3,000 Dimwits – A Thank You

Double your pleasure, double your fun.  It’s a double post kinda day.  Doubly exciting.  And to what do we owe this pleasure, you ask?  Welp, we reached 3,000 dimwits, and going strong.   Most excellent, dear readers.  Thanks and double thanks.

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My brother texted me the other day – the brother that I always talk about.  He goes by the one syllable name, Joe, but I call him “Broseph.”  It’s a play on his full name Joseph and him being my brother incase you didn’t put two and two together.  I’m terrible at math myself, so don’t feel so bad if it went over your head.

Broseph reads my blog regularly.  He said in the text, “You’re really finding your voice.  And it’s fantastic.”  Then he went on to say something about hurry the hell up and write my book.  To which I replied something like, “Thanks dude!  I’m close, oh so very close.”  Then I said something lame about how my blog is like a very rough sketchbook, and the book will be my finished painting.  It was LAME-O.  Lamesville, USA.  But it’s kinda the truth, I hope.

When I write on my blog, it’s just me dumping my thoughts onto a screen real quick.  I don’t put much time into it.  I don’t go back and fix things.  I just sit down and write whatever’s on my mind at the time.  Let it all gush out.  I’m just as surprised as you are to see what comes out of my mouth, believe me.  I can’t believe some of the stuff I write.  What a dimwit dingaling!!!  The Captain of the Dimwits, for sure.

Well, this is a post mainly to say thanks to those who read my madness even though I just thanked you a few posts ago.  It really does mean a lot to me.  It also meant a lot that my brother told me he’s eagerly anticipating my finished book, because unlike me, he actually does read a lot of books.  He knows a good writer when he reads one, and he insists that I have what it takes.  He tells me I have something special, so I take his word for it.  It’s a very trusted word.

I sure hope Broseph is right.  I sure hope I have a doozy in me.  I think I do.  I’ve begun saving up money to take off time next year to give it a stab.  See what happens.  And today, I just lined up a cabin to stay for free out in North Carolina.  I saw photos, and it looks like the perfect kind of place to write a beautiful painting.  I’m going for a masterpiece.  One for the ages.  Or at the very least, one to stick on top of the toilet for when you’re bored.

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Of course with me, saying thanks is never quite enough, so I went ahead and did up a nice photo to include on the inside jacket of the book.  I don’t know.  I may play around with it some more.  Photoshop a parrot on my shoulder, or maybe an eye patch, or something more Pirate-esque.  It needs a little something more, but it’ll have to do for now.  I autographed the photo for you and everything.  When the real book comes out, the very first book I’ll autograph will be for Broseph.  I have to think more of what I want to say, but I’m sure I’ll come up with something.

Here you go, you dimwits.  Thanks.

And one last quick thing speaking of autographs.  A while back, I told you about how I’m sorta friends with Stephen Chbosky – the author of “Perks of Being a Wallflower.”  I met him on the movie version of the book two years ago and I stayed in touch somewhat.

Well, I recently asked Stephen to autograph a book for my former roommates’ newly adopted, teenage daughter.  The teenage gal is a big fan of Perks.  My former roomie sent me a text a week or so ago.  She included a photo of her daughter just after she opened up the package to reveal the signed book.  Her daughter had her hands clasped tight together, held close to her chest.  Almost like a position of an answered prayer.  Her face was pure glee.  She was crawling out of her skin with delight.

When I finish my book, I’m going to sign it and do the same sorts of things as Stephen.  I hope it will be a light for others.  I hope it will be a spark for certain people that desperately need a light or a spark.  I hope to make a newly adopted teenager’s day when she’s going through a really rough spell.  I hope my book will be an answered prayer for some.

I sure hope my brother is right.  Thanks Broseph.  Double thanks.

A Thank You – Fabulous

Quick story for you, you dimwits.  The other day, there were two kids and an older gentleman sitting on the steps.  The kids were a boy about 12 and a girl about 8.  The older gentleman asks me if I’m part of the film crew.  I said, “Yes sir, I am.  That’s me causing all this trouble in your neighborhood.  Are these your kids?”

He replied, “No, these are my students.  I’m waiting here with them until their parents pick them up.”  I said “Cool,” and then I asked the kids, “So what’s your favorite subject in school?”  The boy answered without hesitation.  He says in a girlish, prepubescent voice, “I want to be a writer.”  I told him good answer.  Being a writer is a wonderful career choice.  Then the kid talked my ear off for the next 17 minutes.  He wouldn’t shut up.

The little girl was a little more bashful, so once Chatty Kathy finally shut his piehole, I asked her again.  “So what’s your favorite subject?”  She puts her head down, thinks about it for a second, and then softly says, “Being with my family.”

I told the little girl that was a good answer too, but too bad that wasn’t the question.   I said good thing they don’t teach Listening as a school subject, or you’d fail miserably.

Can you believe it?  Twelve years old, and this kid already knows he wants to be a writer.  I didn’t know that I wanted to be a writer until I was 26.  It was an accident, really.  I created a funny character on MySpace named Ralph, and the character started to take off.  I built up a pretty big following from people all over the world.  It was wild.  I had no idea what the hell was going on.

My brother read my stuff and he sends me an email one day.  He said my writing reminded him of this famous author.  My brother said my writing is similar to this book he recently read.  The book was called “The Catcher in the Rye.”  He knows I don’t read much, but he suggested I read it.   I borrowed the book from him, and gave it a read.  It’s been almost ten years now, and I still haven’t returned that book.  It’s the greatest book that I’ve ever read.  It was some compliment my brother gave me.  The Catcher in the Rye.

I’ve had several people tell me that my writing style reminds them of J.D. Salinger.  Those are big shoes to fill.  He’s one of the best authors of all time.  I don’t know that I’ll ever get there, but that’s the goal anyway.

Just like Chatty Kathy, one day I want to be a writer, too.    I think I have it in me, and that’s the first place being a writer begins – with you.  Not with some crappy ass teacher who barks all these rules at you, and tells you there’s only one way to write.  There’s a million ways to write a story.  My way just happens to be a little off.  Lots of mistakes.  Sloppy, wreckless, poetic, insightful, up, down, sideways, raw and rough, tender and sweet, wild and free.  Mix the ingredients all up, and hopefully one day it’ll make for an interesting book.  The kind of book that you borrow from a friend and never want to return.

Well, I just wanted to say thanks.  Saying thanks is important.  This blog is just for practice, but it’s nice that so many of you have stuck around, and that so many of you that leave come back to check in from time to time.  And for you regulars, it’s amazing to me that you read my madness on such a consistent basis when there’s a million other things you could be doing with your time.

This one is especially for you.  How’s about an autographed photo of me dressed up like a Roman soldier, wearing cowboy boots, camo shorts, old geezer blue blockers, doing a little fishing in a swimming pool, and sitting right next to the one, the only, the effervescent Whoopi Goldberg.  Many thanks.

I woulda had Whoopi sign it too, but she says she was having a bad hair day.  She refused, but I think her cornrows look fabulous.   Just like you dimwits.  Fabulous.  Thanks again.

$7.33 – A Thank You

Wooooooo doggie!  It’s been a while since I’ve done one for the ladies and the gay gentlemen, so here you go.  Here’s an autographed topless photo of me while out for a jog the other day.

I’m back to running and I haven’t drank for a week.  Ladies, it’s worth mentioning that I’m very much single and I’m super awesome at taking out the trash.  Totally just kidding.  Taking out the trash is the worst.  But for the love of God, would one of you girls just marry me already.  I haven’t french kissed a girl in like 5 years, and I’m getting tired of making out with my pillow night after night.

Anywho, enough complaining.  It’s been a while since I’ve done a proper thank you to you dimwits.  I used to do up something special for every milestone:  50 followers, 500 followers, 1,000 followers, 70 gagillion followers, ect.  But then somebody brought it to my attention that calling people followers maybe isn’t the best term, because the word follower has some sort of sheepish connotation to it.

You dimwits aren’t sheep.  You’re tigers, you’re leaders.   You’re wonderful people, so I’ll just leave it at that.  I’ll just say thank you for reading however many of you there are, because it means a lot to me.  It used to just be my mother reading this damn thing and it got annoying with her commenting all the time, and nobody else (Hey ma, I need to borrow $1,000 pronto.  Wire it to my account.  Thanks.)

I hate math.  I hate it even worse than taking out the trash, but I wanna go over some math with you real quick.  I made my first money ever off of writing last month.  I put these stupid ads on my blog because I wanna buy a big ass yacht.  Guess how much money I earned the first month?  A whopping 7 dollars and 33 cents.  Woopty do, dinner is on me ladies.  Looks like we’ll be eating at Arby’s and we’ll have to share that chocolate milkshake.  If there’s any money left over, we can go buy a cookie from Subway.  7 dollars and 33 cents.  What a crock.

I got out my calculator.  I’ve been writing for about eight years now, so I’ve earned roughly one dollar per year.  I’d say over the course of a year, I average writing and Photoshopping about an hour a day.  So that’s 365 hours per year.  One dollar per year, divided by 365 hours, equals .0027 per hour.  Now, keep in mind the big ass yacht that I want to buy costs 65 million dollars.

I did some more math.  Math is seriously the worst.  I’d rather watch reruns of Lucy than do math.  I forget how I came to the answer exactly, but I figured out at this rate, I’d have to write for about 15 billion more hours to be able to afford the 65 million dollar big ass yacht.  Sounds about right.  What a crock indeed.  I think I’m gonna start making candles instead of writing.  At least my apartment will smell nice.

No, but seriously, I do enjoy writing and I plan to continue writing in the future as I get time.  I know my blog is confusing, and as a result, I’ve lost a lot of folks along the way.  Sometimes I write serious, sometimes funny.  Sometimes I share sad stories, sometimes I make Photoshop tutorials.  Sometimes it’s photos, sometimes it’s videos.  For a simpleton, I’m a very complex man.  But through all the various writing – up and down, sideways and backwards – some of you have stuck around through the whole thing, and that’s really cool.  I appreciate it mucho.  So this is my thanks to you.

I don’t like to make promises, but I think I worked a lot of stuff out last month.  I’m feeling good, so I think I’ll stick to some really funny writing for a while.  I have a bunch of ideas, some old stuff, some new stuff.  We’ll just see where the road leads.  It better lead me to that big ass yacht.  7 dollars and 33 cents.  Hey WordAds, suck it!  Take your $7.33 and stick it up your greedy, coroporate arse.

Well, anyway ladies and gay gentlemen.  Here’s a bonus video especially for you.  It’s a compilation video I made a few years back of my professional modeling photos.  I put it to the song “Love Is On the Way” by Saigon Kick.  Better get the cold shower ready.

Thanks again you dimwits.  Have a nice day.  I will do the same.

The Chris Miss Eve

I’ve told a lot of stories over the past few months.  Stories from childhood, the high school days, working on movies, and many more.  Thought being that it’s July and all, I’d share a Christmas story for my friends that live in the southern hemisphere.   Get you in the holiday spirit.

The story is called “The Chris Miss Eve.”  It’s  a story about a young boy’s uncontainable joy and anticipation for the most exciting day of the year.   That most exciting day being Christmas of course.

I wrote and illustrated The Chris Miss Eve when I was just five years old.  It’s the very first story that I’ve ever written.   My mother saved the story after all these years.  However, there was one page that was ripped and torn, so I took the liberty to revise the page a little.  I hope you enjoy.

HA!  Got you, you dimwit dingalings!  Well, maybe some of you new ones anyway.

It is a sweet story though, and it really is a story that I wrote back when I was five.  Too bad I made a mess of it with the revised page and all.  Just thought it could use a little polish.

I’ve always enjoyed kids’ artwork and stories.  The misspelling of words, the crazy disproportions, and the brilliant colors.  I love how kids draw scribbly, crooked lines all over the place.  Wild and free.  And then, well, somewhere in life someone comes along and insists that you have to draw within the lines.  They tell you that colors should be colored a certain way for it to look right.  You can’t draw a person with purple skin and give them green hair for god’s sake!  So this is the Dimwit’s twisted way of encouraging you to draw outside the lines, choose whatever colors you like best, and never mind what you’ve been told in life, unless what you’ve been told has been something wonderful.

Boi oh boi.  Sorry to pull a fast one on you.  Merry Chris Miss to all, and to all a goodnight.

“Big Love” – Excerpt From A Hot And Steamy Romance Novel

Do you like reading hot and steamy romance novels about pounding hearts and quivering thighs as much as I do?  Doubt it.  But if you do, then you will be thrilled to know that I’ve been working on writing a romance novel of my own.

The romance novel is titled “Big Love” and it’s a love story about a guy and gal who meet in an online chat room.  They hit it off, chat back and forth for several months.  The virtual lovebirds have only one rule:  no photos or physical descriptions of one another allowed whatsoever.  They’ve committed to testing out the theory that love is blind and that true love doesn’t concern itself with physical appearances.

After several months of online courtship, the two decide to finally meet up in person.  Kevin White, a nutritionist and health coach, is in for a BIG surprise when he finally meets the virtual love of his life, Nelly Barnes, a Wal-Mart sales associate.  The following excerpt is from their first meet-up.  Check it, yo.

“Big Love”
Excerpt From A Hot And Steamy Romance Novel
by Christopher Hinton

It had been months of correspondence, back and forth emails, phone calls, and handwritten letters.  The time was finally here.  I was going to see her.  In the flesh.  Face to face.  I was finally going to get to squeeze her tight, and if I had it my way, I might never let her go.   My sweet Nelly.  My true love.

I was nervous as hell.  I showed up at the coffee shop as per our arrangement, only I arrived two hours earlier than expected.

I gulped down three cups of coffee and an espresso while I was waiting.  I don’t drink coffee.  I was jitters.  I was a bundle of nerves.  Where is she?  Where is my cute as a button, Nelly, my precious baby lamb?  She was going to be here any second now.  I ordered another cup of coffee and sat back down, waiting.

Not long afterwards, in walked Nelly.  There she was.  It was my bunny angel.  I knew it was her by the way Nelly described the outfit so perfectly in a prior email – she said that she would be wearing black stretch pants and a yellow puppy dog T-shirt with the clever caption printed on the front, “I Ruff You.”

Yes, it was my Nelly all right, but she didn’t look like the girl that I had spent countless hours sculpting, and forming and painting a picture of in my mind.  If I’m being frank, Nelly was about 240 pounds heavier and carried quite a few more extra chins.  The girl in the painting also wasn’t wearing flip flops and didn’t have her hair pulled back into a moo cow Scrunchie.

I’m a putz.  I’m a dope.  A real honest-to-goodness imbecile.  The first thing that shot through my brain and out of my mouth before I had a chance to put a silencer on that nasty, devil of a tongue of mine came spewing out.  I fired a bullet.  Boy, did I ever.

I took one look at Nelly and I screamed “Holy shit!” across the entire way.  They heard me in Alaska.  Christ, they heard me in Japan.  Every person in the joint was looking at me, snapping and stretching their heads around like rubber bands.  I don’t blame them.  I have a bad habit of cursing – I’ll be the first to admit it, my pastor would be the second –  but cursing in public is a vile thing if you ask me, especially when there are children present.

I mouthed an apology to the mothers.  I meant it, I was sorry, but what was I going to say to my poor Nelly?  Sorry wouldn’t cut it.  Not for my sweet pookums, but it wasn’t like I had much time to give it thought.

Nelly gave a wave and walked over to my table.  She smiled, laughed nervously under her breath.  She was all jitters too.  She spoke.  A crackling, mousy voice came out of that mammoth body.  It was much different than the voice I had heard over the phone.

“Hi there, stranger.  So good to finally see you.  Sorry, I’m shaking.  I didn’t think that I would be this nervous.”

I said hi there right back.  Told her it was okay, I was nervous too.  We hugged.  It felt warm.  She had a question in regards to my shouting fit, however.

“So was that a good holy shit or a bad holy shit when I walked in the door?”

I never knew there was such a thing as a good holy shit, but I was relieved to be given a choice in this case.  I chose to go with a good.  It was good.  Nelly was – she was different than I had fantasized about in my dreams, but it didn’t matter.  That’s love.  It’s mad and it’s crazy, and if it’s right, it doesn’t give a damn about a size or a shape.

My Nelly was no ankle-biting poodle, and our love was no tiny, puppy love.  No, Nelly was a big fat ass elephant of a greyhound dog if that makes any sense, and I decided right then and there that it was all right with me.  I must be mad and crazy.  It was love for certain, and after I decided a little bit more, it was even better than being all right.  It was downright ecstasy.

The rest of the afternoon was nice.  We laughed.  We nearly fell off our chairs.  The tongue behaved, settled down and so did the nerves.  I can’t remember ever being happier than I was in that moment.  It had been a long time since I had been happy, which is a sad thing for a person to say, but it’s true.

No more dark and lonely nights.  Nelly was my sun.  She lit up the room, she lit up the sky.  Night time no longer existed as long as she was around. There was only day.

I held my Nelly tight.  It was a good holy shit.  It was a good goddamn.

I found my big love, all right.  I decided I was never letting go.