Sunday, October 22, 2006

So I was missing the genetically-ideal facial features of you, the few but loyal members of my beloved constituency...

... and decided to emerge briefly from my self-imposed dormancy to regale you with tales both amusing and grand.


No, I just felt like bitching some more.

Oh, and you're also shockingly, distressingly unattractive. All of you. Every last one.

Yes, even you.

Especially you.

Anyway, it has occurred to me recently that my complete lack of interest in the affairs of my fellow Man (for feminists, read "Myn") just doesn't seem to be coming across as clearly as I'd like. People are still talking to me. Constantly. About things.

It should come as no surprise to any of my avid followers that I am the last person on this lava-filled mass of undrinkable water to express any interest in "things." I'm not sure where the people I encounter on a daily basis are getting the impression that I actually care, about them or their things. Why does your average evolutionary offshoot still insist on approaching me and engaging in one-sided conversations about his manatee-shaped uncle's triple bypass surgery or that cute guy she likes who she doesn't realize is dating the other cute guy she likes?

And then it struck me: Nobody on this glorified moon rock has access to a Matthew-to-Stupid-Asshole Dictionary.

Well, problem solved. Until the next stupid asshole I run into. With my knee.

The following are some sample translations of the words I say, how stupid assholes incorrectly interpret said words, and, finally, what I actually mean by these words.

HOMELY PRICK WHOSE GAME OF UNREAL TOURNAMENT IS LOADING: You know (wheeze), you could just (wheeze), you know (wheeze), tell people what you really mean. Maybe if you were (wheeze) just a little less of a wimp (wheeze), you'd have the balls to let people know how you fe -- Oh! Oh! My game loaded! My game just loaded! (wheeze, wheeze, wheeze) I am an armchair warrior!!! Rahhhh!!! (pause) Er, that is, if they ever make an armchair large enough...

An interesting take on the issue, Self-appointed Cyberspace Psychologist. Or Dicknose. May I call you Dicknose? In any case, society expects certain concessions from its participants, willing or no. One of the most important of these is that in order to get along in it successfully, one cannot, under any circumstances, go around telling other members of society how one really feels. This would lead to an alarming spike in the number of Other People-on-T.C.I. hate crimes, or, worse, deep discussions with stupid assholes whose feelings have been "hurt" and whose brains are "not applicable."

So instead, I complacently utter the many simple phrases that society demands of me. Often this is enough to enable me to purchase alcoholic beverages whenever I require them (78% of my waking moments) and assure others that I am, in fact, "fine." Quite frequently as of late, however, these common, meaningless courtesies have done nothing to prevent the onslaught of unwelcome aural vomit that gets regularly spewed at me by the Stupid Assholes across this great nation.

So, hence, this blog entry. Happy, Dicknose?

DICKNOSE: (wheeze, wheeze, wheeze)

Wonderful. And here we go...

> What I say: "How are you?"
> What you hear: "Greetings, fellow world citizen! By staring directly at you and uttering three basic words, this apparently alerts you to my intense fascination with your current state of health and/or mind. Also, please inform me immediately if you happen to be experiencing a bad day. Follow up any such proclamation with a verbal laundry list -- that omits no detail, however trite or insignificant -- of just how bad a day you are having. Much obliged, friend!"
> What I'm really saying: "Say the word 'fine' to me."

> What I say: "Ah." (a.k.a. "Oh," "I see," "Huh," "Uh-huh," "No kidding?," "Really?," and *non-committal grunt*)
> What you hear: "Tell me more!"
> What I'm really saying: "I've been humming the theme from 'The Transformers' in my head for the past eight minutes."

> What I say: "Sorry, but I have to get back to work."
> What you hear: "Gee, I'd love to hear whether your spoiled, purposeless, overfed house cat ever finished rolling over, but duty calls! You know how it goes. Nose to the grindstone! My boss is a slavedriver! Ergh! Ha, ha! Catch me later, though. I can't wait to hear how it ends!"
> What I'm really saying: "Congratulations. You are so boring that I, the world's laziest inhabitant, would actually rather continue working than humor your vapid, narcissistic ass for one fucking second longer."

> (in an email) What I write: "I'll write more later."
> What you read: "Fascinating! Your 83-paragraph, grammatically-suspect, and spelling error-riddled dissertation on the finer points of efficient CD rack organization was well worth the thirteen minutes that have now evaporated from my physical timeline, never to be enjoyed again. I promise that I will soon answer you in kind, with sentence upon non-capitalized sentence of intrigued queries as to your learned opinion on the "genre vs. alphabetical" debate.
> What I'm really writing: "I gave your unsolicited novella all of two seconds of my fleeting attention. This blatant lie I am now sending you should serve as a place-holder for the lengthy epistle I have no intention of writing."

> (on the phone) What I say: "I can't talk long..."
> What you hear: "Shoot. I'd really love it if you poured 37 minute's-worth of entirely inconsequential verbal feces into my ear just now, but, sadly, I am in a rush and can only spare a few moments."
> What I'm really saying: "Your reputation as an aural terrorist is so well-known that I have to preface a simple phone call with a warning specifically designed to keep you from nattering on like the braying jackass you are."

> What I say: "I don't want to do anything that might ruin our friendship."
> What you hear: "I care about you. I really do. And someday, somehow, somewhere, we might have been more than friends, but as it stands now, that is but a dream for another time. Yet if I cannot have your body -- your soul --to share with mine, at least allow me to cherish you as a confidante, a companion, a friend. If you cannot remain in my heart, you can at least remain close to it. Au revoir, mon cherie."
> What I'm really saying: "You're too ugly to have sex with."

> What I say: "Are you wearing perfume/lotion?"
> What you hear: "Your intricately-plotted attempt to ensnare an unsuspecting member of the opposite sex through the combination of the science of insect pheromones and liberal application of Melonberry Banana-Apple Cocoa Buttercreme Delight has proven successful. I am yours."
> What I'm Really Saying: "Sweet holy Christ, is there fruit rotting around here somewhere?"

Sadly, the kinds of people who are most likely to abuse my intolerance for yakking assgoblins are also the least likely to be literate, so this has been something of an exericse in futility for me....

...not unlike all of my blog entries.

In closing, enough with the fucking lotion already, ladies.

OOPS. I ALMOST FORGOT I HATE THESE GUYS, TOO: Remember that Top 10 List of my most hated heroes and good guys I posted a short while back? Well, here are a pair of glaring omissions: Sir Lancelot and Robin Hood.

Sir Lancelot, as the mythological paragon of virtue and tedium, got to win every fight he ever took part in ... except against his even more migraine-inducingly dull son, Sir Galahad. Check out T.H. White's fairly kick-ass novel "The Once and Future King:" Lancelot, aged 80, gets soundly thrashed by his boy, aged 60 and having recently undergone a personality lobotomy, during the search for the Holy Grail. And then Lancelot, like all true, noble, valiant, flawless heroes..... cries. That's right. Mr. I-Humiliate-Everyone-Else-On-A-Daily-Fucking-Basis actually. Fucking. Cries. This is the only funny thing Sir Lancelot has ever done.

Ol' Lancey Boy also got to fuck the equally uninteresting Queen of Camelot right under the nose of doddering King Arthur and somehow came out of this situation looking like the good guy. Virtuous defender of right and all-around upstanding moral bloke, my egg-white ass. Lancelot proved once again that you can be a hypocritical, bullying prig and still come away with a reputation as mythology's greatest hero just so long as you also happen to be good-looking.

I wish Sir Lancelot really did exist just so I could enjoy the fact that he'd be well and truly dead by now.

Robin Hood, on the other hand, handily stole vast sums of money from the rich ... only to squander it all on a shiftless load of flea-infested hangers-on who then had no real incentive to go out and get real jobs. I believe the liberals now use this career criminal as a mascot for the modern-day welfare program.


But no, seriously, Robin Hood was an idiot.


It's that time of year again. The time of year when, through some apparent mix-up in the balance of the cosmos as we know it, T.C.I. manages to be lauded for his non-literary talents, such as they are.

As I wrote in my last entry, I have been very happily lax in my blog-updating "duties" on account of being involved with my first professional theatrical job in the Milwaukee area. I'm currently playing half the cast in a two-man comedy called Dracula vs. the Nazis. Among others, I play two versions of Count Dracula, two versions of Eva Braun (yes, Hitler's girlfriend. That's the one. And it pains me to admit that the Evas are my two favorite characters. May the Jews forgive me... Of course, if it helps, all the Nazis in the play die. So that's cool), a blithering English minister, and a conniving old Ma Barker-type from Brooklyn and her adopted son, a candy-craving Southern hick/idiot savant. If you're really interested in going to it and don't mind seeing me in a revealing dirndl (though who would, really?), all the important information can be found at this here link.

Oh, and here's the self-serving, back-patting part: a trio of positive reviews of the show, the first one being my first notice in a major U.S. newspaper.

The Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel

Vital Source Magazine

Shepherd Express

CYNICKITE PISSING ON MY PARADE: Uh, gee, T.C.I., don't you normally revile mirror-stroking egotists who march around, thrusting their laurels and accolades into other people's faces?

Well, yes, but... but not when they're me...

CYNICKITE PISSING ON MY PARADE: Hmm, I could have sworn that was the definition of "hypocrisy..."

Who are you? The field reporter for the fucking American Heritage Dictionary? Fine. Here's a review from a dessicated old bat who hated our show. And I offer no apologies for her pedestrian literary skills.

"Can you believe I used to be an English teacher?"

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Blogger Dakota said...

While I certainly do applaud your apparantly triumphant performance in this play, I'm afraid I've got to ask: do you HONESTLY consider the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinal to be a "Major US Newspaper"? I mean, can we discuss?

Keep up the good work.
In related news howdy from the People's Republic of China. Stop by any time: everyone's welcome.

6:19 AM  
Blogger Chuckles O'Plenty said...

Well, okay, how about "as 'major' as you can get in the southeastern Wisconsin area?"

I don't know. Just doesn't have the same ring to it.

And China now? *China?* Sit still, for Christ's sake, man!

7:44 AM  
Blogger Patelicious said...

I, personally, am NOT looking forward to "A Cudahy Caroler Christmas." She's right, there's no accounting for taste.

PS--Lancelot was not good-looking. I have a picture. And the venerated TH White says so. I think the true moral is that if you're a good enough athlete, you can get away with anything.

1:46 PM  
Blogger Chuckles O'Plenty said...

I now humbly bestow 3.141592+ points upon Patelicious for calling me out on a literary fallacy that I was well aware of even as I wrote it: according to T.H. White, Lancelot was, in fact, strikingly ugly. In fact, he goes into great length describing just how homely Lancelot is before backpedaling and saying Mr. Perfect was unattractive in such an interesting way that the most beautiful woman in the kingdom had no choice but to fall in love with him.

*sigh* Whatever.

Anyway, my (honestly) sincere apologies to Patelicious and my loyal readers for unfairly assuming that you were illiterate turds rather than just merely turds.

I basically meant that whenever Lancelot is portrayed on TV, film, or stage, he is invariably played by an airbrushed pretty boy who looks as physically threatening as a week-old kitten.

And, uh, you have a definitive picture of a person who never existed? Cool. However, if the individual in question is startlingly hairy and hails from the Pacific Northwest, that may not be a picture of Sir Lancelot you've got there...

And as far as the overhyped "Cudahy Carolers' Christmas" goes, man, find me a version penned by Tennessee Williams and you've got my idea of what theatrical hell must be like.

In closing (since this is tantamount to a full-length blog entry), Patelicious: Who the hell are you? Step forward to receive your points and undeserved scorn.

5:54 PM  
Blogger Behnnie said...

so... when will bickerstaff actually *review* the show?

the mchale review was kind of a treat, actually. maybe i've been reading too many issues of variety, or mabe i'm just too sober, but it sure felt all warm and home-y reading her, um, that stuff... she wrote... about... you know... whatever it was she was talking about.

and: i would take the brunette eva braun as my lesbian lover. there. i said it.

if and when your sm locates an oogie wig i will see to it that you receive pictures of it in play.

7:23 PM  
Blogger Chuckles O'Plenty said...

Ahh, all my old regulars are coming out to play...

Anyway, shut up, Behnnie. McHale always liked you.

And judging by the pipes on Brown Eva Braun, I'd say it's more likely *she* would take *you* as a lesbian lover...

8:03 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Wow! I'm surprised with how long you were able to hold back all your anger.

Congratulations! McHale hated you. That just shows that she witnessed another show she didn't understand and never will. When is someone going to let her know she's an idiot?

Hope the show is going well.

Off to play practice,

Sgt Mellors
(Winner of the 1st "Cynickite of the Month or Quarter or Whenever the Hell I Feel Like It?" Award)

6:12 PM  
Blogger Dakota said...

I see that you've gotten rid of the fish motif and returned to glorious, glorious you for the profile photo. This I will say: hunchback-esque or not, you're still a nice looking gentleman. Albeit with terrible posture.

7:49 AM  
Blogger Chuckles O'Plenty said...

How did I know that posting a new, strictly heterosexual photo of myself would net me an easy compliment from you, dak?

And this season, hunchbacked is the new stick-up-your-ass.

11:55 PM  

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