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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
It’s a little like taking the blue pill and the red pill, and chasing them with Windex.
** aka, ‘Talk Like a Pirate Day’
So, as usual, I’m determined to do things just a little bit differently around here. (You should be used to this by now. Or at least tolerant. Have a damned heart, will ya?)
Anyway, I’ve decided to commemorate ‘Talk Like a Pirate Day‘ not by ‘avast’ing and ‘scurvy’ing all over the place, like most folks might.
(There are still a few ‘avast’ stains on the carpet from the last time I got all swashbuckly, and I don’t even want to describe what happened with the scurvy.)
So, just to be different (and to save the furniture), I’ve decided to blog like a pirate. But not just any pirate, and certainly not the stereotypical Long John Silver / Captain Morgan / Blackbeard hybrid that people seem to want to emulate. No, instead, I’m going to blog like a particular pirate, one of the saltiest dogs to sail the seven seas.
Today, just for you loyal readers, I’m going to blog like Jean Lafitte.
(Pretty cool, huh?)
Which, um, means, since I don’t really know how he talked, that I’m going to do the next best thing, and blog in French.
(Not bad, eh?)
Except… unfortunately, I don’t speak French and can’t write it, so I’m going to have to blog in English, and then use Babelfish to translate it into French.
(How’s that for going the extra mile, folks?)
Only… it occurs to me that many of you may not know French, either, so you may not get much out of an entry fully in translated French. So, I’ll tell you what — once I’ve paid homage to the dread pirate Lafitte by converting the post into French, then I’ll use BabelFish to translate it back to English.
(Now we’re cooking with gas, no?)
(And to all of you smarty-pants types out there, no, this is not just some contrived and ill-conceived attempt to get out of talking like a pirate because I can’t think of anything clever to say in buccaneer-speak, while simultaneously justifying doing something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time now — namely, see if I can artificially cause an entry to make even less damned sense. Well, okay, fine. It is that, but it’s not just that. So you can suck my ‘arrrrrr’.)
Now, for the rest of you, here we go. Everything below the line was written just like a regular post, then translated into French (in honor of Monsieur Lafitte), and then translated back into English. I’ve left it exactly as it was spit out by BabelFish. But just in case any snippets of hilarity were lost in translation (or re-translation), I’ve also saved the original post. [Ed. note: But I lost it in a move. So no link. Sorry.] So, if you don’t get something, look there. Or even at the French translation, if you really think that’s going to help you.
(But if you don’t get it once you’ve read those, then you’re on your own. It’s perfectly reasonable in my little world, whatever it is. Oh, and it’s hilarious, too. So you should probably laugh, whether you get it or not. You don’t want to look foolish in front of all these people, do you?)
And the English-to-French-back-to-English-but-not-quite-the-same-English post, in honor of ‘Talk Like a Pirate Day’ — and even about pirates, at least before all the grinding — begins… (wait for it…) … begiiiins… (wait…) NOW!
Yo Ho Ho and a Well Completely of Mud
Thus, pirates. Queest this which I can say to the pirates?
I am afraid which I do not have a terrible fate of experiment with pirate truths, manner that the majority of the people think of them. In fact, I sure that no matter whom am not made imagine the experiment with the kinds of pirates the majority of the people. Seriously, how much real buccaneers of plundering of cutthroat you think accessorize their equipment with leg of ankle, the eyepatch, and a smart-assed parrot? I doubt of whom good number of them buckles equalizes their lappings more. (Not that there is something badly with that, naturally.)
Thus I suppose that what I should say is that I was never exposed to pirate truths.
(Which is completely an exploit, really, because I exposed myself to all the kinds of people during years. You would think that at least one of them would have been the bloodthirsty man, skittle-transporting the type. But not.)
Probably, it is easy thing right of geography. What I hear that — and see in films — pirates trail mainly in and around the Caribbean. What is a luxury to which I am not really accustomed,I am afraid. To say the minors.
(Hé, perhaps there is something with all this boat-which flies and hostage-which takes, if these people obtain to pass all their lives moving of the beach to the beach in the sunny Bahamas. Perhaps is a change of career in rule, yes?)
Thus, I suppose that it is not any surprise which I did not mix much with crowd privateering. We have various circles of the friends, I guess, not to mention in an extravagant way various sections of imposition of imposition.
Not that the pirates pay really taxes, naturally — I would think who would rather demolish the goal of all plundering. More, they usually left there in international water; with which they pays taxes, at all events? Switzerland? NATO? Forget the thing of taxes thus. I was to speak insane there.
But I do not want to disappoint, naturally. I can leave you with nothing; nobody goes far from my blog the empty hands, you see.
(Stupid, I am not sure I can guarantee for. But empty hands? Not.)
Thus, I will say to you a little about my preferred history of the buried treasure of pirate who. is not most probably
(Hé, it is not much, but it is nothing, either. More, this will be good filler so that the translators chew above. Make confiancemoi. It all will establish at the end.)
At all events, my of large tale very the majority preferred of sea turn around the legend of the Island of Oak. It seems that towards the end of 1700s, three men rowed outside in the Island of Oak, in addition to coast of News-Scotland. There, they discovered a tree with a sawn member hanging above a depression in the ground. The sight caught their attention, and carried out their to believe that something could be buried under the tree. And thus, they are turned over, and started to dig. More than two hundred years afterwards, to dig continues, and nobody knows for sure what is in the hole, now doubled ‘the money well’.
(Correct, just to be clear, they are still not same the three types digging. You began again on that, right? It is a whole group of others, including six which died the test to obtain at the bottom things. Um, thus to speak, which is. Ahem.)
Thus, I do not want to give far the whole history. There were specials of television about the site, and the whole sites of sequence devoted to the mystery. That it is enough for saying that what the three original men the diggers — and following — found is that the well is a problem very crafty one, indeed. Check this diagram of the EC what about the well for an idea with the Juste is known what they treat. It is not any ordinary hole in the ground, people. The treasure or not at the bottom, that which established this thing was serious frickin’.
Naturally, that supposes that somebody really built. At least a person does not think thus, statement the this whole hubbub is a result of the phenomena, coincidence, and hoax normal. Well, and avarice, naturally. There is always avarice.
Even if the well is true, and were built to safeguard the treasure, there remains the question of which treasure, and by which the thing was dug. There are several theories as for the two questions, but I, for one, voice for pirates (today, at all events, because it is adapted with the occasion. I reserve myself the right to vote for Templar knights, or of the freemasons, or even Vikings certain an other day. When is ‘maintenance like one day of Templar of knight’, at all events?) And apparently, a couple of truths doozies of pirate is plausible — Blackbeard and Kidd captain were digities because the possible suspects in this pled case of ‘encavator and skin and veil far’.
In the final analysis, we can never know the truth. The whole side of the Island of Oak is alveolate with tunnels and wells dug in an effort to reach the price. The majority, if not all, are flooded and useless, and — given the fact that it is an island speak us here — it is rather sure of saying that the new tunnels will not solve the problem any time soon. Ni is the whole Atlantic Ocean approximately to pump to the top of the well and outside. Thus this can be a case where you are free to believe that which the hell want you, without fear unquestionably contradiction. You cannot be proven badly when nothing can be proven whole, you see. Ask the Christian scientists just.
(Group of boobs clueless.)
Thus, it is my history. If all is well, before you read this, it will be always a history, and not simply a random disorder of gibberish.
(Well, not a more random is order of gibberish, at all events. Unfortunately, I think that I gave him completely a principal beginning in this direction.)
I hope that you appreciated this ‘maintenance extravagance like pirate’. Agree sure in the next year, and will do we it once again. The hell, which knows? Perhaps by then, I will have met by chance some pirate truths, and I will have better stories to say to you. Or at the very least, I will have had one year to compose the shit. Thus it cannot help but to be better.
I can hardly wait, I mateys! Arrrrr!
Well, that was fun.
Not terribly useful, but fun, nonetheless. I had a good time with it, and I hope you did, too. If you want something that you can actually read now, go see the original post.
(In the meantime, though, check out the links in the post. I’m pretty sure that BabelFish is munging those pages, too, so they’re getting the same English-French-English treatment that my entry went through. And frankly, the more the merrier, in this case.)
In the meantime, I did get a few laughs out of this version.
(Including ‘I was to speak insane there.‘ and ‘Thus, it is my history.‘)
I also liked how ‘brouhaha’ in the original ended up becoming ‘hubbub’ in the end. I really had no idea that ‘hubbub’ had become the accepted term for chaotic willy-nillyness. I’ll have to keep that in mind in future.
Anyway, happy ‘Talk Like a Pirate Day’. I suppose I should have just said ‘Arrr!’ and ‘Ye landlubbin’ keelhaulers’, like everyone else, and been happy with that. Instead, I brought you a taste of what ‘Talk Like a Drunken Parisian with Brain Damage Day’ might be like. It’s up to you to decide how close to ‘pirate’ you think that is. In the meantime, I’ve learned a couple of French words, and finally put Babelfish to good use, so I’m happy. Oh, and I finally see why we’re always bitching back and forth with the French. How the hell could anybody get along with this sort of language barrier? ‘Skittle-transporting the type‘, indeed.
Permalink | No CommentsIt’s where the freaks who come out at night spend their afternoons.
Hey, all. I just wanted to apologize to anyone who came by anytime on Thursday looking for Wednesday’s or Thursday’s posts. Apparently, the folks at Blogger had some (more) technical difficulties, in this case preventing anyone using their facilities from actually publishing anything to the web at large. But rest easy now, folks — because I know how nervous you must have been these past several hours — both posts were completed on time (and under budget!), and have been lined up and waiting all day to be eyeballed by you and your closest of friends.
(Because you have told all your friends about this blog, right? Lord knows they need a chuckle, too; what the hell are you waiting for?)
So, finally, the guy who runs Blogger got his shit back together, and I could post those entries. I figure his mom blew a fuse in the house, or his little sister accidentally kicked the cord on one of the servers. You know how these ‘mom and pop’ Internet ventures are sometimes. But it’s all sorted out now, so please scroll down to check out not one, but two batches of hilarity submitted for your approval. And if you can’t be bothered to even scroll down, ya lazy stinkin’ bastard, I’ll make it even easier for you.
Here’s a link to Wednesday’s post, all about things that you’ll never catch me doing.
(Unless you’re very nosy, indeed.)
And here’s a link to Thursday’s entry, in which I ruin my chances to get a job. Or do I? You be the judge.
Anyway, check those out; I think you’ll like them. They made me giggle like a schoolgirl, anyway. In a really embarrassed and horribly shameful way, of course, but still — girly giggling is girly giggling, right? Who am I to be picky?
So, that’s it for now. I’ll be back later today with a ‘real‘ Friday post. I’m not quite sure what it’ll be about yet, but I have a cool idea that I’m thinking of trying, just for laughs, to commemorate ‘Talk Like a Pirate Day’. Which is today, as of about half an hour ago where I’m sitting. So until I get back, check out the belatedly-posted drivel from the past couple of days, and I’ll see you again in a few hours. Just don’t be surprised if I show up with a patch on me eye, and a parrot on me shoulder, ye landlubbin’ keelhaulers. Arrrrr!
Permalink | 1 CommentLive in your blog. Play in ours.
A couple of days ago, I had an interview. I think it went really well, and normally, except for one teensy little thing. Maybe it hurt my chances at the job, and then again, maybe it helped. I’ll explain, and then you can tell me, because I can’t decide.
So, in this interview, I met with a human resources woman, and then a guy, and then another woman. The guy is the leader of the group where the job is, and the last woman is the person currently doing the job.
(And she was a little bitter about the whole deal, I’m afraid.
‘Humph. You wore that tie to an interview?‘
‘You know your resume isn’t nearly as good as mine, don’t you?‘
‘You call that ass-kissing? Come on, man, get that tongue working!‘
Bitch and moan, bitch and moan. Still, I guess it would be tough to help find your own replacement for anything, really, much less a full-time job. What could be worse than that? Well, okay, maybe picking out your significant other’s next partner. That would suck. I don’t think I could help but be snarky and mean about that.
‘Penis, shmenis, dude. What’re you gonna do with that little thing? It’s practically an ‘innie’. Next!‘)
All right, what was I talking about? Oh, the interview. Right.
“You call that ass-kissing? Come on, man, get that tongue working!”
So, the bits with the ladies actually went okay, all things considered. Which is quite an accomplishment, really. When interacting with the fairer sex, I often manage to get my eyes or my mouth — and once, rather famously, the big toe on my left foot — stuck in places where they really shouldn’t be. So it’s a small miracle that I was able to talk to two women on the same day without getting so much as frowned at, not to mention slapped, kicked, shrieked at, headlocked, frisked, decked, or summarily escorted from the premises. So, yay Charlie.
But the boss-man interview was a bit… different. You see, I had the list of interviewers a couple of days before the event. Normally, this is just a good chance for me to practice saying strangers’ names without stuttering or fumbling like a clueless boob. I spend a few hours each day in front of a mirror, just reciting, ‘Yes, hello, I’m here to see John Smith.‘ or ‘Hi, Ms. Jones; it’s very nice to meet you.‘, until I can do it without sounding like a leprous schizophrenic.
(No, I don’t know how leprosy fits in there, either. I’m pretty sure that it has nothing to do with how you sound or speak or anything like that. Look, it sounded good at the time, and I’ve really got nothing better to replace it with, okay? Just let it go. They can’t all be gems, dammit.)
Anyway, that’s what usually happens. But not with this guy. See, he’s from another country. Which is cool — I’m all about flitting from nation to nation until you find one you like, or that has good food or hot bods, or a drinking age of nine. Whatever you’re into, that’s cool with me. That’s not the point here.
The point is that this guy — my prospective new boss — has a rather unusual name. At least for me. Maybe in his land, his name is like ‘John’ or ‘Mary’ over here, and he has to have a dozen nicknames so people can keep him straight amongst all his namesakes. Maybe. But probably not, really.
You see, he has a Godzillla name. An evil supergenius name. A cartoon nemesis name. And that name is… Zolton. Yes, Zolton. Zolton, Ruler of the Underworld. Has a nice ring to it, no?
And that’s the problem, of course. Look, I had two whole days to chew on this guy’s name, and to practice saying it, and to run it past the smartass little men who live in my brain. And so, by the time I showed up at this interview, ready to respectfully genuflect my way to a job, it was impossible to say, hear, or think of this man’s name without adding an imaginary title. In my head, at the least, but far preferably, out loud. I’m sure you can see where this is heading.
So, I managed to make it through the first interview, with the HR lady, without peeing myself or blurting anything out. She almost got me a couple of times, though.
Me: (Just ask me a damned question… ask me a question… don’t say his name… ask me a question…)
Her: So.
Me: Yes, ma’am?
Her: It looks like you’ll be meeting with Zolton next.
Me: (Zolton! Zolton, Defender of Darkness! Zolton will see you now! Aaaiiieeeeee!!)
Me: Hee hee — um, I mean, He. He… he’s meeting with me next? Good, good. I look forward to that.
Her: Yes, you’ll like him. Zolton’s very nice.
Me: (Zolton not nice! Zolton drink the blood of Zolton’s enemies! All hail, mighty Zolton, Destroyer of Men! Wooooot!)
Me: Ha hah! Uh, that is, ‘ha’. Ha… hou… how long has he been at the company?
Her: Who, Zolton?
Me: (Do you mock Zolton, Render of Souls? Zolton will crush thee like an insect! Insolence!)
Me: Mmppht! Mmrrr… Um, mmm-hmm. How long?
Her: Well, several years now. He was one of our first employees, as a matter of fact. Um, are you okay? Can I get you some water or something?
Me: Ah, no thanks. I think liquid in my mouth would actually be a really bad idea right now.
Her: Oh. I…um, see.
Okay, I said I ‘made it through‘ the thing, all right? I never claimed that I managed to make a good impression or anything useful like that. One small miracle at a time, you know.
So, anyway, we finished up and it was finally time to meet Zolton in the flesh. Or cape, or scales, or chain mail, or whatever the hell a ‘Zolton’ would be wearing. I half-expected him to sidle through the door, leering about and twirling a greasy moustache between his fingers.
(Not necessarily his own moustache, mind you; I couldn’t decide which would be more evil.)
On the other hand, I wouldn’t have been terribly surprised if he’d been nine feet tall and green and wearing animal skins of some kind, with some sort of death-dealy sword at his side. Oh, I’d have wet my pants; don’t get me wrong. But I’m not sure that I’d have been ‘surprised’, per se. Just so we’re clear on that point.
Anyway, he was a pretty normal-looking guy. Slacks, a button-down shirt, loafers. Short brown hair, average height, forties-ish. Nothing out of the ordinary, really. Which turned out to be the worst thing of all, because that lulled me into a false sense of control over my asinine reflexes. I actually thought that because he looked normal, my brain would forget all that other crap and settle down to the business of landing me this job.
No such luck. Stupid brain.
So, when he introduced himself, I — with my guard down — let loose with that teensy weensy embarrassing thing that I mentioned above. It went hauntingly like this:
Him: Hello. Charlie?
Me: Yes, sir, that’s right.
Him: Good to meet you. I’m Zolton.
Me: Zolton! MASTER OF THE UNIVERSE!!
Him: …
Me: It’s — ahem — nice to meet you, too. Um, sir.
Amazingly, the rest of the interview with him went pretty smoothly. He gave me a very odd look after my little outburst, of course, but we settled down to business rather quickly. I even managed to piece together a few reasonable answers to his questions. Luckily, my brain was in ‘recharge’ mode after turning me into its temporary Tourette bitch, and I was left to concentrate on the actual interview. Of course, if he’d chosen to refer to himself in the third person (‘Zolton wants to know about your work experience.‘), I’m pretty sure Mr. Brain would have been back at the plate, ready to swing for the fences again. Thankfully, it didn’t come to that.
In the end, he never mentioned my little faux pas, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to bring it up, even to apologize. So who knows what he thought? Perhaps he didn’t register it at all — maybe it was so strange and foreign to him that it passed through his mind without generating any memory whatsoever. Maybe? Nah. I could never be that lucky.
But maybe he didn’t know what I was talking about, so he cut me some slack. Hell, maybe he really thinks I have Tourette Syndrome, which could work in my favor. For one thing, he can’t reject me from consideration based on a medical condition.
(Or in this case, behavior bizarre enough to seem to warrant a clinical explanation, even if it’s not the case.)
More importantly, if I get the job, I can say anything the hell I want, and curse anywhere, any time, and at anybody I feel like, just so long as I look sheepish and innocent afterwards. Just like the interview, keeping a straight face may be the hardest part of the job.
Of course, it’s overwhelmingly likely that he did hear me, has some clue where the hell it came from, and he shit-canned my resume the moment I stepped out the door. It wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last. Still, that seems like a pretty harsh sentence to me. Think about it — who wouldn’t dig being the ‘Master of the Universe’? Or even called that by a relative stranger? I mean, look, there are ‘mad props’, and then there are ‘mad props!‘, and then there’s being called master of the freakin’ universe by some toady-wannabe begging for a job. C’mon, how could you possibly take that the wrong way?
So, maybe — just maybe — my brain’s little stunt helped me. In a few days, as Zolton (‘Conjurer of Unholy Spirits‘) looks through his stack of resumes, perhaps he’ll remember me. I’ll be the one who threw out the ultimate compliment, even before we’d sat down to chat. And Zolton (‘Prince of Shadows‘) will see my name, and realize that I’m the one for the job. I’m the one who’ll do the work, and do it fast and do it right, and never complain, and still pledge allegiance to His Excellence at the end of the day without reservation or complaint. Not everyone is cut out to serve Zolton (‘Lord of the Furies‘), you see. But Zolton (‘Bringer of Pestilence‘) knows a true disciple when he sees one, and I am that disciple. The Chosen One. So maybe blurting out one of the many titles held by Zolton (‘Punisher of Mortals‘) will get me that job, after all. Right? Um, right? Yeah?
Oh, I am so screwed.
Permalink | 6 CommentsOkay, I think I’ve got ‘quantity’ down pat. What was the other thing again?
All right, I think I should probably set some things straight around here.
I’ve been blogging for three whole months now, plus one day, and I’m thinking that you folks may be getting the wrong idea about me. Sure, I tell you about the weird and snarky and downright doofalicious situations that I find myself dropped in the middle of.
(Through no fault of my own, thank you very little.)
And I suppose I’ve — *cough cough* — been known to rant and foam every so often about people who share too much or morons too clueless to properly operate a phone. Guilty, as charged.
But I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.
I’m not a bad person. Really. Look, I’m not even a mean person, if you ask most of the people who know me. Well, okay, probably not if you ask the ones who sit close enough to hear the shit I mutter under my breath. But you can pick just about anyone outside a three-foot perimeter from my mouth, and they’d probably tell you that I’m just grand.
And, for large portions of the day, I am grand. At least, I play grand on TV. I know when and where to draw the line, how to blend in with the ‘normal’ humans, and what sorts of things must never, ever be done. And so, lest you form the wrong opinion of me, I want to prove it.
(Really, your opinions mean everything to me. I mean it. Most everyone else I know has, or will, sit within the ‘Muttering Zone’, and find out just what a heartless, acerbic dickhead I really am. Most of you will never climb that particular mountain, so I have to keep you convinced that I have at least the merest shreds of compassion and sanity left. I am Leia, and you are my internet Kenobi. ‘You are my only hope.‘)
(Well, shit. If that explanation didn’t blow my chances with you people, I don’t know what will. I’ve really got to stop typing everything that pops into my head.)
(Froot Loops. Dongleware. Bride of Chucky. Hmmm. Yeah, maybe tomorrow.)
Anyway, I’m out to show you that while I’ll go far, there are lines that it cannot be conclusively proven that I’ve crossed. Some things are just too dumb, disgusting, or depraved even for me. And so, I present to you, in order to earn your undying respect and love (or disgust and pity; I’m really not so picky about such things), my list of:
Things That I Would Never, Never, Ever Do in a Million Years (So Far As You Know)
See what I mean? I’m just a regular guy, here, folks. I wouldn’t do any of those things, just like you. Or at least, I wouldn’t admit to doing any of them.
(Just like you.)
And you can’t prove otherwise. I’m just as clean on these things as you are. Now who’s the crazy dickhead, eh?
(Just for the record, though, I think the little green things came from a salad I had for lunch yesterday. I’ve got no idea about the yellow gunk, though. I haven’t had corn in weeks. Spooky, huh?)
Permalink | 1 CommentIt’s my blog. I’ll cry if I want to. You would cry too, if I blogged about you.
Today marks my three-month blogging anniversary. One whole quarter’s worth of blather, and another milestone to talk about.
(Yes, I’m well aware that I just wrote about finishing my ‘101 Things Posts About Me‘, and then my hundredth post, and now I’m already blogging about the blog again. Give me a break. What do you think, I’m made of topics here? Eighty-five posts in two weeks cuts into the old subject pile, you know.)
Anyway, I wrote my first post on June 16th, exactly three months ago. I wasn’t quite sure how things would turn out, or whether I’d still be writing now, but I think the first quarter has gone okay. I seem to have found my voice. Never mind that it alternates between the crackly wheeze of a dirty old man and the whiny whinny of a pre-teen girl — it’s my voice, dammit. And now that I’ve found it, I’m unleashing it on the world. Stand back!
So, to commemorate the occasion, I’ve updated my ‘Best Of’ links over on the right. I finally filled the entry list out to twenty, and added another twenty from the ‘101 Things’ posts. Anything to drag the eyeballs to the good stuff, you know. I’m here to help. Help me help you, would you?
In any case, thanks for reading. A couple of you have been here since the beginning, and I really appreciate that. It’s just that sort of love that makes the world go ’round. Some say love won’t pay the rent, but… well, I’ve never been a landlord myself, but I’ve got to believe that a little hootchie-cootchie with the man would at least buy you a few days to get some money together. That’s all I’m saying. Now what the hell was I talking about?
Anyway, woo hoo, first quarter!
I’ve been thinking of doing something to spice the old place up, but I’m not sure what would work well. Really, I should never be trusted to make my own judgements.
(That’s why I always order out when it’s my night to put dinner on the table. I’ve had too many culinary experiences go hurl-inducingly wrong. You know the ‘two great tastes that taste great together‘ theory? Well, apparently in the hands of a madman, it can’t be trusted. Like a chainsaw, or missle launcher, or a smarmy boy band.
Anyway, I apparently have no clue about food ‘pairings’. Pairings. Harrumph. You’d think edibles were sad, lonely teenagers — why do they need ‘pairing’, anyway? I say, if you like something, then eat it, and then eat something else you like. What’s all the fuss about? Why can’t I serve steak and ice cream, for instance, or broccoli in applesauce? Does it really matter if you eat them together, or ten minutes apart? C’mon — they’re all headed down the same chute in the end, right? Gimme a break.
It also seems that I’ve got a problem with substitutions. I’ll give you an example — a while back, I wanted to surprise my wife with some homemade fudge. Peanut butter fudge, to be specific. Fine. So, I found a recipe, and started mixing, and things were going just swimmingly. Until I discovered that we were out of peanut butter, that is. Bitches!
But I was past the point of no return. There were dirty bowls and measuring cups, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna dirty dishes and get nothing out of it. So, I improvised; I got as close as I possibly could, given the supplies I had to work with at the time. It was a perfectly reasonable decision, I think. Really.
Unfortunately, once I’d mixed the mayonnaise into the chocolate, I realized that it wasn’t quite as thick as real peanut butter. Close, but no Jiffy. So, I needed something to thicken the mix. And even in retrospect, I’m not sure that I could have done better than Crisco. I’m really not. It seemed like a good idea at the time, anyway, and the fudge mix actually looked just about right.
(Okay, a little more marshmallowy than I’d ideally like, but that’s pretty true of me, too, and I’m not giving up on that. So why would I call it quits on the fudge?)
Now, I’d like to be able to describe the series of faces that my wife made when she tasted the fudge. I’d also like to be able to tell you that I gave her some warning that all in the fudge pan may not have been as it seemed. I’d like to do those things, but good Lord and butter, I just can’t. I can’t tell you that I told her, because obviously I didn’t, or she’d have never dared to try the unholy mess I offered her. She’s a smart girl, that one, no matter who she ended up marrying.
And the faces… well, there were just too many, and too twisted and pained, for me to really be able to do them justice. Oh, and there was some rather spectacular projectile vomiting happening in the middle there, somewhere, too. I wouldn’t even know how to begin to tell you about that. Suffice to say that I know my wife had pizza and a salad for lunch and dinner that day, but I can’t really tell you in which order. Our kitchen wall still smells vaguely of grease and chocolate.)
I get the feeling I was talking about something else. But all that talk of mayo and peanut butter just makes me want a sandwich. Eh.
Oh, I remember. It’s how my judgement can’t be trusted. Right. So, I’m thinking of doing a little tinkering around here, but I’m not sure where to focus my energies. Here are a few of the things I have in mind to spruce up the old blog:
So, does any of that sound appetizing?
(More so than my extra-special mayo fudge, at least.)
Anything else you’d like to see? Anybody? Bueller? Just lemme know, and I’ll give it a shot, no matter how ridiculous. Hey, you’ve seen what I write. I’ve got very little pride left.
So, I guess that’s about it for this evening. Go check out the links on the right. Maybe you missed something good, who knows? Hell, if you’ve seen all that crap, go check out one of the blogs listed over there. Those people are saner than I am, and won’t take up nearly as much of your time. Except the ones that do, I suppose. A couple of them are just about as talky and random as I am. But they’ve been at it a lot longer, so at least you won’t have to hear about their ‘first quarter blogiversaries’. Who’d want to go through this again?
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