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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Hey, folks — just a quick note to let you know that the clip from my standup set on Wednesday is now available. Come one, come all — see Charlie make an ass of himself onstage. Some things will never change, I’m afraid.
Also, if you’re interested in previous shows, you can find those clips and descriptions on the sidebar to the left, under the ‘Standup Standup’ section. Have a look — no lines, no waiting!
(Well, okay, there’s actually a fair amount of waiting, since you’ll be sucking those clips down via my DSL feed. But trust me — it’s unlikely that there’ll be any line to deal with. I can pretty well guarantee you that you’ll have the place to yourself.)
While I’m at it, and by popular demand (which is to say, two people mentioned it once apiece… hey, for me, that’s frickin’ popular!), I’m also going to use that section to announce upcoming shows as I get them booked. So if you’re in the Boston area, and you’re in the mood to throw rotten fruit at someone, come on by and see a show. Hey, if you don’t like my stuff, you’re bound to enjoy some of the other comedians. And if not, you can sit there and get hammered until you do find something amusing. Look, it’s all good, and you’ll have some laughs one way or another, so give it a shot. I might even buy you a beer, if you’re really nice to me.
Anyway, that’s all for now. I’ll be back later with the final answers to the Where the Hell Have You Been? quiz from earlier in the week. If you haven’t taken it yet, and you want to know how much you’ve really learned from this drivel, then give it a whirl. You might just be surprised at how much time you’ve wasted reading this shit.
And if not, then you can sit there and get hammered until you are surprised.
(Yeah, that’s pretty much my answer for everything. ‘Liquid therapy’, I call it.)
So check out the clips, and the quiz, and I’ll be back with more soon. Cheers!
Permalink | No CommentsSo, as I threatened, I called one of those psychic hotlines yesterday.
To be honest, it was completely accidental; I was really looking for, um, something else. But, since I had her on the line, I let her give me a ‘reading’. And the results were rather shocking, frankly. But don’t take my word for it — read the transcript for yourself.
Her: Hello! Thank you for calling the hotline! How may I help you today?
Me: Um… hi. Is this the phone number for ‘Mistress Exotica’?
Her: Yes, that’s right. I’m Mistress Exotica. What can I do for you?
Me: Well… uh, I don’t normally call this sort of number.
Her: Don’t be frightened, child. Ask your questions, and I will answer —
Me: Are you naked?
Her: What?
Me: Um, I mean… what are you wearing, oh Mistress Exotica?
Her: Oh. Well, I have on, um… I don’t know — let’s say a magestic, flowing robe, and a jeweled gypsy turban. But I don’t see what —
Me: How about your nipples? Tell me about your nipples!
Her: Bu — what?! What the hell does that have to do with anything? I’m here to tell your fortune, dammit!
Me: Fortune? Wait a minute… I thought you said this was ‘Mistress Exotica’?
Her: Right. Mistress Exotica, fortune teller and psychic, blessed with divine insight into the mysteries of —
Me Wait, hold on. You’re a psychic?
Her: Yes.
Me: Not a… erm, a… booby-talker?
Her: No. Decidedly not.
Me: But… your phone number. I dialed 1-900-COOTERS to get to you.
Her: Sorry, dear, but on my ads, it’s listed as 1-900-CONVERSE. As in ‘talk’. Same numbers on the keypad. That’s what you get for randomly dialing dirty words, you know.
Me: Nice. Your psychic powers tell you that?
Her: No. You’re just a boob. Now, do you want your fortune told, or not?
Me: Well, shit, I dunno. What are your rates, anyway?
Her: Ninety-nine cents for the first minute, and four dollars a minute after that.
Me: I see. And how long have we been talking so far?
Her: Oh, well, gee… it can’t have been more than three or four seconds. You’ve got plenty of time.
Me: Well… okay, I’ll give it a shot. But could you take off your robe while you tell me? You know, slowly?
Her: Sure, hon. I’ll take it off, if you don’t mind the varicose veins and liposuction scars.
Me: Oh, nice. I just finished a sandwich, you know. There’s no need to get graphic on me. Just… just unwrap your turban or something as you go.
Her: Sure thing, hon. Now, what do you want to know?
Me: Hmmm. Well, I don’t know. I really don’t call this kind of number. Why don’t you tell me a little about myself?
Her: All right. Mistress Exotica will now gaze into her crystal ball, to find out what sort of man you are…
Me: Hey, wait a minute. How do you even know I’m a man? I could just be a woman with a really deep voice.
Her: I’m psychic, okay? I know.
Me: No, really.
Her: Look, it’s pretty freakin’ simple. You called 1-900-COOTERS. You’re a dude. Now let me do my damned job.
Me: Fine. Meanie.
Her: Okay, I’m looking into the crystal ball… I see that you’re a sick, twisted man. Nobody likes you much, and you have no sense of fashion. I see you being dropped on your head as a young child. Repeatedly.
Me: That’s it? That’s what you see about me?
Her: Yep, that’s what the old ball tells me.
Me: Fine. Lucky guesses. I’m still not convinced you’re psychic, though. Hell, complete strangers tell me that stuff all the time.
Her: All right, hot shot — how about a Tarot reading, then?
Me: Sure, why the hell not? How’s that turban coming along, by the way.
Her: What? Oh… it’s, um, it’s halfway unwrapped. Very sexy, lemme tell you.
Me: Right. Hit me with the cards, then.
Her: Okay. For an accurate reading, I’m going to need some information from you.
Me: Wait, I thought you were psychic. Just pull it outta my brain, for chrissakes.
Her: Well, I would, but a lot of it gets lost over the phone lines. Just play along here, would you?
Me: Fine.
Her: All right. First, I’ll need your name.
Me: Charlie.
Her: Ooh, Charlie. That’s an ancient Anglo name meaning ‘He of the Tiny Weenie’.
Me: No the hell it isn’t!
Her: Hey, don’t worry about it, kid. It’s not size that matters, anyway.
Me: Really?
Her: Hey, I’m a phone psychic. Would I lie to you?
Me: Touche. What else you wanna know?
Her: On what day were you born?
Me: July twenty-seventh.
Her: Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. Now I’ll just need your credit card number, and the answer to the ‘security question’ for when you lose your password.
Me: Um… okay. Well, the answer is ‘Hootertown’, and number is five six two three — hey, wait a minute!
Her: Sorry. Gullibility check. Standard procedure for psychics — you’d be surprised how many Visa cards we get that way.
Me: Yeah, I’m sure. Now get on with this train wreck, would you?
Her: Okay. Here we go — I’m dealing out the cards… dealing… dealing… dealing…
Me: How much is this costing me again?
Her: About a buck twenty per card. And now you’ve broken my concentration. I’ve got to start over. I’m dealing… dealing… dealing… and… done.
Me: Sheesh. Finally. There goes that Valentine’s Day gift I was gonna buy for my wife.
Her: You’re married?
Me: Well, yeah.
Her: Really? This isn’t some kind of gullibility test of your own?
Me: No! I’ve been married for years.
Her: Years? To a woman?
Me: Of course to a woman!
Her: A live woman?
Me: Well, duh. A corpse in the closet wouldn’t do me much good, now, would it?
Her: According to these cards… that’s debatable. I didn’t even know there was a Necrophiliac card in the deck. Weird. But let’s move on.
Me: I think that would be best.
Her: So, let’s look at your financial future. The cards show that you’re involved in some sort of new venture.
Me: Okay… go on…
Her: It seems to be laughably unlucrative, leading you towards a life of miserable poverty… an undertaking that gets you little respect, no money, and yet takes up enormous amounts of time…
Me: Oh, for the love of —
Her: Wait! I can almost see it… it’s… museum curator? No, too respectable. Struggling cartoonist? Nope, you might actually get paid for that one day… it’s…
Me: Freelance humor writer and standup comedian?
Her: Bingo! Wow. You are a tool, aren’t you, dear? Anyway, let’s move on to your love life.
Me: That’s better.
Her: And you say you’re really married?
Me: Yes, dammit! What do the cards say?
Her: Well… according to this reading, you should be living alone and bitter in some sort of dilapidated crapshack right now. And, well, forever, actually. The cards are really quite clear on that point. Crapshack city, no question.
Me: I see. And these cards are usually right, then, are they?
Her: Yes, almost always. Of course, they tell me about your destiny; a person’s actual situation can be altered by unforseeable events… a horrible trauma, or tragic accident, or —
Me: Scandalously incriminating photographs of the woman I got to marry me?
Her: Or… yes, that. Yeah, that’d do it. Man, did you pull off a coup.
Me: Yeah, I always knew that camera would come in handy. Thank you, Nikon!
Her: Right… okay, well, the only thing left is to look at your faraway future. Let’s see… it says here you’ll live a long, long life…
Me: That sounds good.
Her: …most of it as a chin-drooling, pants-pooping Alzheimers patient. Looks like you’re due to lose your mind around… wait, how old are you?
Me: I’m thirty-three.
Her: Oh. Ouch. Written that will yet?
Me: No, as a matter of fact, I haven’t.
Her: I’d, um… I’d get on that, if I were you. There’s not a lot of ‘quality time’ left, I’m afraid.
Me: Check. Soon to be drooling. Okay, what else?
Her: Well, it looks like your wife’s going to win the lottery.
Me: Hey, that’s fantastic!
Her: Or… dump your addled ass and marry a movie star. The details are fuzzy… but something good is gonna happen for her.
Me: Oh. I see. Well, that’s… something, I suppose.
Her: And another thing — you know how you’ve been peeing on the carpet and blaming the dog?
Me: What?! I don’t… I wouldn’t… um, yeah, okay. What about it?
Her: When you lose it completely, the dog’s gonna do the same to you. Get ready to have your nose rubbed in some really unpleasant places.
Me: That little bitch. Well, that’s it — I’m glad I had her spayed. Ungrateful mutt.
Her: Oh, and you’re going to develop unhealthy addictions to… lessee, panty snorting, sandwich spreads as sexual stimulants, and extra-hoppy beer. Looks like it’ll happen around age… nineteen or so. How old did you say you were again?
Me: Uh, thirty-three. Ahem.
Her: Oh. Right. Sicko.
Me: Hey, I dig pale ales and nice, sexy brown mustards, all right? Cut me some slack.
Her: Okay, well. That’s about all I can tell you, I’m afraid. I hope you’ve learned something from your time with Miss Exotica.
Me: Well, yeah. I’ve learned that I’m apparently willing to pay thirty-eight fifty to have some old turbaned bitch ridicule me over the phone. I’m really not sure that’s a lesson I needed to learn, frankly.
Her: Yes, fate works in mysterious ways, doesn’t it? Well, it looks like your credit card has maxed out, and my turban is off — and hey, my wig along with it, dammit — so Mistress Exotica is off to help someone else. Call back soon, and I’ll tell you how you really got that rash you’ve been wondering about.
*click*
Spooky, eh, folks? It’s like she really knows me or something. I mean, I didn’t believe in that crap before I called, but that was amazing. I’m simply gonna have to call back, to find out more about my future, and that backstabbing dog of mine, and… well, you know, that rash. I’m sure it’s poison ivy… I just can’t for the life of me figure out how poison ivy got all the way down there. And in that. And all up in my other thing. Weird.
Anyway, that was my experience with Mistress Exotica, and I hope you enjoyed it. I guess now I’d better go make out that will, before it’s too late. My wife’s gonna be awfully miffed when she sees that she’s not in it, but once I explain it to her — she’s either gonna win the PowerBall or marry some bigshot Hollywood bastard — I’m sure she’ll understand.
And if not, I’ll have her call Mistress Exotica herself, and she can hear all about the pictures I’ve got of her, and how she’ll been cleaning up after me, and who’s really been piddling on the carpet. Yeah, on second thought, I think I’ll just put her in the will. I’ve only got a little bit of lucid time left; no need to have her pissed at me during the twilight of my sanity. According to my new psychic friend, I’ve apparently got enough problems as it is.
Permalink | 7 CommentsWell, poopstain.
Folks, I’m about halfway into a really, really pointless opus of a piece for you, but I’m not sure I’m going to be able to get it out to you before the morn.
(Or the aft, or even the eve, come to think of it.)
Now, I never want to be accused of crying, ‘Work!‘, but essentially, that’s what I’m going to do. See, there’s a guy here in my office who’s leaving, and it’s falling upon me — that’s right, little old me — to take over his project, and juggle his tasks, and find a way to keep the balls in the air.
(As opposed to taking over the tasks, keeping his project in the air, and juggling his balls. That’s different. And ickier. Bleh.)
Anyway, most of the workday — and the rest of it, from the looks of things — has been spent spilling the contents of his head onto the table, and picking over what comes out. (Once we’ve washed off the blood and ear wax, of course. Oh, hush up. You’ve heard worse.) I’ve got a short reprieve right now, as he talks to his manager, but I’ll be back on the clock very soon, and unable to finish the little ditty I started.
Meanwhile, I’ve got a show tonight — eight-thirty at the Emerald Isle in Dorchester, if any of you are interested in coming out for some comedy — so I’ll likely be going home after work, grabbing a sandwich, and heading back out the door to the club, where I’ll be stuck doing comedy, watching comedy, and drinking beer until close to midnight. Oh, the horror.
So, okay, don’t exactly cry for me, Argentina. Still, I thought you should know that I haven’t forgotten about you — I’m just a tad swamped today, with all this brain-dumping and standup-planning stuff.
(And, probably unfortunately for my career, not in that order. Is it wrong that I’m practicing tonight’s jokes in my head while this guy’s explaining the database to me? More importantly, is it downright illegal? ‘Cause I can stand being ‘wrong’, but I’m really trying to avoid being ‘arrested’. You know, New Years resolutions and all.)
In any case, I’ll try, try, try to do better tomorrow. Though, truth be told (for once around here), things aren’t looking so hot for Thursday, either. The guy’s still leaving, he’s just gonna have more info to dump on me, and — jazz hands, everybody! — I’ve got another show to do tomorrow night! Yeah, really. I emailed a guy last night to ask for stage time, and he gave me the big ‘Come on down!‘ for tomorrow night.
(And so I will, to ‘The Times’, at 112 Broad Street in Boston, to find out what yet another seedy New England comedy bar looks like. Nine o’clock tomorrow; come see!)
I’ve never been to the place, but it’s just a couple of blocks from where my wife works. She’s threatening to stay at the office until the show, and bring people from work to watch me. I’ve got to say, I have mixed feelings about this little plan. Sure, on the good side, she’ll be there, and she’ll giggle, and more people in the audience is always better. On the other hand, though, she works in a law firm, and I’m just not sure how much the stuffy attorneys are going to appreciate my bits about ‘lesbian porn’ and ‘professional sperm donors’. Yeeks!
(And if you don’t believe that’s the kind of hash I’m slinging for the next two nights, just download the video clips of the shows when I put ’em up. Folks, I might delay a bit in getting a post to you, and I might stretch the truth somewhat from time to time… but I would never say I was gonna mention ‘lesbian porn’, and then not deliver.
There are some things that are just not done. I do have some code of ethics, you know.)
Permalink | 4 CommentsHowdy, all. I just wanted to leave you a short note to alert you to an announcement recently made by The Weblog Review.
(Yes, those are the same people who recently reviewed this site, and — in an unrelated transaction — gave me a $20 Amazon gift certificate. And no, I’m not on their ‘payroll’ now, and I’m not just kissing their collective ass. No, really — did you see the review? Trust me, I’m on the level here.)
Anyway, it’s been a long time in coming, but TWR has (finally) decided to give their ‘user rating’ system a fresh start, and (attempt to) limit users to one vote apiece. The previous system allowed one vote per IP address, which led to all manner of abuse and snarkiness by… oh, just for instance, AOL users, who get a new address every time they log in.
(Okay, there were other asstards out there, too, I’m sure, but AOHell is an easy, and in this case appropriate, target. Buncha toothless morons, plus legions of old people, on there… and probably some toothless old morons, as well — trust me, no good can come from that!
Well, except me voting myself high up the list by logging onto my parents’ computer a couple of times a day over the break, of course. On the other hand, every time I’d do that, some boob(s) would immediately swoop in and slap a half-dozen ‘0’ votes on me, and I’d be back where I was. It was quite an amusing little diversion over the holiday, I have to admit. Amusing, and very, very annoying.)
So, now TWR is asking people to log in before voting, and they’ve reset all those zeroes that people had accumulated back to… well, to zero, actually. But now it’s just one zero across the board, for every blog. And maybe — until those script weenies figure out how they’re going to abuse this system — we’ll get a true representation of what people really think of blogs for a while.
And, of course, I want to know what you really think about this blog, so I’m going to provide you with a handy link to my review. If you’ve got a Weblog Review password, just log in and leave a vote, and you’re all set. If not, you can easily create an account (and sign up for a review of your own, if you like) — it’s fast, easy, and best of all, ‘it don’t cost nothing’. Give it a whirl, if only for shits and giggles.
(But actually only giggles, I hope. That’s just nasty.)
While we’re at it, I think I’ll also take this opportunity to pimp for some friends of mine — I’ve taken a stroll through the review archives, and found that there are several people on one of my blogrolls who also have reviews. So if you’ve got an extra minute or ten, check these sites out, and give them a rating, too. To me, they’re all fives, but let ’em know what you think, too.
(Um, by the way, the rating system used by The Weblog Review only goes to five. So don’t think that I was implying that the blogs that follow are merely mediocre, as in ‘5 out of 10′. Far from it. These are the superstars of the blogging world, folks. And if you don’t believe me, then check ’em out for yourself. Hey, any hit’s a good hit, right?)
TJ Hanton (the 12th review ever!)
Where the Hell Was I? (me again, in case you forgot!)
Sweet. And what the hell — while we’re at it, I’ll also remind all of you that the 2004 Bloggies are under way. Go vote for a bunch of people there, too. Just don’t forget who sent ya.
(Unless somebody else sent you first, of course. In that case, do forget who sent you, and just remember that I told you, too. In this case, you want to remember the last person who told you, not the first.
Unless I’m not the last, either… though if someone else told you about the Bloggies in the time it’s taken you to read these last four sentences, then you’re leading a far, far too fast-paced life. Slow down, take it easy. Stop and smell the roses.
And, above all else, remember the next-to-last person who sent you, ’cause that would be me.
Unless it isn’t. In which case, just remember me. That’s probably simplest — there’s no easy way to screw that up. Remember me. Now, go check out the Bloggies, and vote for whoever you happen to be thinking of. I’m sure whoever it is would be most grateful.
At least, you know, I would be. If it were me, of course. And by now, it’d better be, buster!)
Okay, that’s just about enough pimping for one day, I think.
(Unless you’re on my blogroll and have a review, and I missed you; in that case, just lemme know, and I’ll be more than happy to add you to the pimpitatiousness. My bad.)
I’ll be back later with more crunchy goodness! Do try and keep yourselves busy until then, okay?
Permalink | 8 CommentsThere are two times in my day when I can slip into ‘autopilot mode’ and really be creative.
The first of these, as I’ve mentioned many times before, is in the shower. This is by far my most productive time for thinking up wild, ridiculous crap to unleash upon you and the people unfortunate enough to watch my standup comedy sets. There’s something about having a not-quite-fully-awake brain, a naked body, and gallons of hot, steamy water that just gets my juices flowing, if you know what I mean.
(And, I’m afraid, you do. Or at least, I’m afraid that you think you do, you perverted little monkey. But I’m talking about creative juices, not… well, not any other kind of juices at all. Even pee. Which may or may not flow in the shower, but that’s not important right now. And, if you’re lucky, won’t be important ever. I mean, do you really want to know?)
Anyway, I have a lot of ideas in the shower. Not necessarily good ones, and certainly not primarily clean ones, despite all the soap and shampoo lying around. Seriously, you’d be shocked at the shit that comes out of me when I’m in the shower.
(Hey, hey — I thought I told you to keep your mind out of the gutter, there, pork chop. Let’s focus here, all right?)
But I’ve told you about my showers before.
(Much to your horror and dismay, I’m sure.)
What I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned is the other creatively fertile time of my day, which is the walk from my car to the office. This is a relatively new phenomenon for me — at my last job, I had a spot in the parking lot next to the building, so I barely had a chance to take care of the essentials (hook my ID on my belt, straighten my hair, and make sure my fly is zipped) between the car and the front door. And, if I got a really good parking spot, I wouldn’t get all of those things done, and I might walk in with mussed hair, no ID, or an open crotch cage. Or all three at once. No doubt this is part of the reason why that’s my ‘old job’. Feh.
But now, I split time between two offices, and have parking at neither. Also, there’s a very active and extremely sneaky bunch of meter bitches and parking Nazis patrolling both areas.
(I’ve ranted long and hard about this at least once before.)
So, to beat the system — and keep my wallet at least a little fuller — I park several blocks away from each office and walk the rest of the way. It’s not the most efficient use of my time, or my vehicle, but it does minimize the number of tickets I have to eat, and it also gives me another chance to get some random thinking done. Whether I want to or not.
See, these goofy ideas and ridiculous premises just come to me, often without warning or any sort of effort. People sometimes ask how I think of some of the outlandish ideas I present here — well, honestly, I don’t know. All I can tell you is that they pop into my head from time to time, and I don’t seem to be able to stop them, even with repeated blows to the head with heavy, blunt objects. Believe me, I’ve tried. I get bloody, certainly, and often confused… but the ideas keep coming. Apparently, my brain’s just wired a little screwy.
And folks, you don’t know the half of what worms its way into my little skull, believe me. I know it must seem like I just blat every little fricking thing that comes into my head onto the blog, but no. Oh, no — not by a longshot. I actually filter out a lot of crap before writing; all sorts of boobered bullshit gets sifted out before I ‘go to press’. Or at least sifted into the ‘Fix This Or Kill It‘ file, where I decide it’s just not quite good enough to beat you people over the head with.
Don’t believe me? Okay, I’ll give you an example, from today’s trek from the car to the office. During that little stroll today, I thought of no less than three things. Now one of them might just be worth working into a post of its own (like later today, maybe — hint, hint). Another, I would probably use in conversation a couple of times, and — if it went over well — I’d probably work it in here somewhere. The third… well, the third, I’d usually forget about as soon as possible, and probably even use copious amounts of alcohol to speed the process along. I don’t know where the hell it came from, and I could have gone my whole life without having thought of it. I’m slightly more disturbed for having it pop into my head.
So, now that you’re sufficiently intrigued, wanna hear what these things are? You can be on the cutting edge of this blog, see some of the things that only I see, hear what the little voices tell me directly. Interested? What? No? Well, tough noogies, baby — you’re getting it, anyway. If I have to put up with this shit, then I’m taking you down with me. I guess this just isn’t your lucky day. Deal.
So, the first thing, which you might see again later today: As I began my walk, I started thinking — for reasons I cannot fathom — what it might be like if I called one of those phone psychic people. As phony as those bastards are, I think they’d have pretty good luck with me — I’m predictable, I’m gullible, I’m a typical guy… hell, they should be able to peg me completely. The idea needs a bit of work, but I think there’s something there. We’ll see what I can make of it later on.
The second thing, which I’d normally ‘play-test’ a few times before using it here, is a new euphemism. Again, I don’t know where the hell it came from, or why I thought of it while I was walking over the bridge to the medical area where I work. (But it is in keeping with my goal to invent as many sexual euphemisms as possible this year. Anyway, here’s what came to me in a flash, as I crossed the bridge:
‘getting my nutters fluffered‘
Frankly, I think it’s a winner. No idea what the hell it has to do with that bridge, or Tuesday morning traffic, or whatever else was in front of me at the time, but there it is. The mind works in mysterious, kinky, god-awful ways. At least, mine does. Eep.
Finally, and most embarrassingly, was the thing that struck me while I was still on the block where I parked my car. Fully formed, and with no stimulus that I could recognize, the following alternate lyric to Billy Joel’s ‘She’s Always a Woman‘ — which I haven’t heard in years, by the way — came slamming into my brain:
‘She’s got a way… of crusting
I don’t know what that is —
But I’ll bet it’s dirty, and disgusting.‘
And that was it. No more than that — just a snippet, really, for no discernable reason. This is the type of shit that happens all the time, too. I need some serious help, folks. I’m beginning to think I was dropped on my head as a child — at the top of a pyramid, maybe, and I ba-ba-bumped all the way down, like Homer Simpson down a cliff face. That would be some explanation, at least, and a far better one than just being born this way. I don’t think there was that much inbreeding in my family! I mean, sure — a little… but I gotta believe it’d take a whole frigging limbload of ‘kissing cousins’ to create this kind of brain genetically. Surely there’s got to be some blunt-force trauma in there somewhere, right?
Anyway, that was my walk to work this morning. Typical for me, really. Frightening for you, no doubt — frightening and highly distasteful, but there it is, nonetheless. Just be glad that I usually shield you from such nonsense — maybe now you’ll be able to appreciate this blog a little more, if only for what’s not contained within these pages. There’s a whole lotta crap you don’t see, and you should probably be thankful for it. Just — you know — not today. Today you’re in my world. I just pray I haven’t done you any permanent damage. Lord knows you wouldn’t want to live your whole life like this. Ick!
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