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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Well, the Nor’Easter of ’03 has pretty much wrapped up here in the Boston area. Now, I’m not much of a photobug (Is that what they’re called? Shutternuts? Piccy-clickers? Webcammin’ perverts? Whatever.), but I thought I should probably document the early-winter shenanigans that went on around here.
You know, for you ‘less fortunate’ folks in warmer climes, who don’t get the privilege of having two feet of white shit dumped on your head. And your house. And your lawn. And your car. And… look, I could do this all night. Let’s just get to the pictures, shall we?
First, let’s have a look at just how much snow we got. The weathermonkeys around here tell us that the greater Boston area got anywhere from ten to thirty-four inches of snow. But what the hell do they know? It’s all crystal balls and voodoo dolls with those people.
(And I’m pretty sure the guy on Fox uses voodoo balls… but he was never the sharpest bulb in the chandelier, if you know what I’m saying.)
So, how much snow did we get here, in Watertown? And more importantly, on my block, and especially, on my property? Well, I did the most scientific, well-controlled, reliable test that I could think of. I measured the pile of white crap on the top of my car.
(Hey, look, I said the most scientific thing I could think of… what do I look like, Watson and frickin’ Crick over here?
What? Oh, sorry, it’s a biology thing. Go look it up. I’ll wait.)
Anyway, I should probably tell you about my ‘experimental methods’, so you can go reproduce the results, if you like. Here’s the summary of how I made my measurement:
I stuck a tape measure into the snow on top of my car, pushed the end down until it stopped, and read the number sticking out.
(Yeah, like I said, that’s the ‘summary’. The ‘long version’ is… um, well, it’s about the same. I think I used a ‘Stanley’ tape measure. The car’s a Maxima. There’s really not much more to it than that.)
So, let’s have a look at my first foray into the world of automotive-assisted meteorology, shall we? First, I took a picture of the snow-encrusted car:
At least, I think it’s my car in there. Honestly, I can’t really tell. It could be anything — a Maxima, a Honda, a Chevy… I might clear it off in the morning and find Roseanne in there. It’s like Han Solo in carbonite — I can tell there’s something in there, and it looks familiar, sort of, but it’s not really identifiable. But whatever’s in there has my car’s license plate stuck on it’s ass, so I’m hopeful that it really is my Maxima.
(And praying that it’s not Roseanne. The last thing I need in the morning is to be prying my plates off that snowy cow. And god knows where the front plate would be attached.
Ooh, I am not gonna sleep well tonight. *shudder*)
Anyway, I decided this white lump of stuff was probably my car, so I plooped the tape measure into the snow on top. And this is what I saw:
Well, to be fair, that’s what the camera saw. I’d already been shovelling for a while, so what I personally saw was quite a bit blurry, as my vision was smeared with snow and sweat and tears. And, quite possibly, snot. Hopefully mine, but I’m making no promises. Anyway.
As you can see, the car’s sporting just under nineteen inches of frosty goodness.
(Yeah, you know, there’s something disturbingly sexual about that, isn’t there? ‘Nineteen inches of frosty goodness‘ — sounds like a line out of ‘Frosty the Blowman‘, or ‘Winter WonderWang‘, doesn’t it? But I digress. And disturb. And, um, disturbingly digress. Let’s circle back around, away from the Christmas porn, and back to the snow, okay?
And let’s never mention ‘Winter WonderWang‘ ever again. Nobody has to know.)
So, if you can believe the local weather weenies (and you can’t, of course), then our little burg is solidly in the area of the map that got between twenty-two and twenty-eight inches of precipitation. So, if anything, I’m underestimating my accumulation.
(Hey, just like with the IRS. Heh.)
Maybe the car’s leaning or something, and some of the snow fell off. I dunno. In any case, I’m pretty comfortable saying that we got ‘around two feet of snow’.
(See that? See how nineteen inches becomes ‘around two feet’? That’s using the ‘Willie Johnson method’ of estimation. So named, of course, because that’s the same sort of thing guys do when describing the length of their ‘willie’, or their ‘Johnson’. It’s sometimes called the ‘penile exaggeration rule’; maybe you’re familiar with it. But, of course, most people don’t back up their claims with an actual measurement, like I did.
Well… okay, that’s not true. Actually, most guys do. Almost all of us, in fact. But most guys don’t take a picture of the measurement.
Um… all right, I can’t back that up, either. But some guys don’t post their pictures to the internet.
Uh… yeah, I’m gonna just let that one go. Otherwise, I’d have to do a Google search and see whether I’m right or not. And there are some times when you would just hate to be wrong. Ick.)
All right — where the hell was I, anyway?
Ah, snow. Okay, moving on, then.
So, speaking of twenty inches or so — though I obviously really shouldn’t be any more — the snowstorm left us with another cool remnant, besides the ‘two tons of snowy fun’ I shovelled off the sidewalks. Namely, we’ve got some kick-ass icicles hanging off our house. I don’t know how long they’ll last, but they are damned cool. And huge, too — we used to get icicles on the garage when I was a kid, but these… these things make the old ones look like cocktail weenies. Little, frozen cocktail weenies.
(Jesus, what is that? ‘See how many phallic symbols we can fit into a post night’? What the hell?)
Anyway, have a look, and see what you think — to me, they’re pretty damned impressive, but then, I’m biased — after all, they’re hanging off my porch. And impressive or not, I’m not standing underneath them. Forget putting your eye out — if one of these puppies fell on you, it’d spear your head right off. Here they are, from near…
and far…
and… um, I don’t know — medium? Between? Shit, that Grover dude on Sesame Street only did the ‘near… far… near… far‘ thing. I never found out what’s in the middle. Rats.
So, there you have it. This is about as close as I’ll ever get to a ‘fotoblog’, and I hope it was entertaining. And hey, at a thousand words per image, this might qualify as my longest post ever! Of course, the really scary thing is, it also might not. A wordy windbag be I. Arrr.
Okay, I’ve spontaneously regressed into pirate-speak.
(Specifically, ‘Captain McAllister from the Simpsons‘ pirate-speak, if you’re scoring at home. Or even if you’re by yourself.)
All of which means that things have gotten irretrievably silly. (Yes, again.) So, I think it’s time to sign off for the night. It’ll be time for bed soon, anyway, and I need to get a good night’s sleep. I’m gonna need all my strength tomorrow to dig out whatever the hell is sitting in my driveway. And I hope to hell it’s my Maxima — I’m not about to climb into Roseanne and drive that bitch to work. Monday mornings are bad enough without that nightmare. Yick.
Permalink | 9 CommentsI think we need a new word.
Sure, there are already a lot of words in the English language. Take ‘umbilical’, for instance. Or ‘pepperpot’; that’s a good one, too. I’m also a big fan of ‘comely’, ‘lichen’, and ‘onomatopoetic’.
(Even though it’s not. You’d think, of all the stupid words in the dictionary to be onomatopoetic, that ‘onomatopoetic‘ would be one of them. Really, doesn’t it just make sense?
Actually, I’d like to bitch about this some more, but I’m really tired of typing onomatopoetic over and over. Try it sometime. I’m beat.)
So, the thing is this — all those words I’ve mentioned, plus all the others that I didn’t (since there’s only so much space available here), don’t really do the thing that I want this new word to do. And that’s why we need the new word. There’s a ‘word gap’ here. A semantic void. A lexical lacuna, a phraseological pockmark, a communicative chasm. A vocabularial vacuity, even.
(Yeah, I decided to tiptoe through the thesaurus while I was searching for the word that turned out not to be there. This is what qualifies as entertainment for me on a snowy Saturday night. Weep for me, dear readers. Weep for me.)
Anyway, here’s why we need a new word — it’s come to my attention that there’s no ‘independent’ word that means ‘not funny‘. Sure, there’s ‘unfunny’, and you can always say ‘not funny’, but these are just derivatives of ‘funny’, itself. Doesn’t a concept so important and honorable as ‘funny‘ (or, if you prefer: humorous, witty, clever, comical, entertaining, riotous, whimsical, or… oh, fer chrissakes, just shoot me now!) deserve its own antonym? Can’t we spare just one more word for a good cause?
Think about it — all the other common, useful adjectives have their own opposites. If you’re not ‘well’, then you don’t have to be ‘unwell’ — though you can be, if you want. But you can also be ‘sick’, or ‘ill’, or ‘insane in the membrane’. And if you’re not ‘hot’? Well, there’s always ‘cold’, or ‘ugly’, or, if you frequent a certain web site, simply ‘not’.
(And in some cases, ‘NOT!’ Or, ‘Yikes!’ Or even, ‘Hey, isn’t that Boy George?‘)
But all ‘funny’ gets is versions of itself. Until now, that is. I, for one, am ready to stand up for my good friend ‘funny’ and lobby for a new word to mean… well, not it, basically. And I’ve given this a lot of thought. I’ve come up with a strategy, and some theory, and I’ve even got a word to suggest. That’s right, I’m bringing up a problem, and then I’m fixing it. I’m not some Monday-morning quarterback, or backseat driver, or grimy politician, here. No, sir. I’m here to help. So help me help you, and hop on board the bandwagon. I’ve got a new word, and I’m determined to get it into the dictionary.
And that word… is ‘boobered‘.
Yes, boobered. Now, hear me out, here. See, I figure that the word that’s gonna mean ‘not funny’ should, itself, sound a bit funny. That way, the unfunniness of whatever you’re describing (soon to be known as its ‘booberhood‘) becomes obvious. If the thing’s not even as funny as saying ‘boobered‘, then it really is boobered.
(See, see? A word that tests its own meaning. How fucking hard was that? I’ve only come up with one word, and it does double-duty.
Screw ‘onomatopoetic’ — lazy stupid word, anyway. It’s just not trying, man. Half-assed bastard.)
Anyway, get on board the boobered train, people. Go forth and spread the boobered word — it’s not hard or anything. All you have to do is sprinkle it into everyday conversation, and soon enough, it’ll stick. And you’ll have plenty of chances to whip it out and use it.
(But not around here, dude. Be snarky if you must, but don’t use my own word on me, man. Have a damned heart.)
Look, I’ll get things started, just to give you an example of how it works. Saturday Night Live just came on. And if I know SNL, then before long, some crap-ass skit will come on — a train wreck of a bad idea, where the lame host plays a prominent role and sleepwalks through the lines.
(I swear, sometimes you can even see the cast members rolling their eyes onstage. It’s just a matter of time before Tina Fey or someone just walks off the set, right into the parking lot, and never comes back. But I digress.)
Anyway, when the inevitable happens, and SNL sucks ass, I’m just gonna turn to my wife and say:
‘Damn, I could do better than this. This shit is so boobered!’
To which, she’ll no doubt reply (as usual):
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
And then I’ll explain it to her, and we’ll be off and running. ‘Boobered‘ will be born, and will start its slow seeeep into the collective consciousness. And you can say you were in on the ground floor, that you ‘knew boobered way back when’. So get out there now, and call boobered like you see it. Go tell boobered from the mountain. Be the boobered police, start a boobered neighborhood watch, or start the League to Stamp Out Boobriety. Whatever. Just do your part, in your own unique way. Now that we have a name for it, we can start reducing the booberhood all around us. And one day — one magical day — we’ll have gotten rid of it completely, and the world will be free of booberedness for good.
And really, isn’t that worth it? Won’t you join the boobered crusade with me? Who’s with me?
*** UPDATE: Hey, you! Jeff‘s on board with this — are you? Get crackin’ out there!
*** UPDATE AGAIN: Look! Jon is in the act, too! What are you waiting for, people?
Permalink | 7 CommentsWell, folks, like it or not, it’s time for another installment of ‘Watch Charlie Make an Ass of Himself Onstage!‘
This is part two in a series, and one that I hope enjoys a long run. For those of you new to the game, what I’m talking about is my burgeoning standup comedy ‘career’.
(Or ‘pathetic hobby’, or ‘unhealthy obsession’, take your pick.)
Anyway, since this blog is all about the comedy, and since most of my onstage material is in here in some form or another, I thought that my dear trio of readers might appreciate seeing the standup routines, as well. Plus, it lets them replace that strikingly handsome face and deep, husky voice that I’m sure they imagined for me with… well, with my ugly mug and squeaky whine. Why the hell am I doing this, again, precisely?
Anyway, I finally figured out how to get my second show, from this past Wednesday, online. (If you missed the first show, then go check it out. And for anyone waiting these three long days for the second show, I apologize for the delay. My wife had a great idea on the night of the show; namely, to shoot the film in ‘portrait’, rather than ‘landscape’, format, the better to pick up anything wacky or outrageous that I might do with my hands.
(Hey, we’re married — she’s well aware that I often do wacky and outrageous things with my hands, if you know what I’m slingin’, here. Mostly, they happen in the privacy of our house — even our bedroom, sometimes — but who knows when something’s gonna spontaneously break out while I’m at the mike? And wouldn’t it be a shame to miss it?)
Unfortunately, my video capture software wasn’t on board with the whole ‘camera-turny‘ thing, and so I ended up sideways, listing rather completely to the right. So, it took me a while to download a bunch of software, and video editors, and format converter doohickeys, until finally, mercifully, I ended up with what I wanted.
(Well, maybe not what I wanted, but the best I could have hoped for. It’s not like all that digital manipulation made the thing any funnier.)
Anyway, go check it out. And if you missed the link above, there’s a permalink on the sidebar to the left. Which is my right, of course, as I peek out at you through your monitor screen.
(Speaking of which, don’t you think you should clean off that desk? What, are you growing potatoes in there? And do you really wear that shirt in public, in front of people? Tsk.)
So, there you have it. Another chance to laugh with me, or at me, or about me — whatever. Just so long as you laugh. I’ll be back later today with a real post, to try and keep the yuks coming. See you then!
Permalink | 2 CommentsHey, kiddies — three quick blog-related notes for ya:
First and foremost, it’s once again Blog It Forward day, as decreed by Buzz. For those of you unfamiliar with this little game of ‘Spin the URL’, it’s a chance for each of us bloggy type of folks to give mad props and a shoutout to someone else’s blog for a change. Hey, if you’ve got a blog of your own, you can play, too. It’s like Marco Polo, or Jell-o wrestling — the more, the messier merrier. The more, the merrier. Sorry about that.
Anyway, my choice this time around doesn’t really need my help, but I’m gonna give it, anyway. I’m giving love to Shampoo Solo, if for no other reason than I’m just so damned pickle-thrilled to have her back, after a several-month hiatus.
(And no, I’m not exactly sure what ‘pickle-thrilled’ means. But I’m pretty sure it requires lubrication of some kind… maybe even with pickle juice! Look, let’s just let this one go, all right? I was saying something important, here.)
Back to the ‘poo. Go check her out — she’s as witty, funny, snarky, and outrageous as I said she was when I feared she had left us for good, and wrote this post, lamenting the loss. So you can imagine my joy when the cardboard finally came off her windows a few days ago, and she dusted off the walk and re-opened for business. I’m still all tingly over it. No, really. Just look. Goosebumps.
And it’s not just because Shampoo was nice enough to interview me, either, when I asked her to. Nor is is simply because she’s taught me and others so much. It’s not even because she’s got (reportedly, anyway) the best boobs in the world.
(Well, okay, really it is mainly that last thing. I mean, c’mon — in the world? The whole frickin’ world? That’s pretty impressive, people.)
So go check out Shampoo Solo, and tell her I said ‘hi’. (Or tell her she should show me her boobs. What are the chances she’s gonna kill the messenger, right?) But especially tell her that it’s good to have her back. It hasn’t been the same without her.
Secondly, and also with much props and thanks (again) to Buzz, who nominated me, I’m a contestant in the ‘Best Humor Blog’ category in the 2003 Weblog Awards over at WizBang!. Go check it out, and vote for your faves in all the categories. And vote for me in the yuk-yuk group. Or vote for someone else; I can’t tell you people what to do. But you should really vote for somebody — if you just sit there on your ass and don’t vote, then the terrorists have won. Or…um, something. I may be getting my ‘cautionary warnings’ mixed up.
Look, just go vote, okay? I’ll consult my notes and eventually figure out what the hell I meant just now. Don’t wait for me — go vote now. Me Tarzan; you vote. Shoo.
Finally, it’s come to my attention that I’m nearing — big kazoo-roll, please — my 10,000th hit here at the old blog site! Yay! And, given the momentousness (oh, it might be a word — shaddup!) of the occasion, I want to put down, right here in writing, the following offer:
If you happen to be the lucky 10,000th customer here at the blogge shoppe, and if you further have a blog of your own, and still further, if you have a wishlist on that blog… well, I’m going on record as offering to buy you something scrumptious off that list for you, just for stopping by and being the right person in the right place at the right time. Easy, eh?
Now, of course, that’s a lot of ‘furthers’ up there, and it strikes me that it’s fairly likely that the person chiming in with the big one-oh!-oh!-oh!-oh! (c’mon — it’s funny if you’ve ever seen Office Space; gimme some love here) might not meet all the requirements, as listed. So, I’m willing to bend a little. (I’m even willing to bend a lot, for the right incentive, but that’s probably not something you need to know about. Let’s stick to one ‘prize’ at a time, shall we?) So, if I can successfully identify the ten-thousandth caller, then I’ll get in touch with him or her, and try to work something out. It’ll be fun — it’s like Christmas in… um, well, in December, actually.
(Of all the rotten fucking luck — the one time I decide to use that stupid saying, and it’s fricking December. What are the odds?
And, so help me, if you chime in with ‘About one in twelve‘, I’ll pimp-slap your ass right back across the Internet. If you’re gonna be a smartass around here, you’re gonna have to be more creative than that, people.)
So, that’s the scoopage. Go see ‘poo, vote at WizBang!, and keep coming back for a shot at fabulous prizes. How’s that for a ‘Friday Three’?
(What? It’s ‘Friday Five‘? Well, dammit, that’s it — I’m never using any of those cute little sayings again. Who makes this shit up, anyway?)
Permalink | 1 CommentSo, I’ve been having some toothbrush-related problems lately.
And no, ya dildos, it’s not because I miss my mouth with it, and end up with pasty bristles up my nose.
(Well, okay, I might have ‘pasty bristles’ up my nose, but they’re not from the toothbrush. So that’s not it.)
Nor have I forgotten which end of the thing is which, and been scraping my gums with the ass-end of the thing. And speaking of ‘ass-end’ and ‘toothbrush’, I also — emphatically — didn’t have the problem that most of you are probably thinking about right now. Pervs.
(And if you’re not thinking about it…well, read this, and then you’ll be all caught up. Welcome to my twisted little world, folks. Grab a chair; stay a while.)
Anyway, none of those things are the problem. They’re problems, to be sure. Anytime the business end of a toothbrush is glommed up your nostril, or jammed into your palm, or rammed up your… um, well, ‘business end‘, then that’s pretty clearly a problem. But they’re not my problems. At least, not today. Tomorrow, who knows? There’s a weekend coming up; stranger things have happened.
But my problem — my right-now problem — goes something like this:
I use an electric toothbrush. My wife bought a his ‘n’ hers set a year or two ago, and we’ve used them ever since. And, despite my initial reservations, I have to admit that they seem to work pretty well. Certainly, no teeth have fallen out, or disintegrated, or turned green and skanky in the time that we’ve been using the new equipment. So that’s a good sign. I’m still a bit wary of any procedure that involves the words ‘electric‘ and ‘my mouth‘, but the mishaps in that area have been few and far between. I just have to remember not to lick the recharger.
(And I’ve written myself several reminder notes on the subject, let me tell you. Apparently, I’m not what the ADA would call a ‘quick study’ when it comes to oral electrocutions. In my defense, I can only say that the excruciatingly high voltage that sizzles through my teeth and gums when I forget is probably frying the neurons involved in long-term memory. So it’s sort of a vicious cycle, you see. A vicious, painful, pubic-hair-straightening cycle.)
Anyway, here’s the thing — in the past week or so, the toothbrush has died completely. I don’t know whether the recharger is shot, or the, um, ‘rechargee’ is blown, or the outlet is dead, or what. Seriously, I’ve licked all the appliances that I thought might be involved (plus a few that clearly weren’t…. mmmmm, curling iron…), and I’ve gotten nothing but a sandpapery tongue and the taste of week-old toothpaste crust in my mouth. Somewhere, the system’s failing — there’s simply no juice getting through to the thing. It’s cooked.
Now, for those of you who don’t use electric toothbrushes yourself, this may not seem like such a horrible thing. After all, it’s still a toothbrush, right? Well… yes and no. But mostly no, with a side order of ‘yeah, not so much‘. And I’ll tell you why.
First off, the little circular cluster of bristles on an electric toothbrush are approximately the size of… oh, I don’t know. What’s a really small circular thingy? A nail head? A thumb tack? An oversized booger? Dunno. Anyway, let’s just say it’s small. S. M. All. Which is fine, when the things are zinging around all over your mouth, swooshing to and fro, and delivering toothpaste all around your piehole. But when they just sit there, doing nothing and being useless — like Tom Arnold in a buddy movie — it’s really not the same. They’re just not big enough to get the job done. It’s like drying off after a shower with a square of toilet paper, or trying to use a Barbie like a blow-up doll. There’s just not enough material to work with.
And if that’s not bad enough, then consider the bristles themselves. (That’s in the Bible, right? ‘Consider the bristles…‘ Jesus or somebody said that, I think. Really, look it up.) See, the bristles on the thing are extra-ultra-uber-soft. Which, again, makes sense when the motor’s doing it’s job. With all that rotatoration going on (that’s a technical term, by the way; no time to stop and explain it now) when things are working right, you wouldn’t want firm bristles on the thing. They’re flying around in all directions, spinning at high speed — you don’t want to feel like you’re brushing with a Brillo pad, so the soft bristles are the way to go. It’s the motion that gets the pearly whites all squeaky clean.
But — but — when there’s no motion, you’re pretty much cooked. That little tuft of soft-ass bristles isn’t gonna do anyone any good. Seriously, they’re just too wimpy — it’s like brushing your teeth with pubic hairs. Short, white, straight pubic hairs, of course — but pubic hairs, nonetheless. Or at least it’s what I’d imagine brushing with pubes would be like. And trust me, I’ve given this a lot of thought. It’s… yeah, it’s probably best that you don’t ask. Better that way.
So, the toofers haven’t been getting the proper treatment for the past few days, I’m sorry to say. Sure, I try to use the stupid thing, but I can tell it’s not really happening. Why, right now, I’m tasting leftover pasta from Wednesday, and crumbs from last night’s dessert.
(Which, incidentally, gives me a hell of an idea — pineapple upside-down lasagna. I think it’s an idea who’s time has come. Back me up, here, Hawaiian-Italians. You know you’re with me on this one.)
Anyway, it looks like I’ll have to get out there this weekend and buy a whole new contraption to foam my mouth with.
(Um, that’s probably a sentence you shouldn’t take out of context, ‘kay? I say enough other embarrassing shit as it is, all right? Just leave that one alone.)
This time, I think I’ll buy a good, old-fashioned, non-electric backup, just in case the newfangled machine craps out on me again. Maybe I’ll even go ‘old school’, and only buy the ‘traditional’ brush. I mean, that’s what I’ve got the most experience and practice with. And if I ever did miss, and stick my toothbrush up my nose, I think I’d greatly prefer for it to not be gyrating at a thousand miles an hour at the time. Plus, there are nearly no ‘licking hazards’ associated with the old brushes. You can tongue the thing to your heart’s content, with little fear of injury.
(Um, yeah… the thing I said before about taking things out of context — ditto that for the last sentence. I think I’ll just quit while I’m behind. Man, I never knew talking about toothbrushes was so damned hard!)
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