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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Hum de hum de hum.
Folks, I gotta warn you — I got nothin’ tonight. No topic, no plan, no ‘hey, guess what funny shit happened to me today‘. Nuttin’. But here I am, on schedule, and I’ll do my best to entertain you. The spirit is willing, folks. Stick around, and we’ll see what the flesh is up to.
(Okay, forget I mentioned ‘the flesh’. I may have nothing to talk about, but I’m not gonna resort to flashing flab at you nice people. I don’t mind trying to make you unsnort milk through your nose, but I try to avoid any actual audience ralphing. No, no — you can thank me later. It’s just my way of showing that I care. By, um, not showing you much of anything at all. Trust me, you’re better off.)
So. Off to a rousing start, no? Well, look, it’s not my damned fault, all right? I can’t help it if nothing funny or weird or interesting happened to me today. That’s what I get for finding a damned job, I guess. I remember the good old days — this summer, that is — when I could just stay home all day and try all manner of dangerous, ridiculous shit, so I’d have something to write about. Grease on the floor, small animals in the blender, gratuitous nudity on the roof — really, it didn’t matter. If I thought it might make a good story, then I was there, dude.
(And soon after, I was in the hospital, or the police station. Just another case of ‘the man‘ holding me down. Or, um, reattaching my various appendages. Hey, sometimes ‘the man‘ comes in handy, all right? Don’t hate him because he’s cruel.
Oh, wait, no. I take it back — hate him. Hate ‘the man‘. That’s why he’s there. The dickhead.)
Okay, where was I? Ah, looking for something risible to regale you with. Right. Well, then. I’d better get on that.
(Hey, while I’m at it, how are those ‘Word of the Day‘ thingies working out, anyway? Worth the effort? Irrelevant? Distracting? Dead sexy?
Sorry… I always throw that last one in there, just to see if someone will bite. Or lick, or nibble. Whatever.
Yeah, it never works. Dammit. Look, just tell me whether you like the damned words or not, all right? I got other fish to fry here.)
Maybe I was just too damned tired today. I’m still not used to getting up for those nine am meetings. Maybe all sorts of interesting and weird crap was going on around me today, and I just sleepwalked through it. I don’t remember any crocodile jugglers or amputee strippers, but maybe I just missed them. I was really tired, after all. But you’d think someone would call that shit to my attention, wouldn’t you? Seriously. I shouldn’t have to miss the good stuff, just because I’m all tuckered out.
I think it’s more likely that it was just a dull, boring day. And so, here you are reading a dull, boring entry.
(Sorry, folks — I’ve gotta play the cards I’m dealt here. You want excitement and hilarity around here, then you’d better help out, dammit. Do some sort of funny dance for me, or dump food on someone’s head. Or run around with no pants on. C’mon, make yourselves useful, would you? Go give someone a class five swirly, then send them into the boss’ office. Or rub tabasco sauce on your crotch and visit the dogs at the pound. Anything, people. Give me anything. Please?)
Well, this isn’t getting any better. I promise I’ll have something more for you tomorrow. Surely something will happen tomorrow. And if not, I’ll make shit up. That’s really the only alternative I have at this point. I tried the hot sauce crotch trick, and all I got was sneezed on by a bunch of dogs. And while dog snot all over your legs is many things, it’s not funny. Not when it’s my legs. Yours, maybe. Mine, nuh-uh. So I’m not goin’ there. But maybe I’ll throw another hamster in the blender and climb back on the roof again in the morning. Things are getting desperate.
Permalink | 1 CommentI’m not sure which disturbs me more — that there’s a McDonald’s restaurant in the food court beside the hospital where I work, or that it’s so damned popular with the medical staff. I’m sitting in said food court now, watching the stream of people in scrubs, or white coats, or with stethoscopes and pagers among their accessories, step up to the counter and order up a hot steaming lardy deathburger to go. With fries, naturally.
Now, I’m not a terribly healthy eater myself.
(As I think I’ve already proven.)
So I probably shouldn’t be throwing stones here. Eventually, one of them’s bound to come back and smack me in the fat ass.
(Just for the record, though, I did not partake of the faux beef slop served up at the Mickey D’s. I’m writing this after finishing my chicken breast sandwich from Subway. You know, the ‘less than six grams of fat’ one? Of course, that’s for the six-inch sandwich, and I had the footlong. And those six grams don’t take into account the Swiss cheese or the mayo I had them slap on there. Or the fact that I asked them to deep-fry the lettuce and dip the pickles in bacon grease before they went on the sandwich.
Still, it’s gotta be under… oh, I dunno, sixty grams of fat or so. Sixty-five? Seventy, tops. That’s still less than the cholesto-crap the bitches under the golden arches are serving up. You might as well just jam a straw in a pig’s back and start slurping. Other than the apple pie dessert option, it’d be pretty much the same experience. And probably cheaper.)
Anyway, this isn’t about me, and my self-descructive nincompoopery. (For once.) This time, it’s the doctors I’m concerned with. Look, there are patients running around this place.
(Well, okay, to be fair, most of them don’t really ‘run’. They shuffle, or limp, or amble along. But this is not about how well, or quickly, they perambulate, either. Just that they’re here. So focus, goddammit. I’m trying to make a point here.)
I’m just saying, doesn’t it seem odd for the doctors and nurses to spend all morning proverbially smacking their patients’ little hands for not eating right, or exercising, or wearing any underwear (hey, you don’t know what goes on in those free walk-in clinics, all right?), and then hopping on the Fat Wagon for a Double Whopper with extra moo fat? Somehow, that just doesn’t seem right. It’s like Bill Gates giving money to charity, or Anna Nicole Smith doing ads for Slimfast.
(Not the ‘old’ Anna, who could’ve maybe gotten away with that. I mean the ‘new’, super-sized Anna. Or as I like to call her, ‘Anna an’ a half’. Eek.)
Maybe I’m making an arbitrary distinction in singling out hospital employees. Maybe I’m asking too much, or even being unreasonable. Hell, it’s happened before; just ask my wife.
(Though if she brings up that thing with the ‘French maid outfit’ again, don’t listen to her. Look, it was my birthday, and we’d been drinking, and it’s a pretty common fantasy. Back me up here, guys. I don’t think there was anything ‘unreasonable‘ about that.
I just wish I could’ve found a bigger thong to wear under my apron. I still have chafe marks down there. Plus all that lace was really tickly and distracting.
Um… ahem. Moving on, then.)
What I’m talking about is a higher standard. (For doctors, mind you, not thongs. Let it go. Just… let it go.) I’m not saying healthcare practitioners have to be perfect, by any means. I don’t expect them to be nutritional tightasses all the time. But for heaven’s sake, shouldn’t they indulge their fatty fantasies in a more private place?
(And if any of you have any lewd comments about ‘indulging fatty fantasies in private’… just don’t. You know what I mean. Let that go, too. Man, you people are a handful today!)
(‘Handful’? Got something for that, too? All right, that’s it — I think you need a time out. Geez, get your mind out of the gutter, would you?)
I just think the docs should be a little more sensitive to the example they’re setting, when their patients are sitting there among them, chomping down broccoli and lettuce and styrofoam and whatever other rabbit food shit they put in those salad thingies. How do people do that, anyway? It’s like eating a damned putting green. Who wants to do that? Have you ever seen someone eating a salad who looked happy? ‘Cause I sure haven’t.
And that’s why I think it’s insensitive — nay, downright rude — for the hospital folks to load up on burgers and fries right there by the workplace. It’s not really fair, now, is it? I think they should at least work out some sort of code — maybe for the ‘to go’ orders — that at least makes it seem that they’re setting a good example. Then maybe you’d hear something like:
McWeenie: Hi, welcome to McDonald’s! May I take your order?
Man in Lab Coat: Um, yes. I’d like the ‘special salad‘, please.
McWeenie: The ‘special salad‘?
Man in Lab Coat: That’s right, the ‘special salad‘. I’m a doctor.
McWeenie: Ahhhhh, the ‘Special Doctor Salad‘. Yes, sir.
Man in Lab Coat: With bacon —
McWeenie: That’s ‘tofu strips‘ —
Man in Lab Coat: And extra cheese.
McWeenie: Sir, shhhhh. Be cool. That’s double ‘heart-healthy soy slices‘. Check.
Man in Lab Coat: Sorry. I’m new at the hospital.
McWeenie: No problem, sir. Now then. Would you like… ahem, ‘carrot sticks‘ with that?
Man in Lab Coat: Are those golden-brown ‘carrot sticks‘?
McWeenie: Yes, sir.
Man in Lab Coat: Oh, then absolutely. In fact, could you McSuperSize the ‘carrot sticks‘?
McWeenie: Yes, sir. And to drink?
Man in Lab Coat: I’ll have the… oh, what’s it called… the ‘frozen health nog‘?
McWeenie: Okay — and what flavor of ‘health nog‘ would you like?
Man in Lab Coat: Er… well… what are the options again?
McWeenie: We have the ‘fiber nog‘ and the ‘vitamin nog‘.
Man in Lab Coat: Oh. Um. I see.
Man in Lab Coat: (whispering) Which one’s the chocolate shake, again?
McWeenie: (whispering) The ‘fiber‘.
Man in Lab Coat: I’ll have the ‘fiber nog‘, then, please.
McWeenie: Yes, sir. Your total is seven dollars and twelve cents.
Man in Lab Coat: Here you go. And well worth it for such a healthy, nutritious meal.
Man in Lab Coat: (whispering) Dude, you made the brown one ‘fiber‘? That’s so gross.
Yeah, maybe it’s not worth the effort. Maybe things are fine the way they are, as long as the docs don’t cop an attitude about it. I don’t want to see them flaunting their fatburgers all over the place, waving them in other people’s faces — ‘I got the cheeeeese-burger, and you don’t goooot none! You cannot eeeeat it, ’cause you are on the Lipitor! Nah nah nah naaaaa nah!‘
Eh, maybe I’m just jealous. I’m trying to be healthier myself, and I know I don’t appreciate seeing those bastards sitting there, with greasy globs of cow goo dripping down from their smug self-satisfied smiles. Asswipes.
But I suppose they’re entitled to eat whatever the hell they like. It’s a free country. Still, I hope they all get grease poisoning, and have their stomachs slowly, painfully pumped dry. Repeatedly. And then be put on strict boring vegan diets, with nothing but soy paste and romaine lettuce to eat for the rest of their lives. Is that wrong of me?
Permalink | 5 CommentsI don’t want to gross anyone out, or disturb the squeamish among you, but I have a small confession to make. This morning, I woke up and discovered that I’m out of deodorant. I used the last bit from the previous stick yesterday morning, and I just assumed there was more. There’s always more. I don’t know how it gets there — maybe my wife buys it, or it sprouts on a deodorant tree in the back of the closet, or the Mennen fairy flies in while we sleep to replenish my precious antiperspirant supply. I don’t know, and it doesn’t much matter. Whenever I need deodorant, it’s there. It’s always there.
Except today. Today the supply closet let me down. Oh, it wasn’t empty. There were all sorts of useful trinkets and potions in there — cold medicine, contact lens solution, rubbing alcohol, a big box of those cylindrical ‘back massage’ thingies.
(Why do those things have names like ‘Sandblaster‘ and ‘Mr. Pointypants‘? What the hell does that have to do with having tense shoulders?
Oh. Never mind. I’m sorry I asked.)
But there was no deodorant. So I did what any self-respecting, red-blooded American, desperate husband would do — I used my wife’s.
(As opposed to what a self-respecting, red-blooded American desperate bachelor would do, which would be to find some creative and readily available substitute. Like toothpaste, or flour, or ground-up aspirin. I was single once — I know what goes on. And I definitely prefer the ‘married option’.
Do you know how hard it is to clean half a tube of Aquafresh out of your armpit hair? It’s no picnic.)
Anyway, I didn’t have much of a choice. So I slapped on the sissy Secret sauce. I worried a bit, of course. For one thing, it’s ‘pH balanced for a woman’, right? So naturally I was concerned about the acid burns it might leave under my arms.
(Just to be sure, I glided a little bit on the side of one ass cheek first. The good news is that I didn’t experience any searing pains, and I’ve been able to sit normally all day. But the even better news is that my rear end has smelled like a spring meadow ever since. Jealous much?)
So I guess I got away with it. And it looks like I’ll have to get away with it tomorrow, and maybe the next day, too. I’m not sure exactly when I’ll get to the store to pick up some of my regular stuff, so I may be mooching the feminine stuff for a while.
And speaking of ‘feminine stuff’, I want to be clear that the deodorant grab is just about my limit for ‘borrowing’ personal hygeine supplies from the little woman. I’m cool with cadging Q-Tips from her, assuming she hasn’t used them first. But that’s it.
(I love my wife dearly, but someone else’s wax on the stick you’re about to poke into your head is hardly sexy.)
Oh, and we do use the same tube of toothpaste. Not at the same time, of course — we tried that once, with mixed results. Sure, our breaths were minty fresh, but so were our nostrils, our eyebrows, and much of our chests. Thank goodness we weren’t using electric toothbrushes yet; we could have killed each other. How would that look on the 11 o’clock news?
The deodorant, though, is as far as I’ll go. I don’t sneak into her skin care products, or perfumes, or her collection of exotic fragrant soaps.
(Who comes up with some of these scents, anyway? ‘Freesia Dreams‘? ‘Escape with Lilac‘? ‘Rose Petals at Dusk‘? Come on, ladies — they all smell like grandmas. Get over it.)
In short, I try to stay away from anything that would give itself away as ‘less than manly’, based on scent, feel, or appearance. I borrow only what I need, and what I think I can pull off wearing among my smartass friends. I’m not looking to do any vicarious living through cosmetics here. So no citrusy clarifying lotion, potpourri-scented body lotion, or avocado-oatmeal facial cream. My pores are pissed, but that’s just tough luck. They should have been born on a chick if they wanted all that smelly goop on them.
But I’m a little concerned about the deodorant. It jusr smells so pretty. And now, by association, so do I. Sure, it’s better than the alternative, but it does open me up to raised eyebrows and questioning looks, should anyone catch a whiff of the flowery crap under my arms. I’m gonna try to keep my wings firmly at my sides while I’m wearing the stuff, but I don’t know how feasible that’ll be. What if I have to pull something off a high shelf, or scratch my head, or ‘raise the roof’?
(Hey, it happens. You can never tell when the roof needs a good raising. It usually happens right after the dogs are let out. Be on the lookout.)
Anyway, I’ll do the best I can. I’ll wear the stuff until I can find the time to go buy something more appropriate for someone such as myself. Something musky, perhaps. Spicy. Pizza-scented, whatever. I don’t really care, as long as it’s not something that comes from a fricking garden. In the meantime, I’ve got one or two more days to survive as a ‘Secret guy’, hoping no one catches on and asks me about my ‘perfume’, or whether I’ve got lilacs tucked down my pants or something.
(For the record, I don’t. Nor would I. Tuck lilacs down my pants, that is. Rhododendrons, perhaps. Daisies, sure. Lilacs — no way. What do I look like, Martha Stewart over here?)
So, wish me luck. And for Chrissakes, don’t tell anyone about this. I catch enough crap as it is. I don’t need assholes running around my office calling me ‘ma’am’, or asking what ‘that intoxicating aroma’ could be. Because if they ever find out it’s my hairy armpits oozing out the flowery scent, neither of us is gonna be happy. But only one of us is gonna take heat over it. And I don’t know whether Secret can keep a non-pH-balanced guy dry during that kind of stress. I only know that I never want to find out.
Permalink | 5 CommentsThe wife and I went furniture shopping today, looking for a dining room table.
Does anyone out there have a bayonet I can borrow, to cram into one of my eye sockets? Or an industrial circular saw I could use to slit my damned wrists?
My god, what a painful, spasm-inducing, bag-of-crap experience that was. We were out for four fricking hours, and bought a big fat bunch of nothing. And we only visited two stores. Two! How the hell does that happen? How the hell can a guy ‘window shop’ for four hours and walk away empty-handed?
(Hell, even in Amsterdam, most guys grab an ashtray or something as a souvenir on the way out the door, after their ‘window shopping’ transaction has ended. And they’re not in there for four hours, either. I don’t care what the hell it says in ‘Penthouse Letters‘.)
Anyway, this was not your normal, garden-variety four hours. This was six and a half weeks packed into a four-hour time slot. Like Gandhi, if you’ve seen it before, or pretty much anything Ken Burns has ever done. I walked out of the second place entirely drained — I couldn’t even drive home. I just sat in the passenger seat, twitching and bleeding from the ears, while my wife got us back safely.
(I don’t know how the hell she did it. I could barely control my sphincter after that little slice of hell; where she found the intestinal fortitude to navigate a car, I’ll never know. She’s an infinitely better shopper than I. Maybe it’s genetic. I have no idea.)
So, just in case you’re interested, I’ll tell you how it went.
(This won’t take four hours. I promise. It may seem like it, but I can’t help that. I gotta write about the material I’m dealt. Deal.)
The first place we went was enormous. Couches, beds, recliners, tables, rugs — room after room of pricey furniture and home accessories. This particular furniture store is part of a chain that ‘themes’ each of its showrooms. (Ostensibly to distract the patrons from the hefty price tags attached to the merchandise. And to attract hordes of small screaming children. Peachy.) We were in the ‘Mardi Gras’ outlet. There were beads and piped-in jazz music and New Orleans street scenes painted on all the walls. Really, they had everything but the watered-down Hurricanes and gap-toothed hookers.
(Which means they really didn’t have anything, of course. Anything really important, anyway. But let’s move on, shall we?)
Anyway, we stepped into the dining room area, paused over a cherrywood table, and were immediately set upon by one of the store’s overeager employee leeches. His name, according to the tag on his shirt, was ‘Al’. ‘Overagressive Assbag Al’, as I’d soon come to know him. He turned on the smarm from the millisecond he saw us.
Al: Hi, folks. You like that table? You looking for a table? That’s a nice table!
Wife: Um, yeah. We’re looking for a dining room table.
Al: Well, that’s a nice table. I really like that table. Don’t you love that table? What a great table!
Wife: Uh… okay, sure. It’s nice. These chairs here — does the upholstery come in different fabrics?
Al: Hey, great question! Fantastic question! Unfortunately… no. But what a great question! And nice chairs, don’t you think?
Wife: Well, we’re really looking for something in a little different color. Maybe we’ll just browse around.
Al: Okay, that’s super! Just super! Did you just walk in? I didn’t realize — by all means, look around. If you have any questions, just let me know. Really, really super!
Wife: O-kay. We’ll be way over here, then.
We got as far as the next table. Thirty seconds later, up stepped Al for round two:
Al: Hey, that’s a cherry table! The last table you looked at was cherry! Are you looking for a cherry table?
Wife: Yes, we’re pretty much set on a cherry finish, I think.
Al: Stupendical! Hey, you like that word? I just made that up! We’ve got lots of cherry tables! Hey, cherry’s my favorite!
Wife: That sounds, um, good. We’ll just walk around and take a look at a few, okay?
Al: Perfect! Good idea! Have at ’em! Just let me know if you have any questions! Cherry questions! Ha ha ha ha ha!
Two minutes and three tables later, somebody pulls Al’s chain and he comes skipping up again:
Al: Hey there! I know you! Hey, I just thought of something. There’s a table over here — on sale! Comes with chairs! Big discount! Woo! Woo!
Wife: Hmmm… I don’t know. That one’s kind of plain.
Al: Plain is good! Less is more! It’s cherry — you like cherry. It’s cheeeeee-reeeeey!
Wife: Huh. Well, it is a pretty good price. Maybe we should look at this one.
Al: Look! Look! It’ll be fun! On sale — limited time! Get it while it’s hot! Hot cherries! Cherry jubilee! Wheeee!
Wife: Dude. Take it down a notch. We’ll think about it.
Al: Woo hoo! Yes, ma’am! I’ll be way over there until you need me.
Al: Got a question? No? Okay — I’ll be over there.
Al: Now? Question? No? Okay. Just ask.
Al: What? Did you ask? No? All right, I’ll go over there now. Talk about the table! Whoo!
Needless to say, Al didn’t actually go the hell away. First, he came to tell us that only the floor model was left. We didn’t like that much, so he came back thirty seconds later to ‘confide’ that he’d ‘discovered’ that there were a couple of other tables left. (Where, I don’t know. Back-ordered, in another store, crammed up his rather ample ass — I couldn’t really say. The last thing I was going to do was encourage ‘Big Al’ with a real question. I stuck to half-nods and quarter-smiles until he finally unhooked his grubby suckers from our foreheads and slithered off. As soon as he was out of sight, we got the hell out of that section and went for a soda.
To our credit, we actually did talk about the table for a while, just like we said we would. We even snuck back into the room for a second look, hiding behind armoires and ducking under end tables in case Al was lurking somewhere. But he wasn’t. Maybe he’d glommed onto another unsuspecting couple, or he’d retired to his lair for a quick smoke or a cup of coffee. I don’t know. All I can tell you is that we went back, decided the table wasn’t ‘all that’, and hit the door. The whole experience took an hour and a half. I thought the worst was over. How wrong I was. How very, terrifyingly wrong.
The lady employee who leapt at us as we walked into the next place wasn’t quite so… animated as Al. Her torture was simpler, more subtle. More devious. She didn’t come and go, or gush over her merchandise, or hard-sell us on any one piece. Rather, she overwhelmed us with information. She taught us ‘Dining Room Tables 101’, ‘102’, and three semesters of ‘103’. She instructed, illustrated, and opined. She was a freaking didactic whirlwind, flinging info and numbers and errata in all directions, like so much monkey poo. It began immediately, and never let up the whole time we were there.
Her primary weapon was the in-store information books. Soon after greeting us, she ran to get one catalog, then another, and then an armful more. Huge, heavy tomes, each holding several volumes of furniture manufacturers’ brochures. She flipped through them rapid-fire, thumbing through page after page as she laid down the dope on everything she saw:
‘Oh, this one’s beautiful. So elegant…‘
‘Tsk. The lines in this collection are so straight, so pedestrian. I really don’t care for the design…‘
‘Ah, see here how the same table leg motif has been used with a different table top? Very common…‘
‘Now this designer will be here in the store in January. We’re very excited…‘
On and on she went. The commentary was all over the map — the historical context of various designs, options for gilding and ornamental extras, gossip about the manufacturers, store policies, her favorite pieces and designers, and — in beautiful but all-too-brief moments — dining damned room fricking tables. Ugly, pretentious, and outrageously-priced tables, but shit — at least when she was waxing poetic about some neo-Victorian monstrosity meant to be eaten from, I could pretend that I gave a flying beaver butt. Because at least then she was close to the damned topic.
But it didn’t happen often, and eventually I zoned completely out. My brain retreated — I think it crawled down my spinal cord and set up shop in a lung for a while — and I just stood there, drooling and periodically nodding until the bitch finally ran out of saliva, and had to let us go. I swear to God, if she’d had a glass of water handy, we’d still frickin’ be there, hearing about wood staining brushes and distressing techniques and the advantages of a cabinet to hold the extra table leaves and — oh, for holy fuck’s sake, just kill me now!! Damn!
Finally, though, we made it out. My wife — bless her ever-patient, bullshit-resistant heart — suggested that we had time to check one more place before it was time to head home. I tried to give her a dirty look. Really, I did. I’m a weak man; what can I say? I know it wasn’t her fault, but we’d just been assaulted by two of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
(‘Manic’ and ‘Pedantic’, I think it was. But I might be thinking of another group of terrifying bastards. Were those two of the seven dwarves? Eh. I forget.)
Anyway, there was no way I was ready to subject myself to more torture, or risk running into another one of these damned vampires. So I tried to glare icily at my wife, to get the point across. I don’t think it worked, particularly — given her reaction, I’m guessing that I didn’t exactly have daggers shooting from my eyes. Tears, maybe, or blood, but not daggers. I saw pity in her eyes as she looked back at me. But my pitiful gaze got the job done — she mercifully led me to the car, and drove me home. I just pray that I never see another dining room table again, until one of the damned things is delivered to our door.
If even then. I honestly don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. I’ve been hurt before, and hurt badly. And I don’t really mind eating over the sink for the next forty years. Really, it’ll be fun. Just please, for the love of Christmas, don’t make me go out there again and look at tables! (Please! Honey, are you reading this? Do you love me? Even a little? Hello?) Ugh. Can I see that table saw now?
Permalink | 4 CommentsSo, I’m wondering. I write a lot of shit here.
(And just to clarify, the emphasis in that sentence is on ‘lot’. As in:
‘I write a lot of shit here.‘
The emphasis is not elsewhere. Specifically, I’m not saying:
‘I write a lot of shit here.‘
You wanna say that, you go right ahead. I’m not doin’ it. I got plenty of people who can say that for me. And do, on a regular basis. The bitches.)
Anyway, the volume of stuff being spewed around here is pretty damned impressive.
(No, really! Be impressed, dammit! Be impressed!)
And I’ve spent a honkin’ big load of time writing this stuff down. And so, I began to wonder — just how many words have I typed in here, anyway? So I’m gonna check. And now you’re along for the ride. Keep reading, and you’ll find out. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
First, though, I’ll make a prediction. Here’s what I’m thinking. I’m guessing (based on an anecdotal report a few weeks ago by the lovely and talented Suzette) that the posts here average a couple of thousand words or so, give or take a paragraph. And I bet I’m up to one hundred and fifty posts or so by now.
(Ed. note: One hundred and sixty-nine, to be exact, if I’ve counted correctly. Which is pretty damned unlikely. But still!)
So — if I’m right, for pretty much the very first time ever — that should be well over a quarter of a million words here on the main site. Add to that the text from the 101 Things Posts, at maybe five hundred words per, and that’s around three hundred thousand words. Twenty weeks, three hundred thousand words.
(That’s three hundred pictures’ worth of verbiage, if you keep track of such things. Which is approximately nine issues’ worth of Hustler. Or, um, so I hear. If you can believe what you hear. On PBS. Moving on.)
So, let’s see how close I got.
(And no, that’s not the same thing I say after sex. Focus, dammit.)
Here’s what I’ll do. I’ve got weekly archives. I’ll copy the full text of each one — excluding the links and shit on the sides, so you can’t say I cheated — into Word, and do a word count on it. It’s not completely accurate, but it’ll do.
(What, did you think I was gonna sit here and count frickin’ words one by one? Damn. I mean, I love you guys, really, but shit — even I have better things to do. Pickin’ my damned navel is more interesting than that. Marginally.)
Then, using the bevy — that’s right, the bevy, and that’s not even the word of the day! Where else do you get highbrow bullshit like this? — of analytical tools at my disposal (i.e, a calculator), I’ll sum up all the weekly counts, and add in the 101 Things posts, and then we’ll see how well I guessed. Ready? Okay, here we go. Here are the tallies for each week in the archives, listed by the day at the end of the week:
June 21: 11,438 words (partial week)
June 28: 16,860 words
July 5: 14,529 words
July 12: 16,224 words
July 19: 11,110 words
July 26: 15,979 words
August 2: 9,863 words
August 9: 11,311 words
August 16: 12,768 words
August 23: 11,232 words
August 30: 11,678 words
September 6: 10,734 words
September 13: 13,209 words
September 20: 11,521 words
September 27: 10,316 words
October 4: 13,957 words
October 11: 12,618 words
October 18: 12,571 words
October 25: 11,959 words
November 1: 10,638 words (partial week)
Totalling those up, we get… lessee, carry the three… one plus six is seven… four plus nine is, um, twelve or so… 250,245 words.
Seriously. I was within one tenth of one percent with my guess. I’m not shitting you. I’m as amazed as you are. The shock around here is positively palpable. No joke.
Now, to be fair, I should subtract a couple of thousand from the total for the words that aren’t actually mine. The dates at the top each post, for instance, and the ‘Comments’ links. But you know what? Fuck it. I’ve easily edited out that many words — hell, I’ve deleted whole entries before they’ve seen the light of day, and Blogger’s done the same for me more than once. So the number stands. A quarter of a million words and change. Woo fuckin’ hoo. How’s that for verbosity, eh?
Now — if I can manage the mind-numbingly boring process of checking them all — let’s see about the 101 Things. I’ll roll the totals up by tens, to make it easier. (I’m all about enhancing your pleasure, you know. Um, your viewing pleasure, that is. I can only help you if you like to watch. You wanna touch? You’re on your own. Sicko.) Anyway, here’s the count:
Things 1-10: 5,391 words
Things 11-20: 10,141 words
Things 21-30: 6,542 words
Things 31-40: 7,779 words
Things 41-50: 6,602 words
Things 51-60: 7,649 words
Things 61-70: 8,260 words
Things 71-80: 7,317 words
Things 81-90: 7,814 words
Things 91-101 (plus the index page): 10,626 words
And that brings the total here to… 78,121 words. Heh. I’m a little bit wordier than I gave myself credit for. (By about fifty percent. I’m sure there’s a lesson in this somewhere. Oh, well.)
Anyway, the point is… um, yeah, I’m pretty sure there was no point. I was just curious. But I think it’s fair to say — even allowing for MS Word’s almost certain miscalculations — that I’m over the three hundred thousand word count. For what that’s worth, which isn’t much.
(As the old saying goes, ‘Three hundred thousand words and a buck will get you a cup of coffee.‘ A buck. Right. These assholes never went to Starbucks. Gotta take a damned loan out there to get a cuppa joe. Harrumph.)
So, that’s it. Sorry for the even-more-blatant-than-usual self-indulgence. I hope this bout of mathematical masturbation hasn’t lowered your opinion of me.
(Hey, to be honest, I feel better about myself. Oh, not about the number of words — that’s just gravy. I’m just impressed that I could add all those numbers up without blowing a damned artery. Woo, me!)
In any event, thanks for hanging in there. If nothing else, maybe I’ve proven my prolificality… er, prolifitatiousness… proliferitude? Um, my wordiage? How fucked up my priorities are? Anyone?
Whatever. All this tells me is what I already knew — week for week, pound for pound, more drivel gets slung around here than in any other blog, diary, or journal I’ve seen. So if it’s quantity you’re looking for, bub, tie up your horse and put the feedbag on. You’re gonna be here a while.
(And no, ‘tie up your horse and put the feedbag on’ is not some sort of weird Southwestern sexual euphemism. Not as far as I know, anyway. On the other hand, you can do whatever the hell you want while you’re cruising around the site. So sling on those stirrups and lather up if you want; just keep the baby oil off the mouse. You don’t want that puppy slipping out of your hand when it’s time to scroll, now, do you?)
Thus concludes the first (and almost certainly last) Where the Hell Was I? statistical blog summary. Tomorrow, we’ll return you to your usual menu of absurdist drivel. For now, good night, and try to get that image out of your head. You know the one — the cowboy, wearing nothing but a ten-gallon hat and a set of spurs, mumbling and fumbling with a lubed-up mouse as a pony neighs softly in the background. Yeah, that’s the one. Guh.
Man, it’s gonna be a long night. *shiver*
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