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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
My nose is driving me crazy. It’s so damned itchy.
(I’ve mentioned my little nasal issue before.)
For some reason, it’s always worse after I exert myself. Like tonight, when I played volleyball. Now, I don’t know why it happens this way. Maybe snorting in other people’s funky BO for three hours has something to do with it. Or maybe sweat works its way in there somehow and gets all tickly. More likely, I imagine all the huffing and puffing wiggles the hairs in there around, scraping them against the sides like a bunch of nasty little feathers.
(Come to think of it, that might not be it, either. If it’s heavy breathing that sets me off, shouldn’t the same thing happen during sex, too? And how inconvenient would that be?
‘Oh yeah, baby… *snnnorrrt* That’s the way I *ggggrrrrkkkk* like it. Oh, yeah, who’s your daddy? Who’s your *ssshhhnnnuuurrfff* daddy?’
Yeah, and that’s not happening, let me assure you. Let me tell you, people — I will put up with a lot of strange noises during the old ugly-bumping. Some nights, the stranger, the better. But no one — and I mean no one — in the bed is going to be making piggy noises. Or anything that could be construed as piggy noises. I’ve seen Deliverance. I ain’t goin’ out like that.)
Anyway, back to my nostrils.
(Sounds tasty, doesn’t it? You want some fries with those noseholes? No? Okay.)
So, I’m pretty sure it’s the hair up in there causing the problem. But there’s damned little that I can do about it during the sport, now, is there? I’m not going to get caught returning serve with a finger jammed up there, trying to comb that shit down. If that ball hit me in the arm, I might poke myself in the brain. And that hurts, people. Take it from me — that frigging hurts.
(You know, it’s times like these when I start to think that solipsism looks pretty fucking good as a personal philosophy. If I can just convince myself that all you people are simply figments of my fractured imagination, then I won’t have to be embarrassed by this crap any more. I think I’ll work on this. No offense, by the way. You’re nice figments, really. I couldn’t have come up with better figments myself.
At least I guess I couldn’t. I mean, I didn’t, now, did I? So clearly there’s some limitation on my powers. Damn!)
But I can’t be certain that the hair’s to blame, because I can’t see it itching me. See, if it is the hair, then I usually feel it before I can see it. When I finally reach the privacy of my own home, I can get in there and clean house. I can tweeze, or clip, or do whatever it takes, and the problem is solved. Hair trimmed, itch gone. Which brings me to something truly amazing. Gross, certainly. Icky. Creepy. But amazing, nonetheless. Stick with me here.
I know this guy. I see him once a week or so; we’ve known each other for a couple of months. And this guy — this astounding guy — has a whole friggin’ follicluar forest hanging out his nostrils. It’s mesmerizing. I can’t look at anything else. I couldn’t even tell you what the guy looks like. For all I know, he’s got three arms, or a fetus growing out of his ass, or he’s just a disembodied head floating around talking to people. I honestly don’t know. All I can see is the hair. Seriously, it’s like he’s got a whole Gene Shalit thing going on up in there, only it’s growing ‘up and in’ rather than ‘out and away’. I’m surprised that much hair would even fit in a nose, to tell the truth. It’s shocking. Really.
And if my little hairlets are giving me so much trouble, what the hell do you think this guy goes through? I don’t know how the guy makes it out of the house in the morning. And how does he scratch it, anyway? I’m not sure a naked human finger could get through all that underbrush. He probably has to go in there with a pencil eraser, or a butter knife, or maybe an electric toothbrush. Yeah, that can’t be comfortable.
But how does he stand it? That stuff’s got to give him frigging fits. Unless… maybe those hairs in there only itch when they’re growing in. Maybe once they’ve spread out and gotten comfortable, it’s all cool. Maybe the key is to cultivate those puppies, and let ’em get as long as they want. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen this guy scratch his nose with his finger, or wing, or flipper, or whatever the hell he has. And the tickle-inducing ends of his hairs are all flopping out the end of his nose, waving in the breeze. Maybe that’s the way to go.
I don’t think I could do it, though. For one, I’d never make it through the ‘growth phase’. Man, ten minutes of this itchy crap is too much; ten months of it? I’d be in there with a Weed Whacker in the first week. There’s no way. So I guess I’ll just deal with my current problem, and go find a way to make this damned itching stop. I think I know what I have to do. I’ve got an electric toothbrush upstairs, and it’s got my nose’s name all over it. I’ll be back in a few minutes; wish me luck.
Permalink | 1 Commentaka ‘How the Wheel Turned On Me‘
(Wee Hours Update: Welcome to any and all of you nice folks coming from Electric Venom, as part of the ‘Shameless Link Whoring’ project. As a shameless link whore myself, I’d like to thank Kate for the offer to siphon off her hits for a day. Go check her out, folks! Woo!)
All right, folks. I’m trying something new today, so we’ll just have to see how it goes. This is the sort of high-concept complicated shit that you might expect out of this guy, but it’s never been attempted here before. I’m working without a net, people, so it could get messy. You might want to put on that complimentary poncho now, just in case.
Okay. The stage has been set, the disclaimers have been disclaimed, and your precious apparel and valuables are now protected by a thin sheet of cheap plastic. I think we can get started now.
So, a while back I was a contestant on the ‘Wheel of Fortune‘. Except I wasn’t. Not so far as you could tell, anyway. I went through the full day of taping, and did everything that contestants are supposed to do, but the network bastards cut me out of the show. It’s like I wasn’t even there. How rude.
But fear not, folks. Through a series of near-Herculean feats — many of them involving ether-soaked rags, exorbitant bribes, and/or Chilean belly dancers — I have managed to get my grubby little paws on the footage that was cut out of that show. You’ll never see it on television (and I can’t imagine why), but you can read the transcript of my game show experience below, right up to the point where they unceremoniously hustled me out the studio door. Frankly, I don’t see what all the fuss was about — it seems awfully arbitrary and unfair. I didn’t even get a copy of the home game. Lousy bastards.
Anyway, here are the clips I was able to find. Since they’re only the bits that featured me — and since you’re obviously not seeing the corresponding video feed — I’ll let you know important details like which letters were showing at the time and the category for the current word. Ready? Okay, here we go. Enjoy!
Unused video segments — Wheel of Fortune — Season Six, Episode Nine
Pat Sajak: That brings us to our next contestant, Charlie. Tell us a bit about yourself, Charlie.
Me: Sure, Pat. I came here from Boston. I’m a registered Mensa Mind Master and I work at Harvard University, where I… um, teach professors how to be smarter. And in my spare time, I perform complicated brain surgeries. I also play third base for the Red Sox.
Pat: Um… It, uh, says here that you’re unemployed. And our screening tests indicate you have the IQ of… let’s see… a hairball.
Me: A hairball?
Pat: That’s what it says, yes.
Me: Freshly coughed?
Pat: Well, it does say ‘soggy hairball’. So yes, I would assume so.
Me: I see.
Pat: Maybe you want to try your intro again?
Me: Okay.
Pat: All right, cut. Stop the film, and let’s take it from his intro.
Pat: So, that brings us to Charlie. What can you tell us about yourself?
Me: Well, Pat, let’s see. I’m from Boston. I… um, I’m ‘self-employed’ at the moment.
Pat: Okay…
Me: Not that I was fired from my last job, or anything. I, uh, left. Right, I left.
Pat: Um, all right, then. So let’s get started with —
Me: To travel the world.
Pat: What?
Me: I left to travel the world.
Pat: Oh. Okay, fine. Moving on —
Me: On my Nobel Prize money.
Pat: Oh, for the love of God. Look, you didn’t win a Nobel Prize, all right?
Me: Well… I know. But can’t I just say I did?
Pat: No!
Me: Why not?
Pat: Because it’s a lie! I’m not going to let you lie on my show!
Me: Oh, bullshit, Pat. You let these two yokels yank my chain with their made-up nonsense, trying to psyche me out. ‘Corporate lawyer’ and ‘cancer biologist’ — yeah, right.
Joe: But I am a corporate lawyer. I’m a partner, in fact, in the biggest firm in Manhattan.
Alice: Yes, and I’m a cancer researcher at the Mayo Clinic. It’s not a lie.
Me: Oh. Um… oh. No shit, huh? Well. That’s different, I guess.
Pat: Okay, then. Can we take this from the top? For real this time?
Me: Yeah, I guess. Damn.
Pat: Okay, from the intro. Take three!
Pat: So our last contestant today is Charlie. Anything you’d like to say, Charlie?
Me: Yeah.
Pat: Okay, go right ahead. Tell us about yourself.
Me: Yeah.
Pat: All right… go ahead.
Me: Yeah. Definitely.
Pat: Look, let’s just move —
Me: I’m an excellent driver. Definitely an excellent driver.
Pat: Oh, for the love of… forget it. We’ll just splice some shit together later. Cut!
Round 1: Joe and Alice have had a turn, but they’re of precious little help. Couple of asshat boobs, if you ask me.
Category: Movie title
-ONE W— –E W-N-
Pat: Okay, Charlie, your spin.
Me: Pat, I’d like to solve the puzzle.
Pat: You, um, you don’t have any money yet. Why don’t you spin?
Me: Nope. Pat, my mother always told me, ‘Son, you’ve got to grab life by the short and curlies’. I’m not letting this one get away.
Pat: Well, all right then. Solve away.
Me: Obviously, the answer is ‘BONE WITH THE WANG’. Thank you, thank you.
Pat: Actually, that’s incorrect.
Me: Incorrect? What’s incorrect?
Pat: Your answer. It’s not correct. You lose your turn.
Me: Wait, what answer?
Pat: The answer you just gave. It’s wrong.
Me: What answer? Say it.
Pat: *sigh* ‘BONE WITH THE WANG’.
Me: Hee! You said ‘wang‘. *snort*
Pat: Dammit, cut!
Round 1: Joe and Alice are worthless. They luck into a couple of H’s while taking turns playing ‘Sit ‘n’ Spin’ on their thumbs. The board comes back to me.
Category: Movie title
-ONE W–H -HE W-N-
Pat: All right, Charlie. Spin away.
Me: Okay. Here we go. *spin* Yay! Big boobies! *clap clap* Let’s go, big boobies!
Pat: What?!
Me: I said ‘big boobies’. Everybody says that when they spin.
Pat: No. It’s ‘big money’. People say, ‘Come on, big money.’
Me: Oh. Sorry. Can I try again?
Pat: Well, we don’t usually do that… but we can’t show that last spin, so what the hell? Go ahead.
Me: Okay, thanks. Here we go! *spin* Big monkeys! Here we go, give me biiig monkeys!
Pat: Oh, good gravy. Stop the film! Cut! Cut!
Round 1: Same turn. Off camera, Pat’s instructed me to say nothing at all when I spin. These big Hollywood stars can be so pissy.
Category: Movie title
-ONE W–H -HE W-N-
Pat: Charlie, your spin. Just… spin, all right? Nothing else. Spin.
Me: Sure, Pat. Jeez, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m spinning, I’m spinning. *spin*
Pat: Okay, $300. Fine. Guess a letter.
Me: How about ‘T’?
Pat: The guess is ‘T’. Vanna, any ‘T’s?
Me: Oh, that Vanna is always a ‘tease’? Snap, yo!
Pat: Um, yes. Moving on… there are two ‘T’s. Vanna, if you would.
Me: Holy hunchback mother of God! What the hell is up with Vanna? Did somebody pass her through a wood chipper, or what?
Pat: What? Oh, right. Yeah, I should have mentioned. We do a bit of, um, ‘post-production editing’ to make Vanna look the way you’re used to seeing on TV.
Me: Shit, I’ll say. You must have a whole goddamned team from Pixar in here. Ouch!
Vanna: Excuse me! I’m right here.
Me: (to Pat) Wow, you do a number on the voice, too, huh? She sounds like the frickin’ Cookie Monster.
Pat: Yeah, it’s tough. That’s like eighty percent of the show’s budget right there.
Me: Yeah, I bet. I never realized she had that lazy eye. Not to mention the wooden leg. Jeez.
Pat: Oh, that one’s easy to hide. They just copy the good leg over to the other hip and animate it. Look closely next time you watch — on TV, she’s always wearing two left shoes.
Me: Freaky.
Round 1: Same turn. Hopalong Vanna has finally turned the ‘T’s.
Category: Movie title
-ONE W-TH THE W-N-
Me: Pat, I think I’d like to solve the puzzle, please.
Pat: Okay, go ahead.
Me: Is it ‘BONE WITH THE WANG’?
Pat: Oh, for Pete’s sake… no! It wasn’t that last time, and it’s still not it. Get over it.
Me: How about ‘DONE WITH THE WANG’?
Pat: No. What? No!
Me: Come on, it’s like the sequel. First, you ‘BONE WITH THE WANG’; then you’re ‘DONE WITH THE WANG’.
Pat: No! Just… no. Next contestant.
Me: ‘DONE WITH THE WANK’?
Pat: Look. You only get one guess. You’re done.
Me: ‘BONE WITH THE WAND’? ‘GONE WITH THE WANG’?
Pat: Stop it.
Me: ‘BONE WITH A WINK?’
Pat: Stop —
Me: ‘SING WITH A WANG’?
Pat: No, that’s —
Me: ‘HUNG LIKE A WOOKIE’?
Pat: Okay, that doesn’t even make sense. Now look. You had your guess. We’re moving on.
Me: ‘HOME ON THE RANGE’?
Pat: That doesn’t even fit. You’re done.
Me: ‘HOME ON THE WANKING RANGE’?
Pat: Oh, fuck this. I’m going to lunch.
Me: What if I put it in the form of a question?
Pat: (stomping off the stage) Somebody get my bottle of scotch. Cut!
Round 2: Alice eventually solved the first puzzle. (‘GONE WITH THE WIND’ — who knew?) We’re in the second round now, after Joe’s first spin.
Category: TV News Anchor
P—- J—INGS
Pat: Nice work, Joe. And now it’s Charlie’s turn. Time to spin.
Me: Nope, I’m solving it, Pat.
Pat: No. Please, for the love of God… just spin the damned wheel.
Me: Sorry, can’t do it. I know this one. ‘PENIS JERKINGS’.
Pat: (with head in hands) ‘PENIS JERKINGS’. That’s your answer, is it? ‘PENIS JERKINGS’?
Me: That’s right.
Pat: So you’re saying there’s a news man out there somewhere, starting off the six o’clock broadcast with ‘Good evening, this is Penis Jerkings with the news of the day.‘
Me: I’m guessing that there could be, yes.
Pat: I see. So that’s your guess, then?
Me: Yep.
Pat: Not gonna change your mind?
Me: Nope. ‘PENIS JERKINGS’ it is. Show me the monkeys, Pat!
Pat: ‘Show me the monkeys…‘ Oh, I can’t fucking stand it. Stop taping! Stop!
Round 3: Alice and Joe manage to finish off ‘PETER JENNINGS’. (Who the hell is that?) There’s time for one more puzzle. I get to spin first.
Category: Country
———–
Pat: Okay, the answer to this puzzle is the name of a country. Let’s get this the hell over with. Charlie, you —
Me: I’ll solve.
Pat: Oh. Right, of course. All right, knock yourself out. What’s the country?
Me: It’s ‘POOPENVANIA’, Pat.
Pat: ‘POOPENVANIA’?
Me: Yep. That’s my final answer.
Pat: Oh, you douchebag, that’s not even the right show. Cut!
Round 3: My fellow contestants do the easy work. Lazy assbags. It’s up to me to guess the hard part.
Category: Country
——LA-DS
Pat: Oh, too bad, Joe. You went bankrupt. Just like Charlie’s frickin’ soul. Hey, speak of the devil! You’re not actually gonna do us a favor and spin this time, are you?
Me: Nope, I’m solving.
Pat: Oh, goody. I can hardly wait. Fire away, numbnuts.
Me: Is it ‘PECKERLANDS’?
Pat: *sigh* No, it isn’t ‘PECKERLANDS’. And the whole audience is now dumber for having heard it. Next!
Round 3: Alice and Joe contribute a couple of ‘N’s between them on the next turn. Lobotomized gibbons could do better. (‘Show me the monkeys!’)
Category: Country
N—–LANDS
Pat: Oh, joy. We’re back to Charlie. What’s it gonna be this time? ‘NIPPLELANDS’? ‘NOSTRILLANDS’? NASTY-HONKING-HOOTER-ALIA’?
Me: *snicker* No, no… I’ve been thinking about this one, Pat. I’ve *snort* — I’ve got a good one this time. It’s hilarious.
Pat: Great. Excuse me while I impale myself on the fricking wheel. *sigh* All right, what is it?
Me: Hee. How about ‘NETHER LANDS’? *giggle* Like the ‘nether regions’? Get it? *snort*
Pat: ‘NETHERLANDS’?
Me: Mmmm-hmmm. ‘Nether‘! *mrrrf*
Pat: For the love of freakin’ Christmas. That’s right. Holy shit, the cluetard got one right. And… oh, crap. That’s the last round. That puts you ahead. You just won the whole damned thing. I think I’m gonna be sick.
Me: Yay! All right! Go, me! It’s my birthday — go Charlie, go Charlie… I’m in the monkeys; I’m in the monkeys…
Pat: Oh, nice. Would somebody please shoot me now? We’re not really giving this assbag bonus prizes, are we? Ugh. I need a ten-minute break. Cut!
Bonus Round: Finally, a chance to show what I can do without those assholes Joe and Alice holding me back. And I finally get to stand next to Pat. Who smells of hair gel and cheap gin, by the way. Just like Grandma used to. (‘Mmmmm… grandmas.’)
Pat: All right, what are you playing for, anyway?
Me: I’m going for the twenty-five thousand dollars, Pat.
Pat: Fine. That’s the biggest prize, so you get the hardest word. Good luck with that, pissbrain. Here’s your clue. The category is ‘Animal’. It’s a five-letter word. We’ll give you E, R, S, T, N, and L by default. But they’re not in there, so I don’t know why I’m bothering to tell you. Now, you get to pick three more consonants and a vowel. What do you want?
Me: Well, first off, Pat, I’m going to pick ‘U’ and ‘I’, in honor of Vanna, ’cause when I look at her, and she looks back at me — with her one good eye, anyway — I just want to tell her that ‘U’ and ‘I’ should be together always.
Pat: That’s, um, sweet. I suppose.
Me: How ’bout it, Vanna? I’ll bring my ‘wooden leg’ if you bring yours.
Vanna: Um, ew!
Me: ‘Ooooh‘?
Vanna: No. ‘Ewwwww‘.
Me: Oh. ‘Ew‘. Yeah, I get that a lot.
Pat: All right, hose it down, there, Romeo. Let’s get back to the game. For one thing, you’re a moron, because ‘I’ and ‘U’ are both vowels. But I’m gonna give ’em both to you, anyway. Fuck what the judges are screaming into my earpiece. Hey! You people aren’t the boss of me! So, you’ve got ‘I’ and ‘U’. Neither of them are in the damned word, so what the hell do I care? What else you want?
Me: Well, Pat, I think I’ll take a ‘V’, for ‘Vanna’. And a ‘W’, for ‘White’. Or for ‘woman’, because she’s all woman.
Pat: Yeah, you’d think so, wouldn’t you? Maybe you should take another ‘V’ for ‘vagina’, ’cause between the two of you, you’re not gonna have one.
Vanna: Up yours, Pat. That’s a damned lie. And I’ve got the pictures from the back of your limo to prove it!
Me: Ooh. You tell him, Vanna. Hey, if you need someone to back you up, you can count on me. I just gotta see the ‘proof in the pudding’ first, if you know what I mean.
Vanna: Ugh. Gag me.
Me: Yes. Finally, we’re on the same wavelength. All right!
Vanna: What? No, I — oh. Ewwwwwwww! That’s it! (storming — well, okay, limping — off the stage) I’m not working like this. Turn your own goddamned letters.
Pat: Great. Now you pissed off the help. Wonderful. Well, the good news is that you’ve got no letters to turn over. ‘I’, ‘U’, ‘V’, and ‘W’ — none of them are there. You got nothing. Zip. Diddle. Let’s throw ten seconds on the clock and get this train wreck frigging over with. Your time starts… now!
Me: Hmmm… animal, animal, animal…
Pat: Five seconds.
Me: I bet ‘Vanna’ is an ‘animal’… but I’m pretty sure that ‘Vanna’ would have a ‘V’ in it. Or maybe a ‘W’. Hmmm…
Pat: Three… and two… and one… last chance to make another embarrassing, inappropriate guess!
Me: ‘BOOBY’!
Pat: Time’s up! The guess was ‘BOOBY’. Well, of course it was. Dumbass. I’m sorry, but ‘BOOBY’ is incor — What? The judges are telling me… you have got to be fucking kidding. The answer is ‘BOOBY‘?!?
Me: Well, sure, Pat. The booby is a large wading bird, closely related to the egret and heron families. There are several kinds of boobies, with the most well-known being the blue-footed booby. Come on, dude — booby. Everybody knows about the booby birds.
Pat: Oh, that’s it. That is fucking it! Get this sicko off my stage. You get nothing, you hear me? Not a damned penny! Security! Get him out! Out! Don’t you ever come back to this studio again! Don’t even frigging watch this show any more! Out!!
Me: All right, all right, I’m going. Easy, fellas. Whoa, hey, careful there! Look — hey! While you’re carting me off… hey, can I just say one thing to Pat? Pat! Pat!
Pat: What, goddamn it?
Me: *snicker* You said ‘booby’! *snort*
And that was it. Three big stagehands picked my ass up and carted me off the lot. They even threatened to cite me for ‘conduct unbecoming a contestant’ and ‘untoward behavior on a game show set’. I never got a dime from the show — even though I won — and I didn’t even get to appear in the show. That’s all right, though. At least now you know the truth.
But if you see an episode of ‘da Wheel‘ that seems shorter than usual, and there’s only two contestants shown, you’ll know that’s mine. I owned those bitches, baby. That’s forever, man. They can take my money, and steal my fame, and splice my face out of their show. They can even give me an eye-bulging nuclear wedgie when they pick me up by my underwear to haul me outside. But they can never take my victory away from me. No one can. I am ‘King of the Boobies’, whether the world knows it or not. And not even Pat Sajak can say that! Yeah!
Permalink | 13 CommentsTonight was my next-to-last ‘standup comedy’ class. Next week, we meet for the last time. The Sunday of the week after — that’s the sixteenth of November, if you’re not calendarically inclined — we’re all gonna get up onstage and throw down some rib-ticklers.
(As opposed to getting up onstage and throwing down French ticklers. That’s different. Rib-ticklers? Comedy. French ticklers? Performance art. And I don’t have the haircut, nor the wardrobe, to pull off ‘performance artist’. So let’s stay on track, shall we?)
Anyway, I’m looking forward to it. It may not go anywhere. I may try it once and be done with it. I may piss all over the stage, or blow chunks on the first two rows of patrons. I really can’t say for sure. But I think I’ll have fun, no matter what happens.
(Hey, making tinkles and spewing food aren’t gonna slow me down up there. Hell, I’ve been on dates where I’ve recovered from worse than that.
Not to mention business meetings. You’d be surprised how much liquid those faux leather chairs can hold. Really.)
In any case, I thought I’d take this opportunity to shamelessly plug the show. It’ll be at the ‘Comedy Studio’ above the Hong Kong restaurant in Harvard Square in Cambridge. The show starts at eight pm. (And the projectile vomiting starts at eight-thirty. Or thirty seconds after my stage time starts, whichever comes first.) Anybody out there in the greater Boston area — or with a car and a shitload more initiative than I — come out and see. Even if I lapse into painful jerking seizures up on stage, there are eleven other folks in my class who can more than make up for my deficiencies.
Nah, it won’t be that bad. Besides, I’ve made an ass out of myself in front of way more people than they could cram into the cubbyhole over this Chinese restaurant. I’ve seen the place, actually — there’s no way more than sixty bodies fit in there without some serious greasing up, and a lot of creative limb-bending.
(And that’s not to say that either or both won’t happen that night. There’s only one way to know for sure, folks. But you’ll have to bring your own lubricant. All the grease in that place is gonna be busy soaking into the fried rice special. ‘Number fifteen — you like it, you like it. Taste like chicken.‘)
Anyway, come check it out. I’m sure I’ll remind you again as the time gets closer, but I wanted all you West Coasters and folks from other lands to have plenty of time to line up those plane tickets. Now you’ve got no excuse not to be there on the sisteenth, sitting on your ass while you laugh it off. So chop chop, folks. Make your travel plans early. These jokes aren’t gonna laugh at themselves, you know.
Permalink | 1 CommentI’ve found a cool new relaxation technique. Given that a lot of my readers are a bit on the… um, edgy side, I thought I’d share it with you. I know how tired you get of the deep breathing and counting to ten. So maybe this will help.
It doesn’t require a lot of fancy equipment or anything like that. You don’t need a mat to kneel on, or little tinkly metal balls to work in your hand to help you relax.
(And dude, if you’re working any non-metal ‘tinkly balls’, just stop. That’s not relaxation, man — that’s just gross. Clean yourself off and join the rest of the class, hmm?)
Anyway, all you need is a pair of old ‘ear bud’ headphones.
(Sorry, I can’t help but put that term in quotes. ‘Ear bud’. Sounds like some disease the creepy old guy down the street would get.
‘Hmmm. Well, Mr. McHitchypants, this is very interesting. It seems you have a bad case of ear buds. Have you been using those uranium batteries in your hearing aid again?‘
Okay, it’s probably just me. Sorry.)
So, back to the story. Just grab the dinky little earphone thingies from an old Walkman, or that MP3 player you meant to load up with songs and never got around to.
(Look, you couldn’t program your damned VCR. The help screens on your cell phone are in Yiddish because you accidentally set it that way and don’t know how to change it. What the hell made you think you’d be able to figure out how to copy songs off of CD and onto those little matchbook-sized electronic doohickeys, anyway? Stick to your Betamax and 8-track tapes, okay? Leave the technology to the kiddies. You’re not part of the solution, Skippy.)
Now, all you need to do is this: insert one of the ‘ear buds’ (still don’t like that…) into your ear. Snake the cord down your shirt and hide the end that’s supposed to attach to the stereo. Stick it in your pocket, if you want. Hell, shove it down your underpants — I don’t really care.
(Just be careful of the prongy thing on the end. If you ‘zig’ and it ‘zags’, you might be very, very sorry. On the other hand, if it ‘zags’ just the right way, you could be very, very happy. Just be sure you know what you’re getting into. Or rather, what’s getting into you. Eep.)
So now you’re all set. You have an earphone in place, and no one knows that it’s hooked to a big bunch of nothing. (Or a big bunch of nethers, if you’ve gone that route. You sick little monkey, you.) Either way, doesn’t matter. What you’ve done is give people the appearance — that is, the suggestion — that you just might be on the phone with someone. Maybe the phone’s in the jacket you’re wearing, or maybe there’s a phone in your pocket.
(And maybe you’re just happy to see me. I get that all the time.)
In any case, any passersby will be led to believe that you’re on a phone call. Or that you’re about to be. Or that one could come in at any moment. This is where the relaxation technique comes in.
You see, if you think about it, what you’ve really accomplished is to give yourself free license to scream in public, any time and anywhere you like. Think about that for a second. Let the power of that concept sink in. Liberating, isn’t it?
You could be walking down the street, for instance. Pent-up agression and frustration boiling in your veins like Papa Bear porridge. Or an accidental piss in the sauna room. Whichever image you prefer. (I’m all about the choices, folks. Fairy tale goodness, or a sick, disgusting mess at your local YMCA. It doesn’t matter, really. You’ll all end up reading the same shit from here on out.) But there’s no need to let that porridge / piss boil over! Not with your patented Hands-Free Hollerin’ system in place. Pissed off? Just let out a roar. ‘Shiiiiiiiit!‘ Annoyed? Feel better with an ‘Ooooooohh! Damn it!‘ The ‘man’ got you down? Fight back with an ear-splitting ‘Fuuuuuuck, no!‘
Now, normally such behavior would brand you as a loony. An outcast, a loose cannon, a nutcase waiting to happen. A freakbag.
(Man, I don’t know what the hell is going on with me and ‘-bag’ lately. Seems like every term I use ends in the word bag. ‘Freakbag’, ‘assbag’, ‘fuckbag’, ‘tittybag’… honestly, I don’t know where this shit’s coming from.
I could be the spokesman for the ‘Society for People Who Want All Words to End in -Bag‘.
‘Try new, improved -bag! It’s not just for ‘flea’ and ‘douche’ any more!‘
Somebody shoot me.)
Ah, but if folks think you’re reacting to a phone call — well, that’s different. If you get any funny looks after your little tantrum, just point to the ‘ear bud’ and make that ‘phone call talky talky’ gesture that everyone seems to understand. Sure, you might have to mumble a few more things, or pretend you’re hanging up, to extend the charade in these cases, but you can still get away with it. Trust me — enough real profanity-laced, grandma-startling telephone tirades are going to happen to cover your story. Just the bastards constantly calling people up to hawk the frigging New York Times — or around here, the Boston Globe — would do it. Nobody’s gonna bat an eyelash. Really.
So bellow in that elevator, if it makes you feel better. Cuss like a sailor as you make your daily commute, or wait in line at the bank, or deke and duck your way through the crowd of slack-jawed yokels at your local mall. Just be sure to have your earpiece in place, and you can justify almost any tirade, no matter how long or rude or profane.
‘Sorry — it’s a telemarketer on the phone. You know how it is.‘
And we do. We all know how it is. So use this technique wisely, folks — it may just keep you sane. (Or at least keep the length of your rap sheet down.) But remember one thing — don’t ever let them see the end of your cord. If they ever figure out that you’re not on the phone, you’re stone cold busted. And that’s trouble. It’s bad enough to be the guy who yells for no reason. But if you yell for no reason and scheme to get away with it, well, that’s just not tolerated. You might be kicked out of the country. Or worse, to Indiana, or somewhere equally mind-numbingly dull.
I suppose there’s a silver lining, even in that. If you just can’t take any more and let out a big ‘Fuuuuck!‘ in the middle of Gary, or Duluth, or Des Moines, at least no one will give you any funny looks. They’re all in the same boat, man. They feel just the same way. You won’t have any fun, but you’ll definitely have some company to share your misery. Not so relaxing after all, is it?
Permalink | 1 CommentJeez, what a day. Mondays are never a big bucket of ‘whee‘, but this one was particularly assy. And — appropriately enough — I’m pooped. I don’t know how much I’ve got left in me tonight. But I can still do a bit of whining.
(Seriously, I could bitch in my sleep. No problem. Bitch and drool, drool and bitch. Do what you’re best at, right?)
Anyway, today was a pain in the ass from start to finish. Or near-finish, anyway. It’s not over yet, I suppose, so things could always turn up. Hell, anything could happen. More likely, I’ll fall down the damned stairs, or pull a muscle getting into bed, or get the wrong end of the dog when I try to scratch her behind the ears.
(Look, it’s happened before. Three of the fingers on my left hand will never be clean again. ‘Nuff said.)
I don’t know what the weather was like today where you are. But around here, the day started depressingly and just got miserabler and miserabler.
(Try saying that three times fast.)
It was gray, then drizzly, and then downright wet and pissy. It didn’t help that we had about seventeen minutes of damned daylight around here — whose friggin’ idea was this ‘Daylight Savings Time’ bullshit, anyway? Sure, we get an ‘extra’ hour of sleep — on Sunday, like we’re not getting up at the crack of noon anyway — but at what cost? Sunset at four-freakin’-thirty? Fuck that, man.
I’m gonna boycott this whole ridiculous ball of shit. I’m setting my clocks forward again in protest. Actually, that’ll work out well. I can show up to all my meetings an hour early, wait for ten minutes tapping my foot while no one bothers to show up, and then I can go back to loafing. Er, working. Yes, definitely working. At my desk. With my eyes closed, and my head on my keyboard. Look, I think better when I snore, okay? Slobber on the keys spells P-R-O-D-U-C-T-I-V-E.
(Okay, it was supposed to spell ‘productivity’. But I got bored and cut it short. You get the idea.)
Anyway, speaking of meetings, I had five today. Five. Look, I just started my third week on this job. I don’t even know five frigging people yet. How the hell can I be in on five meetings? And small meetings, too. Not those big-group jobbies where I can paint pupils on my eyelids and pretend to be paying attention. No sir. I had to nod, and ask questions, and go over papers, and all sorts of other businessy bullshit. While I pretended to be paying attention, of course.
(Sure, I had to be awake. But it was still Monday. I’m not Superman, you know.)
If that weren’t bad enough — and it were; oh, it were — my last meeting lasted until six-thirty. First two weeks — out by five pm every day. First crappy, soggy day of the third week — six-thirty. What happened? Did my warranty run out? Is the honeymoon over? Since when is week three ‘You’re our bitch now‘ time?
And to top it off, I’ve got to present a development plan at a meeting in the morning. That’s nine in the morning, by the way. Or about three hours before decent, dawn-fearing folks should be awake and trying to function as normal members of society.
(Not that I have much chance of that at any time of day. But before ten in the morning? Um, no. I’ll be lucky to walk in there with pants on. Even luckier if they’re on my legs and covering my crotch. My ass is on it’s own. You can’t have everything.)
So, I’d better get the hell to bed. I may not make any damned sense at nine in the morning, but at least I can be well-rested. Which I’d better be, for this meeting. I tried drawing fake eyes on my lids once when I was giving a presentation. I slumped over and, um, renostrilated my boss with the pointer I was using. My, uh, old boss, that is. Poor guy looks like a moose from the left side now. Of course, he can pick up odors like a friggin’ basset hound. I still say he’s better off. He’s not so sure — when I told him that in the hospital, he just snorted. Like a moose, actually.
Yeah, maybe it’s best if I go to bed now. And stick to the laser pointer tomorrow. I think I’ve done enough nasal damage for one career. G’night!
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