three, mentions of my nipples? That’s probably a sign that it’s just about time to wrap this train wreck up. Maybe I’ll go figure out what the hell to do with all the ashes from last night’s fire. What’s that shit good for, anyway? Don’t people make soap or something out of ashes? Can I sell it a smudge at a time for Ash Wednesday? I dunno. I’m still new at this whole fire thing. All I’m sure of is that those ashes might still be hot, so I’m gonna be sure to have my gloves on when I go to clean them up. Oh, and my fire-retardant asbestos-lined pasties, too — you can never be too careful when there’s nipples involved. Safety first, folks!
Permalink | 5 CommentsI feel I should apologize in advance. Today’s entry may not make a lot of sense.
(Yeah, yeah, I know — how could it possibly make less sense than usual, without being written in Sanskrit or Esperanto or something, right? Smartass.)
Anyway, I usually try to minimize the noise and distractions while I’m writing — and I’m sure you appreciate the full commitment I make to crafting this drivel, really — but today, it’s just not possible. You see, we’ve got friends coming over for dinner, and to watch the Patriots game, so after six o’clock or so, I’ll be out of blogging range for the rest of the night. And before six, I’ll be getting ready for the visitors, cleaning up the house and putting on pants and vacuuming the dog, that sort of thing.
So, I’m blogging now, while I have some time before the flurry of activity tonight. However, right now, there’s also a Syracuse basketball game on, and I simply can’t miss that. I’ve been a rabid Orangemen fan for many years now (for reasons that aren’t fully clear to anyone, but that I once tried to explain within these pages). So I’m blogging — slowly — but in the meantime, I’m clapping, and cursing, and ‘Woo-hoo‘-ing while Syracuse takes on Boston College.
(Speaking of BC, I do want to say that I’ve fully supported the home team since I’ve been here in Boston — except when they’re playing the ‘cuse, of course. I rooted for Pitt for the seven years i was living in ‘the ‘burgh’, and egged on Boston College once I moved to New England. But now that cheering is over for good. As a friend of mine would say, ‘Boston College is DTM — dead to me.‘
See, since I’ve been an Orangemen fan for all of my adult life, plus a little, I’ve also become a big Big East fan. So when Georgetown, or UConn, or Villanova, or Seton Hall, goes out there and plays a non-Big East team, I cheer them on, too. Naturally, I want my team to do well — but it’s also important for the conference to have success, as well. At least, in my world, it’s important. My world’s funny that way — your mileage may most certainly vary.
Anyway, last year Boston College decided, along with a couple of other traitorous bitch-ass schools, to leave the Big East for the ACC. (I forget what ‘ACC’ stands for — I’m pretty sure it’s ‘Asshatted Conference-raiding Cocksuckers’… but I could be wrong. Seems like that would be tough to fit on a T-shirt, for one thing.) As far as I can tell, the decision is fully money-driven, and has more to do with football and that cluetarded BCS thingy than it has to do with academics, or geography, or any sense of tradition.
So Boston College can go suck a basketball. I don’t fully wish them ill will yet — they’re still contributing to Big East rankings for a few more months — but when they make the move to the ACC next year, I hope they don’t win a fucking game for the next ten years. Stick that in your money-grubbin’ pipes and smoke it, BC. Hopefully, Syracuse will still schedule them as an out-of-conference game and wipe the damned floor with them a few times. That would make me extremely happy.
Speaking of happy, the ‘cuse just went on a 21-0 run in the first half, to pretty much demoralize the BC squad. Serves you right, assbags! Damn, do I love college basketball!)
All right — that’s probably enough of that. Most of you don’t really care about such things, and those that do probably don’t hold quite the same opinions as I do, anyway. So no more about the state of college basketball today. Just realize that I’m not really paying a whole helluva lot of attention to what I’m writing, so cut me some extra slack, ‘kay? ‘Kay.
So. On to other matters. I can finally feel my toes again, which is nice. And unexpected, frankly — after walking six blocks in three degree weather after work last night to get to the car, I honestly wasn’t sure I’d ever have tingles in my piggies again.
(Hey, does that work as a vague sexual euphemism? ‘Tingles in my piggies’? Hmmm. Yeah, maybe not. Might work to describe accidentally peeing on your foot, but probably no good as an alternative to ‘bumping uglies’.
What? Oh, right, like you people never get careless and piddle on your loafers. Come on, ‘fess up — you’ve been there. Don’t give me that look.)
But my feet finally thawed out, and I’m even something approaching ‘warm’ today. Mind you, I haven’t left the damned house, nor do I plan to. It’s brutal out there — it’s supposed to be, like, four out there tonight. Not forty, mind you, or even fourteen, but four. I can count up to the temperature today in four languages — now that’s when you know it’s fricking cold. That’s crotch-freezing weather, people. Noses and ears and shit fall off when it’s four piddly degrees — to say nothing of the negative-number wind chills we’ve got around here this week. We’re talking ‘Frosty Nipples of Hardened Steel’ here. And not in a good way, either.
I’ll tell you what really amazes me about the weather, though — I know of several tens of thousands of people who are going to be outside in this shit for hours today, watching the Patriots and Titans in their playoff game down in Foxboro.
A buddy of mine is going to the game — right now, at around four in the afternoon, he’ll just be getting there and setting up the tailgating grill. He’ll stand outside, in the four degree elements — did I mention it’s fricking four degrees out there? — for the next four hours, munching on chilly chicken wings and wolfing down wienersicles.
(Okay, now there’s one — ‘wolfing down wienersicles’. Yeah, I am so writing that one down.
Oh. Wait. I just did. Twice. Yeah, look, never mind. Hey, I said I was distracted today. Deal.)
Anyway, then my buddy and thirty thousand of his closest frostbitten friends will shuffle their frozen asses into the stadium, and sit there for three more hours, watching the game. And then, if their buttflesh hasn’t permanently been flash-frozen to their chairs, they’ll begin the long trek through the tundra back to their cars. Poor bastards.
Well, I say, more power to them. I mean, I love football and all, but I’m also pretty fond of my fingers and toes — not to mention Mr. Winkiepoo — and I’m not about to put them at risk for eight hours or more in a damned deep freeze, just for an NFL game.
(Syracuse… maybe. If I could find a crotch-sized space heater and a team of technicians to keep it on target the whole time. I’m not taking any chances, you understand.)
Okay, that’s about enough for today. The Orangemen just closed out an easy win over the Benedict Arnold Academy… er, I mean, Boston College, and the football’s about to start. I’m gonna wrap this up, change the channel, and settle in for eight hours or so of NFL action. From my couch, where football was meant to be watched. Of course, I might still try and find that crotch-warmer. Cold or not, that sounds like fun. Go Pats!
Permalink | 4 CommentsFirst of all, I want to thank you — all seventeen of you — for taking my little quiz. If you’d like to make your own, head on over to FriendTest and take the plunge. In the meantime, I’ve officially closed my quiz, tallied up the results, and will let you in on all of my dirty little secrets below. Read on, brave souls.
Results of the Where the Hell Have You Been? Quiz:
1. Charlie once interviewed with:
Mongo (1 answer)
Lordan (1 answer)
Zolton (7 answers)
Zorro (0 answers)
Michael Bolton (8 answers)
Notes: Interesting split here — apparently, all the guessers decided to go with the only ‘real’ person in the group (though I’m personally not convinced Michael Bolton’s not some sort of evil alien robot, if you must know the truth). But I actually only included him because his last name reminded me of the others. Bolton. Bol-ton. Sounds like somebody who’d kick Mothra’s ass, doesn’t it? Sadly, he wouldn’t, but it sounds like he might. False advertising, if you ask me.
Anyway, for anyone who guessed Bol-Ton, or who just wants to relive my hellish interview with Zolton, Master of the Universe, feel free to read the whole sordid mess.
2. Before he got bored, Charlie created taglines for how many posts?
Three (1 answer)
A couple of dozen (3 answers)
Fifty-plus (4 answers)
Over a hundred (8 answers)
Six billion (1 answer)
Notes: People, people, people… have many of you learned nothing from this site? ‘Three’? ‘A couple of dozen’? C’mon, folks — isn’t it clear by now that when I set out to do something, I turn it into a ridiculous, unhealthy obsession? You ‘fifty-plus’ people, I can forgive — you were on the right track, at least. And big props to Joy, who answered ‘six billion’. Honey, I’m good… but I’m not that good.
If you’re interested in reading — and even borrowing — the full set of taglines (one hundred and twenty-four, to be exact), then check out the gallery. I recently relented and added one of my favorites to the header here on the main site; maybe one day I’ll get my shit together and write a script to rotate through all the ones I like or something. Yeah, I’ll get on that right after I cure cancer and straighten out those little Middle East spats. Sure.
3. The only stitches Charlie ever got were in his:
Ass (3 answers)
Thigh (2 answers)
Chest (0 answers)
Chin (9 answers)
Foot (3 answers)
Notes: Okay, it disturbs me just a tad that there are some of you walking around, going through your day, thinking I have a stitch scar on my ass. In retrospect (and I use that word because this seems like a really bad time to use the term ‘hindsight’), I probably should’ve excluded my ass from the answer list — I really never needed to know that three of you have come up with some kooky backstory and dreamed up a scenario that ends with me having a doctor stitch my asscheek back together. Or worse. Really, I just need a shower now. Ick.
In the meantime, though, please, just do us all a favor and read about how I got the stitches in my chin. Please, just read it, and stop with the imaginary ass carnage, okay? I would so appreciate it. Thanks in advance. Really.
4. Charlie’s dog is a:
drooling moron (4 answers)
vicious pit bull (0 answers)
skunk-chasing loon (1 answer)
damned dirty poop-stepper (1 answer)
all of the above (11 answers)
Notes: It was points all ’round on this question — the ‘right’ answer was ‘all of the above’, so I gave partial credit for all the others. I suppose ‘vicious pit bull’ really wasn’t fair, since she’s really a ‘sweetie-pie pit bull’, but that kind of shit embarrasses her, so I try to play up her ‘vicious’, ‘man-killing’ side. It gets her more props out at the dog park. You understand.
So, let’s see if I can find posts to back up all of those answers… here’s one where I mention that she’s a pit bull. And somewhere in this little ditty, I mention her proclivity to ‘tiptoe through the turdies’. Then there’s the Dances With Skunks episode, and one of the many posts about my dog’s little drooling problem. And they all point to her being a moron. So I think ‘all of the above’ pretty much speaks for itself at this point. Goofy little beast, anyway.
5. The word Charlie invented to mean ‘unfunny’ is:
pooply (1 answer)
boobered (14 answers)
grunchy (1 answer)
spungo (1 answer)
blecht (0 answers)
Notes: Hey, nice going on this one! It looks like the word on ‘boobered’ is really getting out there. Yay for all of us!
On the other hand, if you’re one of those ‘pooply’, ‘grunchy’, ‘spungo’ people (and I can’t imagine any of those things are good), then you’d better read the post that started the movement, and get your ass on the bandwagon, already. You’re holding up progress, there, Skippy — get with the program. Blecht!
6. Charlie’s second (or third, if you count blogging) ‘job’ is:
taxidermist (1 answer)
race car driver (0 answers)
standup comedian (16 answers)
cartoonist (0 answers)
runway model (0 answers)
Notes: Oh, Ms. Terry… Ms. Terry, Ms. Terry, Ms. Terry… oh my word. ‘Taxidermist‘, Ms. Terry? Please! Now, don’t get me wrong — I do appreciate you taking the quiz… but taxidermist? Look, I’ve got a lot of sick, twisted hobbies… but shoving sawdust up dead animal rumps is just so not on that list. Really. Even I have my limits.
So please — go check out a few of my standup sets, and catch up to the rest of the class. And look closely — you won’t once see me with my hand up a dead animal’s ass. Sure, a live one occasionally… but that’s not ‘taxidermy’. That’s just fun on a Friday night. See? Different.
7. The ‘Big Wall’ is Charlie’s way of deflecting people’s:
skulls (1 answer)
‘Big Balls’ (0 answers)
stupid questions (7 answers)
body odors (0 answers)
icky personal sharing (9 answers)
Notes: Aw man, nobody went for ‘Big Balls’? Damn… I was hoping to get you with that one. But you know, come to think of it, I could really use something to deflect people’s skulls. Maybe I should start carrying a 4-iron to work or something. I’ll have to work on that.
Until then, I suppose I’ll have to make do with the Big Wall. And you can, too — the operating instructions are laid out in my second post ever. Take a trip waaaay back to last June and read all about it.
8. Charlie discovered he was old while:
looking in the mirror (4 answers)
reading a calendar (1 answer)
perusing a Playboy (5 answers)
talking to a teenager (6 answers)
blowing out his birthday candles (1 answer)
Notes: This was a tough one — apparently, I actually came up with five plausible answers. And, just as apparently, not many of you actually followed the ‘The Day I Got Old’ link in my ‘Proud Moments’ section. Lazy, no-good, stinkin’… okay, sorry. I don’t mean that. I’m just a little bitter right now. I’d have thought most of you would know that I do my very best to avoid looking in the mirror, or talking to goddamned teenagers. Sheesh.
Anyway, if you’re interested in the real story, it’s all right here in black and white. But the magazine was in color. Oh, baby, was it ever.
9. Charlie has a small chunk of what embedded in his leg?
grenade shrapnel (0 answers)
splintered wood (3 answers)
surgically-inserted metal (1 answer)
Dom Deluise (1 answer)
pencil lead (12 answers)
Notes: Okay, I didn’t actually look to see who thought I have a little piece of Dom Deluise stuck in my leg, but bravo, whoever you are. Nice goin’. And I’m a little miffed that no one thought I took a grenade out there in the shit. Okay, I take that back — I was never voted ‘Most Likely to See Combat’, I suppose. Still, I’ve had a surprising number of people threaten me with grenades over the years — I’m actually a little surprised myself that none of them ever followed up. Wusses.
But the little bitch in the pencil lead saga sure as hell did. She pushed, and pushed, and broke that damned thing off inside me. *long pause* You know… that’s really not a sentence I ever saw myself typing. I think it’s best if I just leave it at that, before it gets any worse. Odd what blogging will do to you, isn’t it?
10. Many people have found Charlie’s blog by searching for which animated cutie?
Stripperella (11 answers)
Judy Jetson (1 answer)
Veronica from Archie (0 answers)
Bubbles the Powerpuff Girl (2 answers)
Josie of the Pussycats (3 answers)
Notes: Well, if nothing else, I’m glad to see that I’m not the only one who’d do a Google search looking for lewd snaps of Bubbles. Or, um… oh. Wait. You two were just saying that other people might get here by searching for Bubbles, weren’t you? And I never said anything about naked pics or sexy thongs in the question, did I? Shit. I fear I’ve shared too much again. How come that ‘Big Wall’ of mine doesn’t work in reverse? Bitches!
In any case, feel free to check out one of the many chapters in the Stripperella search saga. The noise from that has pretty much died down by now — as has the show, since it was canned several months ago — but I still get a few hits a week from horny anime fans looking for perky Pammy’s bare boobies. Frankly, I don’t get it. Veronica in a G-string, sure. Josie and Judy in a naked Jell-o wrestling match? In an animated heartbeat. I am so there. But Pam Anderson’s animated character, when the real Pam strips down and lubes up at the drop of a hat? I just don’t see the point. Or, you know, points. So to speak. Ahem.
So, that’s it. Congrats and mad rabid props to VEEZER and Andy, who scored the highest, but thanks to all of you who took the test, or even managed to get all the way through this train wreck of an answer key. Man, the tests in school were never this hard, huh? Next time, I’ll assign reading material first, instead of popping it on you by surprise. Maybe then I won’t have to grade on the curve. Tsk.
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