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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Have I mentioned lately how damned cool my wife is? No? Well, she is. So, there. Big fat frothy mugs of ‘jealous‘ all ’round. Drink up.
What makes her so cool? Well, a million reasons — but I’ll give you just one, from last night. When she got home, I was watching a Tivoed Simpsons episode, and — as is my custom — giggling like a tickled schoolgirl. She didn’t roll her eyes, or ‘tsk‘ at me, or anything like that. She just walked over, gave me a kiss hello, let my goofiness slide, and went upstairs to change clothes.
But wait — it gets better.
See, I was watching a true classic Simpsons — the legendary octuplets episode. For about the nineteenth time. And when my wife came back downstairs, the show was nearing the very best part, so I asked her to have a look. Calmly, professionally, maturely… yeah, I can’t back that up. Here’s what I said:
‘Oooh, honey. Come ‘ere, come ‘ere, come ‘ere! This is the best part. Hold on, hold on… it’s comin’. *squeal!* Ooh, I can’t hardly wait!‘
Now, most wives wouldn’t even step in the room at that point. Most husbands would be squealing to their wife’s ass, or gibbering at ‘the hand’. But not my wife — no, sir. She came in to watch, and see what all the hubbub was about.
And then the best part came on.
(If you’re interested in such things, the best part of this episode is after Apu and Manjula have had the octuplets, and Apu’s back at work, exhausted. Then Flanders comes in — oooh, I hate that damned Flanders! — and starts spouting cheerful baby crap at him, until Apu finally responds:
‘Shut up!‘
‘Shut up!!‘
‘I can’t believe you don’t shut up!!!‘
Oh man, that’s a classic. Gets me every time.)
Sure, it’s too bad that my wife missed the ‘Let’s get this stuff to the real heroes — the Shelbyville nine!‘ line, and Homer’s ‘Mmmmmm… ovulicious‘, but she did see the best part.
Anyway, right on cue, I squealed and giggled and kicked my little legs in delight. Still, she didn’t say a word, or even frown. That puts her in elite territory right there. The pope would tell me to fuck off at that point. The woman’s a saint, I tell you.
But there’s more!
Finally, after I’d caught my breath, and checked to make sure I hadn’t peed my pants (all clear!), I looked up and said,
‘Man, I love this episode! This is the best ever!‘
And how did she reply to that? Did she seize the opportunity to say, ‘Well, you’re a goober.‘ Or, ‘We really need to get you some help, you know.‘ Or even, ‘What the hell is wrong with you, anyway?‘ Maybe she gave up, and shot me a distracted ‘That’s nice, dear.‘ without really hearing me. Or did she just walk out of the room, sadly shaking her head at me?
Nope. None of the above. Here’s what she said:
‘Yeah, it’s pretty good. But the best is the one where Lisa goes to the wrong school, and the teacher says, ‘En francais!’, and all the kids go, ‘Huh huh huh huh huh’ at her.‘
How fucking cool is that? Not only was she on board, but she’d come up with an answer of her own, and even cited examples to make her case!
(Okay, so that last bit is just the lawyer in her coming out… but still!)
Damn, I love that woman! Now I’ve just got to get her watching Family Guy, and we’ll be all set. I love it when a plan comes together!
Permalink | 3 CommentsWell, I tried. I started three — count ’em, three — posts tonight, and none of ’em went anywhere. I guess I just ran out of gas. But, I’ll try flinging poo at the blackboard one more time, to see what sticks. Let’s try some ‘queek heeters‘; maybe a collection of teeny little tidbits will be easier to manage than one big, huge monster. It’s like lining up a dozen ordinary men, rather than wheeling out John Holmes. You know what I’m sayin’.
So, let’s see, then. I guess I can just say whatever the hell I want, and flit from topic to topic willy-nilly. If I’ve done my job correctly, then your expectations have been sufficiently lowered to the point where I really can’t screw this up. You can’t be unpleasantly surprised. So that only leaves the question: just what is on my mind, anyway?
Well, for one thing, I can see that I’m watching too much West Wing lately. I swear to god, this thing is the new Friends. I’m convinced that there is no time when the damned show is not on. It’s still on in prime time, and it’s syndicated on six or eight other channels. Every time I turn the damned TV on, there’s Martin Sheen and Rob Lowe and the gang, with their fancy suits and plastic smiles, staring back out at me. It’s creepy.
And now I know I’m watching too much — SportCenter is on, and I’m not even paying attention to the highlights. I’m just waiting for them to show the anchors, so I can continue to determine how much Linda Cohn looks like CJ from the show. Clearly, dementia is setting in.
There’s been an enormous, nasty, hairy-assed black fly flitting around the house for the past three days. I finally smacked it into the kitchen sink tonight, and washed it down the drain.
(But I didn’t turn on the garbage disposal. I believe in giving my prey a fighting chance.)
It’s nice to be rid of the thing, but I can’t help wondering whether the thing laid eggs in the potato chips or somewhere before I dispatched it. And if it did, how would my wife and I ever know?
Me: Honey? Do these chips you bought have mushrooms on them?
Her: Um… no. Why? Do they look funny?
Me: Yeah, a little. And they smell a little musky.
Her: Well, if they’re stale or something, just throw them away.
Me: But… there aren’t any more bags of chips.
Her: I guess you’ll just have to go without, then.
Me: But… but… hmmmm…
Her: What is it? Did you throw those chips away?
Me: Nope. I’m sure they’re *crunch* fine. I decided they didn’t smell so bad, after all. *munch munch*
See? Clearly, there’s no way we could tell. It’s impossible.
Eggs in the snacks would be doubly inconvenient, too, for the child flies would get their genes from the one I sink-flushed. And that was an annoying goddamned fly, let me tell you. It kept trying to get into the freezer, for reasons that still aren’t clear to me. Maybe it didn’t realize how cold it is in there, but I’m still not sure what the attraction would be for a small, pestery insect. Did it have a thing for ice cream? Maybe it smelled the beef-like substance in my frozen dinners? Or perhaps we’ve already accidentally trapped flies in there, and this guy was on some kind of search-and-rescue mission. I honestly don’t know. All I can say for sure is that he really wanted to check out our freezer — I had to shoo him out of there three or four times this week. And now, he’s swimming with the fishes. Maybe that’s cold enough for him, the little parasite bastard. Serves him right.
I got caught belting out tunes in the car again. You’d think I’d learn my humiliating lesson, but no. At least this time, it wasn’t Hole. I had the Foo Fighters‘ ‘Waxed Actors’ looping on the CD player in the car, singing along with it over and over… and over.
Actually, that’s not really unusual for me. I often get stuck on a song, and repeat it ad nauseum, ad infinitum, and ad coworker-pissum-offum, until I obsess over something different. For several months — yes, months! — it was ‘Spybreak’ by the Propellerheads. (That’s the music playing during the ‘lobby scene’ in the original Matrix.) It doesn’t actually have any words, but that never stopped me from making a boob out of myself by singing along in the car:
‘Doo doo doo de-doo-de-doo… Doo doo doo de-doo-de-doo… Do-de-diggy diggy doodle diggy diggy diggy…‘
(Yes, folks, I need help. Real, professional help. Plus a bottle of tequila, and maybe a cattle prod. Help me?)
Anyway, for a few days recently, it was the title track off of Hole’s Celebrity Skin, and now, I’ve moved on to the Foo Fighters. At least now I can embarrass myself by singing real words — in English — instead of making up ridiculous baby-talk noises to match the instrumental songs. That doesn’t make me feel much better, but a little. Baby steps, people. Baby steps.
Well, I think that’ll do it. Hopefully, this will tide you over until tomorrow. As usual, I’m up a couple of hours later than I really wanted to be (and later than I’m backdating this post to), and I can feel myself starting to nod off. Pretty soon, I’ll be sprawled out with one hand down my pants a la Al Bundy, drooling on the couch pillows while I pretend I’m just ‘resting my eyes’. And there’s gonna be plenty of time for sad shit like that once I’m grandpa-age.
(Hey, it comes with the territory. Who am I to buck tradition?)
So, I think it’s time for me to hit the hay. I’ll get a few hours’ worth of sleep, and be back tomorrow with fresh drivel. You should go get some rest, too. I don’t want to see you half-ass reading out there. Don’t just mail it in. We’ve all got our part to play, man — make sure you hold up your end, all right? I’ll see you tomorrow.
Permalink | 5 CommentsHey, everybody. Okay, now — file in orderly. Take a seat up front, don’t be shy. Fill in the middle of the rows first. Get comfy. It’s time for another ‘State of the Blog‘ address. Okay, is everyone seated? Good. Let’s get started.
Ahem. First, I’d like to thank all of you for taking time out of your busy schedules to attend. I’m sorry I couldn’t provide any snacks, or booze, or… you know, chairs or anything. There’s really not much of a budget for this sort of thing. Maybe one day I’ll at least be able to heat the garage… er, meeting room. In the meantime, I wouldn’t let any exposed skin touch the floor. It’s been freezing all week, so there’s a good chance you’ll stick, and leave a little part of yourself here with me.
(In addition to your IP address and domain name, of course — I always keep those. I’ve even started a trophy case — you’d like it. It’s very tastefully done.)
So, let’s get down to bidness. First, I’d like to thank and congratulate the fantabulous fan — or critic; I probably should have asked — who stopped by to deliver the blog’s 10,000th visitor!
(And yes, I know that’s just an average day for some blogs. And that those 10,000 ‘visitors’ really represent repeat trips from, like, nine people, plus a bunch of misguided Google searches. And that my hits alone account for ninety percent of the total.
Nah, I’m kidding. I filter out all my own hits. And it’s more like Googlers and three people. But I digress.)
Anyway, I can’t thank all 10,000 people who came here (looking for ‘Stripperella naked’ or ‘jiggly tasticles’, or simply ‘hell’). But I can thank 10 of you, and that’s what I’m going to do — here are ten people who’ve really made a difference around here. And in no particular order, just so’s you people don’t get in a big slappy tickle fight over where you rank. Really, there’s plenty of you folks to go around.
(On the other hand, if you want to get in a slappy tickle fight… hey, go right ahead. Just make it sexy, and send me the pictures. Rub on oil on yourselves or something. You know, put some effort into it. That’s all I ask. Anyway, here’s the list.
Oh, and if you’re not included, please know that it’s not from a lack of gratitude. Really, I ‘wuv’ you all, as the teenyboppers say, but there’s just not enough space to acknowledge everyone. Plus, I’d still forget someone, and they’d either fall asleep during this, or get pissed at me, so I’m not gonna put you through that. And if I missed you… well, I’ll get you next time. Kisses, now!)
All right, let’s keep this train rolling, shall we? Oh, quit your squirming — for one thing, all you have to do is click all the links I just gave you, and I guarantee you’ll get a bulge in your blogroll. And that’s true whatever you decide you want that phrase to mean. And sure, the rest of this crap is gonna be all about me, but the sooner we get through this, the sooner we’ll get back to the hilarity. Or… the feeble attempts at it, anyway. Oh, just hush up. It’ll be over soon. Here, have a peanut. Be cool.
So, back to the agenda. Let’s talk milestones — look, I’ll only do this once, and then it’ll be done. I gotta get this out of my system. As I mentioned, today the blog received its 10,000th visitor, courtesy of Sabrina. Cool. The blog is also coming up on its half-year anniversary — it’s actually on the 17th, six long months after the post that started it all. Reading it again, I see that not much has changed. I haven’t gotten any better, or nicer. I space my parentheses a little differently. That’s about it. Progress, schmogress. Poop on that.
Okay, so let’s wrap up with some other upcoming events. For anyone who’s interested and local — or crazy enough to come all the way to Boston — the 17th is also the date of my next standup show. Once again, it’s at the Emerald Isle (1501 Dorchester Ave. in Dorchester); swing by, and I’ll buy you a beer. After my set. After. I’m as punch-drunk on the stage as I need to be already. But see me after — I’ll hook you up.
Also, I’ll remind you that the WizBang Blog Awards 2003 are still going on — until the 15th, I think. (Hey, I should also thank Kevin over there for putting it all together, and — again — Buzz for nominating me for Best Humor Blog; lots of great new people have come over from there, and I’m muy grateful.) So get over there and vote — if not for me, then for your favorites in all the categories. Or find a new read, and vote for it. Don’t just sit there, dammit! This thing’s not gonna be open forever; don’t you want something to tell the grandkids someday?
Finally — hey, wake up! It’s almost time to go — keep an eye out for my Weblog Review treatment, probably coming over the weekend sometime. I’m currently second in line for a review — that’s next to next! — so keep your fingers crossed for me to get a kind reviewer. With a good sense of humor. Who likes ridiculous drivel and snarky jokes about asshats. And… yeah, I really don’t have a prayer, do I? I’m never gonna do as well as the last guy — Mark, over at R80o, who was treated very nicely by the crack review team.
(Hey, and would you look at that! He’s been on my blogroll for weeks, now. Maybe months! Hey, can I spot talent, or what? You go, Mark!)
So, that’s it. Thanks for hanging in there. Hell, thanks for coming by at all. I hope to see all of you again, very soon. Now, if you would, kindly file out through the hallway, and we’ll get you nice folks home tonight. Mind your step, and be sure to tip the valets. They’re working hard out there. Drive safely!
Permalink | 6 CommentsMore on this — and much, oh so much more — later, but this little old blog received its 10,000th visitor today! Woo hoo!
And, as promised, I’d like to thank the lucky round-number-person who put us over the top with a gift of some kind. Preferably a ‘wish list’ gift, but we’ll cross that bridge when we’ve paid the toll.
You see… I’m not really sure who it was that I need to thank. But I know that the hit came this morning, and I have an IP address associated with it. So here’s what I’d like you to do — if you visited earlier this morning, please come back and leave a comment on this post. If I can match your comment IP address with the 10,000th hitter, then you’re in line for fabulous prizes!
(Well, okay, just one prize, actually. And I’m not quite rich enough to make it ‘fabulous’. So you might want to replace ‘fabulous prizes‘ above with ‘mediocre crap‘. Still, it’s free mediocre crap, and I think we can all appreciate how rare that is.)
So, leave me a comment, and I’ll get you some swag.
(If you’re the right commenter, that is. All of you people just chiming in to congratulate me, or express your enthusiasm, or brag about how many more hits that you have are getting nothing. Nothing except my undying appreciation and gratitude, of course.
Except you braggy people with ten thousand hits a friggin’ day. You people suck. Let me have my damned moment, will you?)
So, that’s it for now. Thanks to everyone who’s stopped by and had a look around — I’ll have a more complete ‘State of the Blog’ address later on (lots of exciting things are happening!), so stay tuned for that. Oh, and I’ll try to be funny later today, too. Yeah, that should be a hoot. At least you’ll be able to laugh at me. Meh.
And so, in summary (’cause that’s the way TJ likes it): yay to me, thanks to you, gimme comments, and somebody’s gettin’ some loot.
Damn, folks… what the hell else could you want from a blogger, anyway?
Permalink | 8 CommentsI was poring over the old site logs today, and came across this search phrase (and for goodness’ sake, don’t ask me if I ‘wiped it off‘… on the other hand, if you don’t get that joke, you’re probably in the wrong place):
‘what is it like to be an only child’
Apparently, there’s someone with siblings out there who’s jealous of us solo kids. Or there’s a set of worried parents getting all angsty about whether little Johnny or Jane will grow up mutated, unless they squeeze out a playmate for him or her. Or there’s a very precocious young kid with no brothers or sisters, wondering what to expect from the formative years.
Whatever. It really doesn’t matter, and I don’t care that much. Just pick one, and we’ll move on — it’s not important for the punchline.
(Hey, don’t give me that look. I’m an only child — we’re selfish bastards. Go cry to your brother or sister, ya weenie.)
Anyway, the punchline is… I am the number one, primo, expert advice-giver on the topic, if you ask Google.
(Go ahead, try it. It won’t hurt. Much.)
Now, as you can see, if you read the post in question, I actually know quite a bit about being an only child. Hell, I’ve been one for as long as I can remember — I’d better have learned something in all that time.
But to be the first place that people turn, the Oracle of wisdom, the veritable horse’s mouth? (That’s mouth, dammit! Mouth!) Well, I don’t know quite how to feel. You know, other than all alone and selfish and unsure of myself. All that ‘only child’ shit.
Still, it’s nice to be recognized as the top source for something.
Er, well… something else, anyway. *sigh*
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