And Now We Wait...

The deed is done. I have successfully tied the dental floss noose round my armpitty intruder. Mind you, it wasn't fucking easy. You try lassoing a meaty nubbin' with one hand. It was like like attempting to extract a greased Vienna sausage from a tub of tapioca with your toes. Which I have tried, and it's not as easy, or delicious, as it sounds.

Anywhich, now the waiting game is on. I'm kind of afraid to look at it -- I kept catching a glimpse of it when I was getting dressed this morning and it kinda looked furious... like this:



If you don't hear from me in a few days, call the authorities... and a good exterminator.

The Hangman's Noose

So, today is supposed to be the day... the day I tie off my unborn twin. I was ready to do it this morning, actually -- I showered, making sure to lather the ol' skin tag up and loofah-ing it to a high shine. But I haven't been able to pull the trigger yet. Why? Maybe I've grown too attached to it. [beat] I don't know... maybe I'm starting to feel sorry for it. All the good times we've had together. Murder's not as easy as you'd think. Here's the "conversation" I had with "Ol' Flappy" while toweling off...

ME: So, here we are...
SKIN TAG: Yep. Here we--hey, what are you doing with that floss in your hand?
ME: Oh this? Uh... nothing. You just go back to what you were doing...
SKIN TAG: You weren't going to fashion a mini noose out of that and try to tighten it around my meaty stalk, were you?
ME: What?! A noose?! That's crazy! Why would I do that?
SKIN TAG: Oh, I don't know. You sure have been paying a lot of attention to me, lately. Flicking me, prodding me with pencil erasers, measuring me...
ME: Oh, don't mind that. You're just fun to play with.
SKIN TAG: Good. 'Cuz you don't wanna fuck with a skin tag. You fuck with me and, next thing you know, I'm getting all dark-colored and my borders are getting all irregular and shit. You hear what I'm saying?
ME: [silence]
SKIN TAG: PUT DOWN THAT NAIL CLIPPER, MOTHERFUCKER!!!

I'm thinking tonight's the night. I'll attack while it's sleeping.

Unless it attacks first...

Tag! You're It!

So, when you reach your mid-40s, there's a lotta shit going on in, on and around your body that just disgusts the fuck out of you. I try not to look in the mirror too often but when I do, I'm usually greeted with some new bodily atrocity that causes my sphincter to clamp shut and produces an air-barf or two.

The latest heinousness was unearthed recently while innocently applying some deodorant. I lifted my right arm for a couple of swipes of the old pit-stick when I spied a little bit more flesh than I was used to. There, just to the side of my pit-muff, was a pendulous nubbin' of revolting meat-growth: a SKIN-TAG!! And this was not your run-of-the-mill skin-tag, either. It was like an albino raisin hanging by slimmest of skin-threads -- just flapping side-to-side like some horrific, mini beached armpit sea cow.

If I could've ripped my arm off then and there and stuffed it down the kitchen garbage disposal, believe me, it would have been done. But this thing was stuck to me... a hammy hanger-on adhered to me like a flesh-lamprey clinging to its oblivious, meaty host. Just thinking about it now, nestled comfortably within my cozy, hair-lined arm-crotch is making bile spray up my food-hole like some sort of doo-doo geyser.

But I wasn't going to simply sit idly by and let this thing absorb me, Invasion of the Body Snatchers-style. No, I needed a plan. So, while back in Chicago recently visiting the 'rents, I posed a dinner-table question to my doctor brother...

ME: Hey, so skin tags...
DR. BROTHER: Yeah?
ME: Is there a way of getting rid of them without going to a doctor?
DR. BROTHER: Uh, sure. You can come into the office tomorrow, though and--
ME: No, I've gotta do this myself.
DR. BROTHER: Well, you can tie some dental floss or thin thread around its stalk, which will cut off the blood supply. Then it'll eventually turn black and fall off.
ME: Thanks!

First of all... let me acknowledge the utter ghastliness of the fact that this thing has a fucking "stalk." Holy fuck is that gnarly. And B, this might appear to the average reader to be sound doctorly advice if it weren't for the fact that I recall, years ago, my brother telling me about a time when he tried to snip a skin tag off of his neck with a toenail clipper and it proceeded to "bleed for, like, four days." Probably a good idea to get a second opinion but, fuck it, I need this Siamese twin gone, like, yesterday.

So, that brings us up to today. I'm reviving this long dead-and-buried blog to document the exorcism of my nubbin-y nemesis, my plumped-up parasite, my flappy flesh-knob. I'd post pictures but A, no one should have to see such evil and 2, I'm pretty sure the photos would end up on some alt.binaries.nubbinlovers site and I just couldn't live with that. Instead, I'll try to post artist renderings of each step in the process.

I'll start with a rendering of "the culprit" pre-strangulation. Warning: not for the faint-hearted.



UP NEXT: The Hangman's Noose

The Comeback Kid...

Fucking middle school.

So, apparently, there are a coupla jock douche-nozzles who are giving Mr. Z a hard time in one of his classes -- just run-of-the-mill jock harassment, the occasional name-calling and general douche-nozzlery. He seems somewhat annoyed by it but the dude is just way too nice to do anything about it. Although, as crabby-progeny, he is obligated to return their fire. It is the crabby way.

I don't remember how old I was when I realized that being a fucking smart-ass was the antidote to any and all of the turds that life chucked my way. I think I was kind of an easy target for awhile there, too. I blame my parents, of course. They were never cynical enough -- always telling me I could be anything I wanted to be and how much other people had to offer. Liars!

Anywhich, I started to realize that it's nearly impossible to force cynicism on a kid who's not ready for it yet. It's like trying to affix a fake mustache to a dog's muzzle -- ultimately, it's just not gonna stick (no matter how much duct tape you use). So, I'd futilely run through role-playing scenarios where I'd say things like, "All you have to do is say, 'Eat my balls, dickcheese.'" and he's say, "No way! I'm not gonna say that!" Other plans involved attaching a spy camera/microphone to his head, teaching him the Three Stooges eye poke and me going to school dressed in a Mr. Z costume for a week. Needless to say, he indulged none of my scenarios.

Cut to yesterday morning when I had a revelation in the shower. But this revelation didn't involve Dr. Bronner's peppermint soap and a warm washcloth. See, I just had to find a solution that Mr. Z would think was hilarious enough that he'd take ownership of the idea and embrace it. So here's what I proposed at the dinner table last night...

ME: Okay, I think I've got a solution. Here's what you do -- next time this butt-nugget says something to you, say, "Whatever, dipes." Then turn away. Then, when he asks you what "dipes" means, say, "Eh, you kinda smell like diapers."

OLD LADY: [laughs hysterically for about three minutes]

MR. Z: Dipes?! Why dipes?

ME: Why not?! It's perfect. And once the name sticks, you're golden.

MR. Z: What if he says, "Did your dad tell you to call me that?"

ME: A) He'd never say that. 2) Then you say, "No, actually your mom told me to call you that last night, as she was crawling out my bedroom window."

OLD LADY: [instantly stops laughing]

MR. Z: Now that's funny. So how do you spell it? Is it d-i-p-e-s or is it d-i-a-p--

ME: NOT IMPORTANT! Spell it however you want! Look, it's a fool-proof plan! DIPES! It can't lose!

MR. Z: That's pretty good. If he says anything tomorrow, I might try it out. [beat] And maybe later I can start calling him "Dick van Dipes!"

ME: YES! That's my boy!

God, I hope he doesn't get his ass kicked.

=====UPDATE=======

Apparently, today the fuckstain who has been bothering Mr. Z was picking on a special ed kid in class, so Mr. Z said, "Leave him alone, Dipes." The kid asked him why he called him Dipes and Mr. Z said "because you kinda smell like diapers." I guess it got to him because he called Mr. Z a "f*ggot," (stay classy, fuckstain), to which Mr. Z flawlessly replied, "Whatever, Dipes."

And the kicker is, Mr. Z heard around school that the kid has been asking people if he smells like diapers. Yeesssss... it's all going according to plan! I told Mr. Z "Now, all you have to do is call him Dipes whenever your see him and by the end of the year, people won't even remember his real name."

Man, what I'd give for one of those freak electrical storms that turns me into a 12 year old kid again and unleashes me on an unsuspecting middle school! There is that Zoltar machine at the mall...

A Dear Gym Letter...

Dear Mr. Z's 8th grade gym teacher,

Dodge ball? Really? It's 20-fucking-11, some 30 plus years since I used to get an over-inflated red rubber ball catapulted at my 10 year old nutsack by a freakishly overdeveloped Orlando Mazzolini at Kipling elementary school, and the best you can muster "physical education-wise" is fucking dodge ball?!

Your douchebaggery is breathtaking.

I don't know... maybe you were flash-frozen in a 1970s block of ice, only to be thawed out almost half a century later, two states eastward, and then forced to immediately come up with a forty minute activity the very second you were reanimated. Maybe you think that the best way to prepare the next generation of humanity for the inevitable globally-warmed armageddon is to build up their throwin' arms and toughen up their supervirus-vulnerable skin with repeated pummelings. Or maybe you're a fucking clueless shitfuck who is somehow oblivious to the fact that dodge-fucking-ball has become forever linked to lazy, drunken, sadistic, dipshit gym teachers, as illustrated in such classics as "Freaks and Geeks," "The Wonder Years," "Mr. Woodcock," and, oh I don't know, maybe the movie "Dodgeball"?!

What, is your last functioning creatine-fried synapse too fucking overworked to come up with a plan other than "whipping shit at the weak"? Are your polyester sans-a-belt shorts choking off all the oxygen meant to supply your tiny ass-brain? Or are you just pissed that after the University of Moron red-shirted your ass freshman year, you then pulled a hammy doing a kegstand at the Theta Chi house, and killed any future you might have had as a rich and famous fat-ass pro lineman, celebrated for being able to eat big hunks of meats and for growing a giant beard and then dropping dead at age 47 when your over-concussed brain melts into a lumpy custard?

How do you have a fucking job, you pointless nugget of turd? Do you know how many unemployed physical education teachers there are in this bankrupt state who would literally rip your mouth-breathing face off of your flat skull for a chance to actually teach and physically educate? The fact that my tax money (which I gladly hand over, by the way -- you shortsighted, treasonous anti-tax fart-nozzles are next on my list) lines the polyester pockets of a ham-headed, cretinous neanderfuck like you makes me want to punch you in the neck, which would, of course, be impossible because I saw you on parent/teacher conference night and your ham-head rests squarely on your ham-shoulders. You, sir, are neckless.

Why I'm wasting type on you, I know not. I mean, you're forcing middle-schoolers to play dodge ball, for shit's sake -- it's like trying to reason with a goat. And at least goats can yield cheese. I don't know what one could make from your milk. Failure curds? Half and half-wit? Simpleton-gurt?

May a gym class' worth of errant, over-inflated red rubber balls rocket their way to your dessicated, steroid-shrunken prune-bag, you worthless ass spray.

Sincerely,
Crabbydad

UPDATE:
Mr. Z informed me that today was the last day of dodge ball. Of course, he also informed me that he got hit in the face "really hard" as a farewell. Hopefully, that's the last time he'll ever have unwelcomed balls smacking into his face.

Turning over a New Leash...

Well, Miss O decided today that she wanted to fire up the old Dog Treats Cafe, once again, and hey, it was either that or watch the Bears suck their own asses, so it was a no-brainer. So here you have it, Episode Eight, where she spoons right into a re-hydrated bowl of The Honest Kitchen's "Force" dog food.* Enjoy!




*According to their site, "The Honest Kitchen is the only pet food company with FDA approval to label its pet foods human grade." Frankly, that's more than I can say for the Pringles she wants me to put in her lunches everyday.

Lo, I Have Smelled The Face of Death...

Have I mentioned lately how fucking disgusting men are. Wait, let me clarify -- not all men... just all men besides me.

Example 4937:

So, I'm at the gym, drying off after a shower in the seemingly non-disgusting shower area which is, in fact, probably exponentially more disgusting than I can possibly imagine, and I see this dude, unclad, walk into the crapper stall. Okay, fine, people need to shit. I get it. Unfortunately, said stall is a mere five feet from my locker and I KNOW this dude's gonna be causing some serious heinousness.

I walk over to my locker, flip-flops glued to my feet because who knows what sort of primordial, fecal-pee-jizz excreta soups is puddling on the tiles, and proceed to get dressed as quickly as possible before the onslaught begins. Well, no sooner do I open the locker door than the dude unleashes an ass-fury of biblical proportions. It was truly horrific -- ripping, tearing, splattering -- it was like the dude was stabbing a white-water raft filled with pressurized pudding. I had my head turned away and my eyes clamped shut because I was convinced that if I looked toward the horror, my face would've done the Indiana Jones nazi face-melt.

And, mind you, I'm no shit-prude -- if you'll recall, I put funny fart sound effects into video games for a living so I can appreciate the humor in a good colonic assplosion. But, no, there was nothing funny about this atrocity.

And let me just step aside here and say that this is the main reason I don't eat red meat anymore. It's really not about not eating mammals. It's not about saving the environment or my arteries. It's because I know that, yesterday, this dude probably snarfed down two sausage McMuffins for breakfast, probably had some sort of meat sandwich for lunch and inhaled some fucking ribs for dinner and THAT'S why his ass is detonating. Non meat-eaters just do NOT shit like that, lemme tell ya. I haven't made noises like that since the early 90s, when I used to suck down four McDonald's cheese burgers at a sitting. Beans, noodles and tempeh simply cannot cause that sort of destruction.

Anywhich, at this point I was just trying to get my clothes on as fast as possible so I could escape this rectal hell-mouth without all of my body hair getting completely seared off. That's when I heard it. The sound of the toilet paper roll being unfurled. I figured this dude was gonna have to use at least three full rolls, double-ply, to even put a dent in the chaos he had created in there but all I heard was one squeak of the roll, a tear and then... flush.

Are you shitting me?! A one wiper?! There's no fucking way. This dude had to have looked like Augustus Gloop AFTER he got stuck in the chocolate river tube in there and he's pulling off a one-wiper?! At the very least, he was going to need a hazmat team with pressurized hoses and industrial-strength detergents working around the clock for days to rectify his situation. But then the lock turned and the stall door began to open. I turned away because I knew I my stomach couldn't handle the fecal greaseball that was about to exit the crime scene...

And out he strutted. Out of the stall, past the lockers, past my horrified grimace and... into the goddamn showers.

I swear, I'm buying myself a pair of hip-waders.

I Guess I've Hit Crabberty...

How the fuck old do I have to be before all of the oil and grease-spewing holes dry up on my 45 year old face so I won't get anymore goddamn zits? I mean, what the shit?!

Friday afternoon, I notice a tiny little red dot on my cheek and I say to myself, "Hm... a little pimple. Bummer. Oh well... I haven't shaved in a while. Probably just an ingrown hair." Nasty but... fine. Saturday morning, I wake up and I'm growing a fucking elbow out of my face and the right side of my chin is swollen up like some granny's gout-y ankle. I looked like the fucking love-child of Jay Leno and Maria Shriver.

Now, I would've just ignored it but the fact that there was this major swelling along my jaw and the way that it felt kinda hot reminded me of the time I had cellulitis in my elbow, which was a fucking nightmare. And the fact that it was happening on my face this time, just inches from my already enfeebled brain... well, I thought I needed a second opinion. It was Saturday but, luckily, there's an urgent care place literally 3 blocks from the house, so I booked over there.

When I pushed open the H1N1-encrusted door, I was greeted with a sputum symphony of horks and hocks and instantly regretted stepping into what was basically ground zero for the next pandemic. Whatever I didn't have attacking my face before I got there, definitely mutated my genetic code by the time I left.

While I endured the 90 or so minutes it took them to call me back, I was able to diagnose the walking, er, seated dead with whom I was sharing this hell-mouth of a waiting room. There was Johnny Back-Strain, Connie Conjunctivitis, Rhea Diarrhea, Bobby Black-Lung and The Dead Lady. Oh, and there was the Boogersnot family.

Why I left my clean suit at home, I'll never know.

Eventually, I was called back and the nurse seemed somewhat relieved that, while I kinda looked Elephant Man-esque, I didn't seem like I was going to be spraying broncho-snot in her face. She took my info and then bolted, leaving me to wait for another 60 or so minutes for the "doctor" to show up. The doctor eventually did show up and, after I showed her my face-nodule and told her my story, she basically said, "Yeah... sure... could be cellulitis." Then she proceeded to give me a shot in my ass and wrote two prescriptions for two different kinds of penicillin. I don't think they would've given me that much penicillin if I had walked into that place with gonorrhea that I had caught from a tubercular leper but, hey, what the shit do I know?

So, I went home with all of my meds, ready to both combat my face-hump and begin to cultivate a penicillin-resistant super-virus in my colon. And here I sit, almost a week later -- the swelling is long gone but I still have a Milk Dud sized face-nugget lurking 'neath my week-and-a-half's worth of face-nugget-camouflaging beard. I figured the beard was the least I could do -- I was tired of my family projectile vomiting every time I turned my right cheek in their general direction. I think if I can get it to a nice, bushy Galifianikisian length, there's a good chance the beast will be sufficiently cloaked.

And now I must sleep, as the growth has made me weary.

Kickin' It, Miss O Style...

I know this is wrong and, as an adult, I should exhibit more self-control but I can't help myself when Miss O kicks some little kid ass.

I was seated in one of the cruel chairs at Miss O's Tae Kwon Do dojang (Korean for "run-down strip mall taekwondo* school"), reading the latest Franzen novel that I'm not sure if I like yet, when they announced that it was time for sparring. I used to get all anxious during sparring because I was afraid one of the goon-y spazmo fucks was gonna kick Miss O in the face and break her nose... and her $400 glasses.

But sometime over the summer, she became badass. I think it was after a pep talk I gave where I reminded her that she's wearing well over $100 worth of sparring gear for a reason -- so she can kick and punch and hard as she fucking wants without hurting anyone. Something clicked that day and she proceeded to kick the snot out of some innocent, pony-tailed brown belt. And she never looked back.

Anywhich, today, when they announced sparring, she seemed a little tired and distracted, so I strapped her into her little padded suit and planted a light punch on the big red dot on her chest protector, just to snap her out of it a bit. She gave me a "what the shit?!" look and then socked me in the forehead.

She was ready.

When I saw that she was being paired with a crew-cutted shit who appeared to be a year or two older than she, I wasn't exactly thrilled. He had about an inch or two on her in height and reach and just seemed like he was waiting to take out his daily parental whupppins on someone else. But I should've never doubted her.

Master S. gave them the "Go!" sign and, in the blink of an eye, Miss O unleashed a flurry of brutal kicks and punches that had the kid flailing backward until he slammed into the big padded pole in the middle of the room and then bit it... hard. The ref helped him up, made sure he wasn't too severely brain-damaged, and then gave him a few pointers about keeping his guard up. But words cannot stop the force that is Tae Kwon O!

She waited for him to regain what little composure he had left and then she unleashed her fury, once again. Left kick/right kick/right kick/fist/fist/FIST and BOOM! Back down he went, slapping the mat like a wet yak liver being whacked against Christina Ricci's forehead.

Of course, throughout the carnage, I kept catching myself smiling like a mofo, and I had to keep lifting my giant Franzen tome in front of my face to hide my giddiness. I couldn't figure which of the other adults were this poor punching bag's parents, so I tried my best to disguise my glee but it wasn't easy. This was better than the Thrilla in Manila. It was the De-pantsing in Lansing.

And then it was over. They bowed at each other, shook hands and took their seats against the wall. But not before Miss O glanced over at me, peeking out through her headgear with a look that said, "THAT'S what little girls are made of." I gave her a big thumbs up and then she ran over to the wall and took a seat, smiling.

Sugar and spice, my ass.

How to Raise a Stooge...

ME: Why don't you eat over your bowl?! You're eating that ice cream like a total slob...

MISS O: Hey, I resemble that remark!



And I can check that one off the list. My work here is almost done...

Is This Thing Still on?

MR. Z: You know what? I really like getting hugged by girls.

ME: Oh yeah?

MR. Z: Definitely. I got hugged by like five girls today.

ME: Five?! Wow. Wait... they hugged you, not the other way around, right?

MR. Z: Totally. I'm not "that guy."

ME: That's my boy.

The Pit...

The Saga Continues...

Another Thing I Have No Time for...

I have a new favorite thing. It's called "Xtranormal" and it's this online animation/movie making app that pretty much has endless possibilities for hee-larity. Here's my first attempt (not necessarily hee-larious, yet):



Oh, the possibilities...

Missed Episode 5? Schnauzer chance!!!

What goes best with a snifter full of Shamrock Shake? I mean, besides a dry heave? Why Mr. Pugsley's Peanut Butter dog treats, that's what. It's Episode 5 of Miss O's "Dog Treats Cafe" and it's a wiener... dog. Will she enjoy this week's treat? The suspense is killing me... it's sheer terrier!

Okay, I'll stop. Enjoy...

Tastes Like Mechanically-Separated Chicken!

Just got Episode 4 of The Dog Treats Cafe in under the wire. I was going to shoot it yesterday, but I had to get an upper endoscopy (save that fucker for another post) and afterward, instead of filming the spawnage, I thought it wiser to wallow in my Propofol-induced narco-coma for a an hour or five. Probably the best sleep I've had in 11 years. May get another next week just to make up for the pending time change.

Anywhich, here ya go...

There's More Than One Way to Skin a Fish...

Time for the third installment of Miss O's "The Dog Treats Cafe." She wasn't too thrilled about filming this episode, frankly. First, she was in a shitty mood and B, she had to down some Catch of the Day Pollock Snackers. She's braver than I, that girl is. But she soldiered on for the sake of art, as only Miss O can, and the result... well you decide. Enjoy.



Oh, and the giant underpants sponsor was Mr. Z's idea. (Credit where credit is due.)

Another Treat from Miss Owooooooo!

The second episode of "The Dog Treats Cafe" with Miss O is now available! This time, Miss O chokes down a Natural Balance Sweet Potato and Fish Formula Treat. She and Mr. Z have been really stoked about this project, so I'm doing my best not to let my crabbiness put the kibosh on it. Miss O already asked if we could go to the grand opening of the new Pet Supplies Plus this weekend to see what kinds of goodies they're sportin'.

The upside of all this is that I think she's actually starting to gain a little weight with her new canine cuisine. Those biscuits'll bulk ya right up. The downside, of course, is that her gums have turned black and now her paws smell like Fritos, but, hey, you take the good with the bad. Enjoy.

Miss O Has a Shiny Coat...

Miss O is a picky eater. Kind of a reverse William "The Refrigerator" Perry. She's more like William "The I'll Only Eat about a Quarter of My Sandwich at Lunch and Won't Touch the Chips, Milk or Even the Dessert" Perry. The bizarre thing is, she seems to really enjoy eating the dog's food. Whenever we get a new box of chow for Grover, she has to dig right in. Dry treats? Yep. Dehydrated fish chews? Why not. Salmon dog food pellets? Bring 'em on.

Now, most parents would probably try to discourage this kind of behavior. I, however, smelled the stink of opportunity. Mr. Z and Miss O came up with the idea, storyboarded it and all I did was video it and put it together. Personally, I think it's genius but remember, I also have a folder of about 75 fart sound effects that I also think are genius.

So, without further dog-doo, I give you Episode 1 of "The Dog Treats Cafe."

Upstairs, Brownstairs...

Day five of the President's Day Week All Children Left Behind-a-palooza today -- we've all pretty much had it with each other by now. I was in the basement, in a pretty important meeting with work (via the TeeVee), Mr. Z was mainlining some Wii on the first floor and Miss O was upstairs, in her room, doing whatever the shit is she does in her room.

SOMEONE AT WORK: ... And so, we should do this very important thing as soon as---

MISS O (barely audible): DAD!

SOMEONE AT WORK: ... really crucial thing you need to pay attention to--

MISS O (a little less barely audible): DAAAAAAD!!!!

I mute my camera and yell...

ME: WHAT?!

MISS O: (inaudible)

ME: I CAN'T HEAR YOU!! WHAAAAT?!!!

MISS O: (top of her lungs) I THINK I JUST SHARTED!!!!!

ME: YOU SHARTED?!?!?!!

MISS O: YES, I THINK SO!!!!

ME: GO CLEAN YOUR BUTT AND CHANGE YOUR UNDERWEAR!!!!!

MISS O: WHERE SHOULD I PUT THE UNDERWEAR?

ME: JUST THROW IT IN THE TUB AND I'LL GET IT LATER!!!

MISS O: THE TUB?!

ME: YES! THE TUB!!!

MISS O: OKAY!!!!!

Apparently, she sharted and was wondering what to do with her underwear.

After my meeting ended, I ran upstairs to ask her what the shit was going on. She told me that as she was reaching up to a high shelf to retrieve some Polly Pocket clothes, she did "three farts that felt kinda wet." She then told me that she "got a little shart on her finger" when she checked to see if, indeed, 'twas a shart.

I asked her if she washed her hands. She said "yes." I asked her if she washed her hands REALLY well. She said, "yes." I asked if she used soap. She said, "duh!" Then I told her not to fart for the rest of the day. She said, "I'll try."

Please don't let tomorrow be a snow day.