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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Jeez, 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!
Permalink | 4 CommentsLately I’ve been trying to eat healthier. Not healthy, mind you. Just healthier. I’m not talking tofu and roughage crap here. Please.
But I’ve been a bit nicer to my body than usual.
(Not in that way, you perv. I’m not being ‘nicer’ to my body like that. Jeez. Let it go already.)
Anyway, it’s not exactly hard to be better to myself. I’ll never be the poster boy for ‘SoloFlex‘, you understand. Me and that Jared kid from Subway ain’t never gonna be ‘tight’, all right?
(What’s up with that guy, anyway? I know he lost a shitload of weight, but damn — did he shed his friggin’ personality, too? He’s so stiff and wooden and blah… I’m not even convinced it’s a real guy. I think Subway just killed off the fat guy in the ‘before’ picture and built this puppet that looked like the same guy, only half as big.
Oh, sure, give me that look like I’m crazy. Right. Where do you think we got Ted Danson and Al Gore from? They’re not real; they’re robots or something. It’s a whole little cottage industry.)
All right, where was I? Ah, my eating habits. Okay.
So I’m eating better lately. It’s not hard, really. A little restraint here, a good decision there. Really, the little things do add up. I’ve stopped crumbling pork rinds into my milkshakes, for instance. I still go through the bag of Snickers every day, but I’ve stopped deep-frying them. I still sprinkle bacon bits onto my double-chocolate hot fudge sundaes, though.
(Look, there are some things more important than good health, all right?)
Anyway, my recent abstemious behavior seems to be paying off. All those horrible sacrifices are producing results. Even my doctor has noticed a change. That’s right — I can now utter those four magic little words:
‘I lowered my cholesterol.’
Now, don’t get all wiggly over it or anything. It’s still up around four thousand or something. Little globs of grease float over my eyeballs sometimes. My feet squish when I walk. I sweat burger grease. So it’s not low. But it’s low-er. Baby steps, people. Baby steps.
Still, I’m not gonna go around telling everybody about it, like that assbag in the commercials. A clerk at the store — ‘I lowered my cholesterol.’ Some fool on the street — ‘I lowered my cholesterol.’ The pimply-faced teeny-boob handing him his McMegaMeal — ‘Hey, my cholesterol’s down!‘ Dude, nobody cares. Get over it.
Besides, what kind of moron goes around volunteering his personal medical history? That’s private shit, man. You don’t see me going around flagging down strangers on the street, exclaiming, ‘Hey! I used to be a woman!‘. Or bugging old women at the mall, professing, ‘You know, I think I’ve finally licked that herpes thing.’
(Um, not that I would need to say those things. I was just using myself as an example. In hindsight, that was a pretty crappy idea. Bitches.
Plus, even if I could say such things, I would never say I ‘licked herpes’. That’s just gross. Besides, it’s often licking that gets you into that sort of thing in the first place. I’m just saying.
Look, this whole aside just got damned creepy. Can I just end the parentheses now? Please?
Thanks.)
Okay, what the hell was I saying? Oh, cholesterol. Right.
So, the plan seems to be working. Eat less crap, get more healthy. I guess life is actually fair once in a while. (I continue to maintain it’s just a coincidence, but hey, I’ll run with it for now. Or, you know, jog. No need to strain myself, after all.) My well-being and shit had better continue to improve, though. I’m not giving up pork rinds for nothing. Even I have my limits.
Permalink | No CommentsI have a decision to make. The deadline is tomorrow morning, around nine o’clock. And I have no idea which way I’m gonna go yet. Maybe you can help me.
See, three days a week I drive my dog to her ‘school’ on the way to work. It’s a place that does training, and lets dogs socialize, and keeps them exercised and all of that.
(Yes, I know. It’s ‘doggie day care’. You think I don’t feel the shame? That I don’t know how frigging ridiculous that sounds? That I don’t see the smirks when I tell people? And worst of all, that the dog — the damned dog — is more pampered than I am? Oh, I know. I most certainly know.
But what the hell can I do? She’s already been there for three years or so. I can’t very well unenroll her. I’m not going to pull her out of classes, now that she’s settled into a routine. The best I can hope for is that she gets herself expelled for not studying, or talking in class, or getting caught doing drugs. It’s a longshot at best, I realize.
Still, it’s all I’ve got. That’s why I’ve started grinding marijuana leaves into her food every morning. So far, the folks at the kennel haven’t noticed. And the dog has been eating all the chips and Twinkies in the house. Damn. Maybe I need a new plan.)
Anyway, I take her over there three days a week. And the guy that runs the place always says hello, and chats for a while. He’s usually pretty cool. Until recently, that is. Lately, things have changed. It’s different now. Tense. Edgy. Different.
Here’s the problem: since the World Series started, this guy’s become a Yankee backer. Now, he never talked about baseball before. I remember him even saying once that he doesn’t like baseball. But ever since the damned Yankees manhandled the hometown Red Sox to advance to the big dance, this guy’s been acting like he’s from the Bronx. Maybe he’s just been yanking my chain. Or maybe he’s hopped on the bandwagon. Maybe he’s channeling that big fatassed Babe Ruth. I don’t know. And frankly, I don’t care. It’s payback time.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a big Marlins fan. And that’s why I didn’t say anything up till now. I just took my medicine, and sucked up the ‘How ’bout those Yankees?‘ and ‘Did you see New York kick ass last night?‘. Well, that would be fine from a guy who’s been a Yankhole for years and years. You’ll never convince me that George Steinbrenner’s not the Antichrist, but I could at least respect a fan with some consistency. A little bit of loyalty. But this ‘fair-weather’ shit? Nuh-uh. That shit don’t fly, people.
And so, when I see this guy tomorrow, I’m simply gonna have to say something. The Marlins shut the Yankees down — in their own house, no less — and he’s going to hear about it. Oh, yes. The question is: what angle should I take? Below are just a few of the many options. And so I ask you — what kind of asshole should I be? I’m like a kid in a candy store here — I simply can’t bring myself to choose.
Asshole comment I could make as the ‘Hothead Homer‘:
‘You know… the Red Sox would have never gotten beaten by the Marlins. The Yankees suck!‘
Asshole comment I could make as the ‘Bandwagon Bitch‘:
‘Wow, those Marlins sure played with a lot of spunk, didn’t they? They really came together as a team.‘
Asshole comment I could make as the ‘Aw Shucks Shithead‘:
‘Man, can you believe that the Marlins pulled that off? And in Yankee Stadium, too. I would have never dreamed it!‘
Asshole comment I could make as the ‘Know-It-All Numbnuts‘:
‘Well, of course the Yankees lost. They weren’t able to hit right-handed pitching in night games when the temperature is under sixty degrees all year. What the hell did you expect?‘
Asshole comment I could make as the ‘Underdog Backer‘:
‘Dude, the Yankees have enough World Series rings, anyway. Somebody else should win now.‘
Asshole comment I could make as the ‘Button-Punching Prick:
‘Wow, you’d think with all that money, the Yankees could win the big one. What a bunch of chokers.‘
Okay, that’s all I can think of off the top of my head. Given all the assholes I’ve dealt with, I’m sure I’m missing many, many other kinds. But for now, I’ll go with these. Now I just need to decide which one to unleash on the guy. Man, it’s hard to choose. But damn, is this going to be fun! Yan-kees suck! Yan-kees suck!
Permalink | 7 CommentsI went to a dinner party last night. It was small — my wife and I, another couple, and the host couple and their two small daughters, aged six and eight.
It was a nice little soiree. I won’t bore you with the details, but I did want to mention one small thing. One small, tiny, intensely frustrating, unfair thing. Which is this:
After dinner, as we sat with dessert on the table, we saw the ‘girls of the house’ for the first time. They’re sweet kids.
(Seriously, I don’t say that often. Kids and I generally don’t mix well. We have this mutual agreement — I ignore them as best I can, and they do their best to bug the living shit out of me.
Yeah, maybe we need to work on the ‘mutual’ part some more. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding of some kind.)
Anyway, the kids came out to get their sugar freaks on. And the older girl brought a deck of cards with her. Fine. She asked whether I — not everyone, you understand; just me — wanted to see a card trick.
(Of course, everyone else horned in and watched, too. Everybody likes to watch.)
So, she showed me a trick. It was pretty good, though she fumbled the cards a bit.
(And explained afterwards how she pulled it off. That really took the sparkle off her star. For just a minute there, I thought she was a little Harriet Potter or something.)
Anyway, she wrapped up the first feat of prestidigitation, and then asked if I wanted to see another. Sure, why not? And this is when it happened. She looked at me, and nodded, and said, in her most earnest big-girl voice:
‘Okay, but this is really going to be magic, because you’re going to use your own hands.‘
Uh…
Well, I…
But…
Shit. People, I haven’t been set up that well for a zinger in years. Years! And of the half-dozen or so nasty, smart-assed things that came to mind, I couldn’t say any of them. Sure, the kid probably wouldn’t have known what I was talking about if I said something like:
‘Honey, everything I do with my hands is magic‘
or
‘Aw, I bet you say that to all the guys‘
or even
‘Nah, I use my own hands all the time, and the magic’s pretty much faded. Can we use somebody else’s this time?‘
But her parents, looking on and smiling, would have known. And I’d have been hustled out the door and never invited back or spoken to again. I might not have even been able to collect my shoes. They’d have emptied the cat’s litter box into them and mailed them back to me later. And nobody wants ‘cat poop shoes’. Really, I’ve been there. It’s not pleasant.
So, I said nothing. I stuttered and gulped, but otherwise kept my mouth shut. I think my legs kicked involuntarily. My heart may have stopped for a moment. But I fought it off, and — for once — didn’t make a rude, lewd comment. It was very unnatural. I didn’t feel like myself the rest of the evening.
But I got through it. And it was good to finally sit down here and get out what I really wanted to say. Still, it’s not damned fair. A setup is a setup, right? If you get a good set, you’re pretty much obligated to spike it. So maybe I should have fired back with something like,
‘Sure, it’d be ‘magic’ if I use my hands. But wouldn’t it be positively ‘mystical’ if I used my mouth?‘
But I didn’t. Why don’t I get this kind of setup at work, or when I’m out drinking with friends? It’s just not fair!
Permalink | 2 CommentsSo, I’ve got a dog. I’ve mentioned this many times before. I’ve talked about her nose, for instance, and her dubious bladder control, and her unfortunate odor problem, among other things.
But what I haven’t told you is how handy it can be to have a dog. Seriously, adopting our puppy is just about the most useful thing I’ve ever done. Oh, sure, there’s the love and the companionship and all that nicey-nice crap. Yeah, that stuff is cool, I guess. If you’re into that sort of thing.
But the real beauty of having a dog around is, of course, that I now have a ready scapegoat for just about anything. Not to mention a willing accomplice to help me cover up — or more likely, eat — any incriminating evidence. All I have to do is make sure that my wife doesn’t actually see me doing something dangerous, or dumb, or downright disgusting, and I’m in the clear.
Say I’m eating chips on the couch.
(Um, you know, healthy chips, of course. Chips made from… um, broccoli or something. Carrot chips, maybe. Baked cauliflower chips?
Aw, shit, who am I kidding? These are not the kind of chips that are good for you. They’re greasy, nasty, drippy, salty cholesterol wafers, all right? I might as well just inject Cheez Whiz into my veins, or hook up some sort of pork rind enema. Um, liquefied pork rinds, of course. Otherwise, it’d be all tickly.)
All right. Where the hell was I? Ah. Chips on the couch. Okay.
So, let’s further assume — theoretically — that I’m a big fumble-fingered slob, and I drop chips and chiplets and salt all over the couch, and quite possibly the floor. Let’s even say — just because we’re on a roll here, you understand — that I don’t have a napkin handy, so I wipe my greasy hands on the wall beside the couch. Not cool, right? The wife’s gonna be pissed, no?
Well, no. Not necessarily. Every bit of this heinous mess can be erased easily — and happily — by my furry four-legged friend. She’ll hoover the chips off the floor, and suck the couch clean, and lick every drop of lard off the wall. And wag her tail while she’s doing it! It’s like I’m doing her a favor — what could be better? Sure, the whole room is then covered in dog spittle, but come on — you know how dogs are. That’s gonna happen anyway. It’s the perfect crime.
But that’s not all. Not by a long shot. Even the dog’s propensity to drool comes in handy. I’m always patting the dog, or rubbing her chin, and coming away with smears of slobber all over my cuff or sleeve. Disgusting, certainly. But useful. After a few months of walking around with sticky goo on my shirt, it’s no longer questioned. People just accept any slimy crap as pooch juice of some kind. You can probably see where this is going.
So now, if I need to wipe my own mouth, or my nose, and I’ve got a sleeve handy — well, why not? No one will ever suspect what’s really stuck on my cuffs. Hell, I’ll even let other people use them. Friends, coworkers, strangers — what’s the difference? Of course, not many people actually take me up on it. The conversation usually goes something like this:
Them: *achoo!*
Me: Gesundheit! You all right?
Them: Um, yeah. *sniffle* Sorry. Do you have a handkerchief?
Me: No, sorry. But here — use my sleeve.
Them: Uh, that’s okay. Maybe just a tissue?
Me: Nah, but really. Here — just wipe it right here. It’s cool.
Them: Dude, that’s crazy.
Me: Come on! It’s fine.
Them: No! *snurrrf* That’s gross!
Me: Look, you need it. Snot on my sleeve, dammit!
Them: Ew!
Me: Here, I’ll just rub it for you. Just blow out.
Them: Mmmff. Gah! Get the hell away from me! Help! Police!
Yeah, I don’t have a lot of friends. (Why do you ask?)
Anyway, even if no one else wants to take advantage of my situation, there’s no reason I have to suffer. I can lie and beguile people into thinking anything is harmless dog drool. And it’s not just about bodily fluids, either. I can smear Chapstick on there if I want, or extra deodorant for an emergency.
(Though it’s important not to get those two confused. While it’s nice to know that I’ll never have chapped armpits, it’s no friggin’ picnic walking around all day with Right Guard breath. Blech!)
Anyway, it’s good to have the dog around. I can’t count the number of times she’s come through for me in one way or another. Hell, I’m thinking about taking advantage of her right now.
(No, not in that way, you pervert. I’m not gonna put on some Barry White and rub kibble on my nipples, okay? And under no circumstances will there be peanut butter applied to my nether regions. Do you know how hard that shit is to get washed out of your hair down there?
Um. From what I hear, that is. Yeah. Ahem. Moving on.)
But I think I do have a use for her. It’s not completely unheard of for her to have an ‘accident’ on the carpet, you see. And I’m sitting on the couch watching football right now, thinking that I’ve really got to make a number one soon. And our bathroom is soooo far away. I could probably just lean back and ‘rainbow’ it over there next to her. When my wife comes in, it’ll just appear to be another doggie tinkling on the rug. No problem, right?
Hmmm. Nah, I’d better not. With my luck, I’d miss, and pee all over the dog’s back or something. That would be a little tougher to explain. ‘Um… maybe she rolled in it? Or bounced it off the wall? I can’t keep an eye on her every second, you know!‘
Yeah, I think I’ll just hit the head, and leave the pooch out of this. I almost got caught letting her eat peas off my plate last night. I probably shouldn’t push my luck. I think my wife might be just a bit more upset over this ‘pee’ than those ‘peas’, too. You gotta pick your battles, you know.
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