Testing the Waters...

Even though my crabonic plague is still a-lingerin', I decided to go swimming this morning, just to see if the act of physical exertion might help me hork up some of the more weighty oysters lodged in the deepest recesses of my alveoli.

When I pulled up to the Y, I noticed that the sign out front read, "We Will Miss You, Bob!" The Old Lady had mentioned the sign yesterday, and said that she saw something inside suggesting that Bob was retiring, which is a huge bummer because Bob is probably the nicest guy on the fucking planet. Seriously. I mean, the dude knew my fucking name by my second visit to the Y -- he knew everybody's goddamn name. Not like those other desk workers who would try to sneak a look at your card before saying hello... "Oh... uh, hi there...[glance/panic/scan] Shirley?" Bob just knew everybody -- every single morning, he'd be there at the desk with a cheery, "Mornin' Crabbydad!"

So, I was a little bummed when I saw the sign. Then I walk inside and head toward the lockerroom, and I see this big sheet of paper on the wall where shitloads of people had written little goodbyes to Bob -- "I'll miss your smile, Bob!" and "The Y will be a little less cheerful without you, Bob!" and "Our prayers are with your family at this sad time, Bob."

Wait, what?!

I looked up and there, in the center of the sheet, was a reprint of Bob's obituary. Bob didn't fucking retire, he died. What the shit?! The dude was only 60. Goddammit.

So, I walked into the lockerroom, which was silent, got my suit on and managed to do about half the laps I normally do before I started wheezing and horking up lung. I said "fuck it" at that point, and went back in to get dressed and go home.

I don't have a snappy ending to this story. I'm just shocked and bummed that one of the only people I see on a daily basis, and the only one who knew me from a turd on the ground, is dead. I mean, I didn't really know the guy, but when I think about it, I probably knew him as well as I know anybody in this town... which is depressing. I guess it's just another reminder to get out of this house and do shit and meet people and fucking live a little... if for no other reason than to ensure that when I drop dead, maybe there'll be more than two or three people to sign my sheet of paper on the wall at the Y.

Rock on, Bob.

Whoa, Black Lung-y, Phlegm-a-legm...

Still sick. Why is it that when the spawnage contracted this bug, they got a little cough and some sniffles, when the Old Lady got it, she had a sore throat and she felt tired and "dizzy," and when I get it, I'm wheezy, coughing gray slugs outta my lungs, can't hear out of either ear, and the never ending raging rapids of boogersnotz that flows out of my face is glo-stick green? I'm not complaining... just askin'.

I've got the fucking immune system of a goddamn dung beetle, that's why. Actually, the dung beetle probably has a pretty powerful immune system, given that the thing basically rolls shit-balls all day for a living. Maybe I could be the first human recipient of a dung-beetle immune system. I'd roll shit-balls all day if it would mean I could stay healthy while doing it. And I'll bet I'd be good at it too -- I have an eye for detail. I'd have the biggest, smoothest shit-balls in town, by gum! "Hey, have you seen the fucking shit-balls that crabbydad rolled today?! Holy crap, those things are turd-riffic!" Yep, that would be the scuttlebutt amongst all the other dung-beetle-immune-system-recipient patients 'round the shitfarm.

Ah, a fella can dream, can't he?

HOCK! Who Blows There?

Well, after weeks of the spawnage coughing lung-oysters in my general direction and tossing their snot-sodden, un-Kleenexes at me every three minutes, I have finally surrendered my immune system to their plague. I am a sputum-producing machine and my throat feels like it's lined in pink fiberglass insulation and napalm. Needless to say, my basal crab level has skyrocketed.

I don't know what the fuck to type about tonight... I'm not necessarily in the most reflective of moods this eve'n. Oh, Mr. Z did mention that in his "Reproductive Health" class yesterday, he learned all about the dreaded "nocturnal emission." Of course, the Old Lady responded with a "Oh, that's neat," while I did my usual -- sprayed whatever liquid I was drinking out through my nose and turned my head away so he didn't see me tittering like a schoolboy. I'm sorry, I can't help it -- I cannot discuss sex or any sex-related particulars without giggling, stammering and/or homina-homina-homina-ing. The Old Lady, on the other hand, can orate on the topic for hours with nary a smirk, hence, she handles most of the dirty work.

I did somehow manage to ask Mr. Z if he understood what the the "N.E." was all about, and he paused before he said, "So... what comes out? Is it pee?" Pee?! I think they're teaching you about the wrong kinda wet dream at school, dude. Then the Old Lady gets ready to start in on the ins and outs, if you will, of the said emission when I pointed out to her that we were all eating dinner at the time, and Miss O was sitting RIGHT IN FRONT OF HER and perhaps there was a better, more private venue for discussing the matter. A sticky situation, indeed.

So, instead of going to the other room, the Old Lady whispers all the sordid particulars in the boy's ear. He seemed satisfied and left the room. Then I pointed out to Old Lady that she had just described the process of involuntary nighttime ejaculation, in her hushed, dulcet tones, into the youthful, impressionable ear of her son. I then drove to the bank to open a savings account for the years and years of therapy he'll be needing to undo the Freudian scarring she had just thrust upon him.

Alas, whatever happened to the days when she used to whisper the mechanics of the nocturnal emission in my ear?

I Smell Bug Smoke...

Miss O's friend Miss A came over after school today, and the two of them were loitering around in the front yard, trying to come up with something to do. Miss O finally asked...

MISS O: Dad, where's my magnifying glass?

ME: Uh, I think it's in your room... why?

MISS O: Oh, nothing. [under breath] We're just gonna burn some ants...

ME: What?! No. You can't burn ants with your magnifying glass.

MISS A: My brother and I do it.

ME: Okay... but I don't think you two should do it here. It's not nice to the ants.

MISS O: They're just carpenter ants!

ME: Oh sure, today it's carpenter ants... then tomorrow it's small dogs and then, before you know it, you'll be burning manatees.

MISS O & MISS A: [silence + looking at me like I'm a huge ass-head]

MISS O: Hey! We'd never burn dogs!

Ah! Notice how she didn't say anything about the manatees? I may have just saved those fucking sea cows from an early extinction.

By the way, I burned the shit out of bugs with my big-ass magnifying glass when I was a kid -- ants, beetles, worms, centipedes, my thumbnail. Caterpillars were the best to fry -- as they'd get hotter, they'd start inching really fast and then that big ol' greenish plume of burning caterpillar flesh would waft up into my fucking nostrils and I'd have some sort of 10 year old fucked up larval mind-fuck acid trip. It was cool as shit.

Unfortunately, I'm crabbydad now and I'm a goddamn hypocrite, so Miss O will experience no such smoky joy.

Okay, at least not until she's seven.

Pepto-Abysmal...

Well, the Old Lady and I managed to extricate ourselves from the Crabshack for our bi-yearly night-on-the-town -- unfortunately, that town was Lansing, Michigan. We decided to hit he streets and see if we could add another restaurant to our Gustatory Greats: 2008s list. Last night's entry -- Trōppo, in Lansing.

Now, I don't know if you've ever been to downtown Lansing -- and if you have, let me be the first to apologize. Fucking depressing as shit. The Old Lady said that it reminded her of downtown Indianola, Iowa, and frankly, I think she's being a bit generous. Lots of boarded up store-fronts, liquor stores and, most notably, no sign of humans anywhere. I guess that's what happens to a capital city when you perform an auto industry hysterectomy on it.

Anywhich, the look of the restaurant seemed nice enough -- it was pretty full, fancy enough and fairly bustling. We were led to a little private room, with only a few tables, and after the other diners cleared out, about 20 minutes later, we basically had the place to ourselves. Which seems nice, but when you go out once or twice a year, hoping to actually interact with other people and feel like you're not completely isolated in the fucking world, you don't always want the place to yourselves, ya know?

Okay, enough fucking exposition, let's get down to bidness...

Appetizers:

Portabella Tempura -- Sounds lame but it was kinda good, actually. But there was too much of it. Too much of a fucking gutpack for an appetizer. If you're gonna be serving appetizers that big, Trōppo, at least have the common decency to provide a vomit receptacle into which one can purge before the entree is served.

Cheese Platter -- The cheeses were pretty good, but we didn't ever really figure out what they were, 'cuz the waiter described them, and I shit you not, as, "Cow's milk, cow's milk, cow's milk, cow's milk and goat's milk." Thanks, Johnny Descripto -- very illuminating. And what's the fucking deal with the six crackers on the plate?! What is up with the fucking restaurant bread/cracker rationing?! Was there a bad cracker crop this season? Are crackers up to like $150 a barrel now? Did the Duke brothers corner the cracker futures market? Load the fucking plate with crackers, goddammit, and don't stop loading until they're spilling onto the fucking floor! I want so many fucking crackers on the plate, I shouldn't even be able to see any goddamn cheese. THEY'RE CRACKERS, MOTHERFUCKERS! STOP HOLDING THE CRACKERS HOSTAGE AND HAND 'EM THE SHIT OVER!!!!

Vino:
I actually had a coupla glasses of a suprisingly tasty blended red by the Magnificent Wine Company called "House Red." It was definitely the highlight of my meal, which really isn't saying much. The old lady had a wine flight that kinda sucked. She said the first wine tasted like rubbing alcohol. I say, never trust a wine from Purell Vineyards.

Entrees:
The Old Lady got lucky with a scallops/mashed potatoes/eggplant thing -- it wasn't bad, but the scallops were gritty, which is kinda nasty. Clean the sand out, people. If I want to eat sand, I'll have a hunk of halvah. (Four people will get that reference.)

I ordered "the special," which I now realize meant "special" as in "rides the short bus to school" instead of "special" as in, "the chef just added this to the menu tonight because it tastes really, really good." It was trout with a shrimp/saffron risotto and snap peas. Here's the exact conversation that followed my first bite...

[I put a big forkful of "the special" into my face-hole]

ME: [chew, chew, chew, stop.] Meh.

OLD LADY: What?

ME: I know this taste...

OLD LADY: What does it taste like?

ME: [pause, pause, pause, pause...] Ah! Mattress.

Which is exactly what it tasted like. Mattress that had been soaking in dead alewives for about a week, that was then piled atop a sticky, overcooked heap of sea-monkey scented Cream-of-Wheat. With greasy, overcooked snap peas whipped at it.

It officially sucked badger balls. Actually, I would rather suck badger balls than have to eat that "special" again. (Note to Trōppo chef -- consider adding badger balls to "specials" menu.)

And, basically, that was pretty much it. I'm getting kinda nauseous just thinking about it, so I don't really want to spend much more time recounting the meal. Bottom line, Trōppo ain't gonna make it onto the Gustatory Greats: 2008s list. Actually, looking at the other dining options around here, I have a feeling that the Fleetwood Diner is going to remain the only fucking entry on the Gustatory Greats: 2008s list. Which is fine with me -- I'll take good old-fashioned diner grub over poorly prepared mattress any day of the fucking week.

My one-word review of Trōppo?

Nope-o.

Check That Doodle, It's a Dandy...

I know I've been featuring a lot of Mr. Z's drawings, of late, but holy carp, the boy's on fire. He's like a mini-man possessed -- some sort of VanGoghtlet.

Well, apparently, every day in class, Mr. Z's teacher reads aloud a chapter of a book -- lately he's been reading A Wrinkle in Time. The class is supposed to listen, of course, but they're also allowed to draw, read, and/or pick their asses while he reads. Mr. Z has been taking the time to crank out shitloads of awesome doodlage. This latest one was apparently cranked out during one single reading period -- I don't know how the boy could've listened to any of the fucking story while he was furiously dashing this off, and frankly, I don't give a shit. He can stop listening in school forever if he keeps producing this kinda quality.

Anywhich, without further doo, here's Mr. Z's The 12 Labors of Hercules...













I think Mr. Z puts CliffsNotes to fucking shame. The story of Hercules in six mini pages?! What's next, War and Peace in pamphlet form?

Hey, that's not a bad idea.

I Hear You Guanaco-ing...

Well, as promised, Mr. Guanaco, THE DOLL, arrived the other day and I must say, he is truly ORANGUTASTIC!



Okay, let me back up for a sec. Mr. Z created Mr. Guanaco years ago, probably around age three, and he has been a recurring character in the boy's ever-evolving, bizarre and unsettling cast of thousands. Mr. Guanaco is an orangutan who is married to a llama and they have two children: Anteater Guanaco, who is a goldfish, and Ankylie Guanaco, who is a dinosaur (an Ankylosaurus, to be exact). Perhaps you remember Mr. Z's song:


"Guanaco Land Theme Song" by MR. Z & KICKSOME


You may also recall the t-shirt I made for Mr. Z featuring one of his early renderings:



Well, apparently it was this drawing that inspired Mr. Jon H, doll-maker-to-the-stars, to birth the above Mr. G Action Figure from his visionary loins. (Actually, I've never seen his loins but, judging by the sheer inspiration it must have taken to produce such a piece, I can only assume that said loinage has vision.)

I was alerted that the birthing of the figure was underway, but it had been a while since I had heard anything, so I kinda forgot about it. Then blammo, Mr. G shows up on the doorstep and Mr. Z, along with the rest of us, flipped his fucking lid. I mean, check out the craftsmanship:



Did I mention that Mr. Guanaco works at a costume shop? Hence the mini-Dracula capelet/suitlet accessory. Then there's the fur and the bowtie (a nice artistic improv on Jon's part) and the pieces-of-resistence -- the nipple cutouts! Genius! I just hope I haven't damaged the figure by taking it out of its hermetically-sealed display-tube.

Oh, and I forgot to mention that the Mr. Guanaco action figure HAS MOTHERFUCKIN' THUMBS UP ACTION!!!! Jon sacrificed a Fonzie doll to make this thing! Thumbs up, indeed, sir. Thumbs up, inDEED.

I could go on and on, but my blathering cannot do this doll and its maker justice. Go check out some of Jon's other handiwork at Cosmodollitans. You'll laugh, you'll cry, and then you'll say to yourself, "I've gotta get this dude to make me one of those fucking things, goddammit!"

Mr. Guanaco, I give you the last word:

Oh, the Flocculence of It All...

I don't know if I've blathered about this before, but in order to make it through the goddamn day with my sanity, and a manageable amount of crabbiness intact, I must be swaddled, at all times, in the softest of fabrics. I may not have the most expansive wardrobe, and it may not be the most stylish, but it is, without a doubt, the most skin-mollifying collection of duds and dud-accessories known to personkind.

That's why I've decided to introduce you to a few of my most prized pieces from the 2008 CrabbyDuds Collection. Tonight, I am featuring the latest addition to the footwear category, and, in fact, the final piece in the GREATEST-MOST-SOFTEST OUTFIT EVER ASSEMBLED.

I give you, the Sanuk "Donnie":



What's that, you say? It looks like a slipper? A dirty hippie slipper? A dirty slippie? Well, then I, sir or madame, am a dirty slippie. I challenge you to slip your weary footies into the buttery orifice of this appendage pouch. Well, not this pouch -- get your own fucking pouch.

Seriously, though, get a pair of these fuckers -- you will be rewarded with 10 instant toe-rections. And, yes, I've worn them out in public and, no, I am not ashamed to admit that and, perhaps, people think I'm a fucking scumbag... but it's all in the service of softitude.

Here, I'll make it easy on you:

For the fellas (order a 1/2 to full size larger!)

For the Fridas

And hey, maybe next time, if you're lucky, I'll give you the inside scoop on my underwear.

(Wait... that didn't come out right.)

Diner, Don't Ya Blow!

After four years of bemoaning the lack of non-repulsive food sources in this ridiculous town, I think the Old Lady and I have finally decided that it's time to stop bitching and moaning and start seeking out the hidden gems that have to be tucked away somewhere in this victual void. I mean, it can't all be T.G.I McDingleberry's... can it?!

I'm happy to report that the first gustatory gem that we've unearthed rocks the fucking hizzy. Tonight, for dinner, we took the spawnage to a small boite in Lansing called the Fleetwood Diner, and holy fuckshit, it was awesome!



I mean, this place is a real fucking diner, right down to its silver airstream exterior, tin signs on the wall and the 500 page menu. Oh, and it's open 24 hours... IN A ROW! The minute I walked in to the place and inhaled, my nipples shot out like a coupla greasy tater-tots just waiting to be smothered in sausage gravy and washed down with a cup of coal-black mocha java. Okay, that simile just made me ralph into my throat a little, but you know what I mean.

It reminded me a lot of the diners back in Chicago, like the Diner Grill, one of my all-time faves. You can literally order anything you could possibly want out of the phonebook of a menu. Por ejemplo, Miss O got pancakes and turkey sausage patties. Mr. Z got a triple-decker grilled cheese and cheese fries. (I know... we're making him sleep with his ass out the window tonight.) The Old Lady, get this, got the Spanakopita Pie, that came with a cup of Tomato Florentine soup and a salad. This is the woman who fucking hates breakfast foods and diners and she found something she liked. (She'll be sleeping in the tub tonight.)

I was having a fuck of a time trying to decide between going the breakfast route or the sandwich route. It happens every goddamn time. I love the hobo-skillet-style breakfasts -- at the Fleetwood, they call it "Hippie Hash" -- but I'm also a huge fan of the club/reuben/Monte Cristo sammy. My ideal fucking diner meal, as a matter of fact, would be a pile of hash browns with a coupla fried eggs on top, with a pile of cheddar fries and a turkey reuben sandwich on top of that, and then the whole thing would be smothered in sausage gravy. With a side of coleslaw. And a chocolate malt. Man, now my tater-tot nipples are getting even tottier!

Anywhich, I ended up getting the Turkey Reuben and a side of fries and it was stellar. I also had some of Mr. Z's cheddar fries, half of Miss O's pancakes and sausages, some of the spanakopita and a few of the community onion rings we ordered. My colon is like an engorged, 20 foot long chorizo right now, and I've got Crisco coming out of my tear ducts. I probably shaved a good six months off my life tonight and I don't even give a shit.

Oh, and did I mention that we went to Tasty Twist afterwards and shoved some soft-serve ice cream treats into our grease-smeared face-anuses?



Long story short, we will be adding the Fleetwood Diner to the top of our new "Gustatory Greats: 2008s!" list. It's located at 2211 S Cedar St. in Lansing and it better not fucking close, like every other goddamn place we actually like. We've got a coupla other mystery eateries we discovered on the innernecks that we're going to check out next weekend. Who knows... if I manage to rustle up another good restaurant or three, I might someday learn to l-l-l-l... l-l-l-li... l-l-li-lik... tolerate this fucking town.

All RIght, Everybody Outside!

Through much finagling, badgering and bit of mild threatening, I was able to flush the spawnage from the musty inner-sanctum that is the crabshack and air them out in the "out-of-doors." I even managed to capture a picture or two of them actually "exerting." Here's Miss O engaging in a game she likes to call "One... darnit! One... aw c'mon! One... Man!"



And here's Mr. Z floating on his prototype Maglev hippity-hop.


Looks painful. I'm thinking we're just gonna throw that underwear away.

I'm telling ya, though, the never-ending, frozen-tundra shitfuck that is a Michigan winter almost seems bearable during these three or four days of what we mid-westerners like to call "Spring." Of course, in a few days it'll shoot up to 98 degrees, with 130% humidity, and my sack'll once again be blanketing the parched ground like a deflated zeppelin, but for now, I'm gonna take Miss O's lead and run around the dead lawn like I'm in the original Broadway cast production of "Hair."



Happy Spring, fuckers.

Computer: Set Blog to Auto-Post...

The Old Lady's out at some fancy perfess'r-party tonight, so it has been just me and the spawnage all afternoon/eve'n. Hence, I barely have a fucking will-to-live, let alone an ounce of will-to-blog. So, instead, I'm just gonna post some doodles of Mr. Z's that I found tucked in his math book.



I was a little concerned about the fact that he really dislikes math so much, even though he's really good at it. But after seeing these drawings, I couldn't give two shits if he never listens in a math class again. He's basically got a ready-to-program video game idea right there that'd make him (us) millions. I'm calling Nintendo first thing in the morning. Look for it this Xmas: Big Huge Brawl for the Wii!

Crabbydad could be retiring early!

The Crabcorn Doesn't Fall Far from the Tree...

Well, Mr. Z had a shit-ass day today and, apparently, I didn't make it a whole lot better. He's already not a huge booster of Mondays, so the addition of getting a fairly carpy grade on a test and the realization that one of his best friends is moving away at the end of the school year pushed him right up to the fucking brink of junior crabbitude.

Then, after school, he asked me if we could go get the new Mario Kart game for the Wii that he's been jonesing for. When I replied that we can probably get it sometime in the near future but not today, well that fucking clinched it. Oh, and he had his piano lesson today. Maximum lid-flippage mode was officially achieved.

When we got home, he stomped up to his room and slammed the door. Then I heard the door open, momentarily, and then slam shut once again. When I trotted upstairs to see what the shit all this repeat slammage was about, this is what I found on his door:



I love that, as fucking pissed-off as he was, he still managed to come up with the cutest fuck-you-face possible. No amount of crabbiness can squelch that boy's love of all things kawaii.

Dad, Why Is Teddy Bare?

So, Mr. Z used to have a subscription to Neopets magazine -- the one-stop periodical for all your over-priced, shittily illustrated, anime trading card needs. Well, apparently, he was the only one who still gave a rat's dingus about Neopets, 'cuz we received a letter saying that they were discontinuing the magazine.



Not to worry, however, as they were substituting it with "Plushie Pals" magazine. That's right, I said "Plushie Pals." The periodical for both the young children who collect, and the sick-fuck grown-ups who dry hump, stuffed animals. I sure hope they don't cancel this magazine, 'cuz I'm pretty sure the next one's gonna be "Coprophilia Cuddlers."

Anywhich, Mr. Z and Miss O are obsessed with this rag. They pore over it day and night, making lists of which ones are the cutest, the rarest and which ones they're going to badger the Old Lady and I into purchasing next. The pages are filled with thousands of these fucking glorified beanbags, and the spawnage know the names, stats and value of every fucking one. They're like stuffed-animal Rain Men, these two.

So, on Friday, the new issue showed up and they both started flipping through it furiously. Apparently, they had each sent in a description of their favorite Webkinz and were hoping that their submissions were going to make it into the issue. And, wouldn'tcha know it, they did.

Here's Mr. Z's page for his penguin "Chillee":



Unfortunately, they fucked up Miss O's submission, I guess, and she was inconsolable. Apparently, they added the word "daughter" into her description, for some reason, and she was fucking pissed. (I actually had to clean the image up in Photoshop, because she scribbled out the word with magic marker):



I guess I'm just kind of disturbed that I had no idea they had sent anything in to the magazine, and only found out about it when I saw it in print. Maybe it's the fact that they got published in "Plushie Pals" magazine that really bothers me. Or maybe it's the thought of some hairy, overweight 40 year old man reading their submissions while lying naked on a bed of soiled stuffed animals and committing brazen frottage on an unwitting Winnie-the-Pooh that really disturbs me. Yeah... that's what really disturbs me.

Why can't they read normal magazines like I did as a kid... like Creepy, Eerie and Vampirella?

Miss Ollogisms...

After Miss O's bath tonight, as I was drying her off:

MISS O: BRRR!!! I'm freezing!

ME: Hold on... let me just dry off your hair--

MISS O: Well, hurry! My nipples are nipplefish cold!

Then, after dinner, as I was sitting down at the table to suck down a much-needed martooni...

MISS O: What's that?

ME: A martini. Do you want to smell it?

MISS O: Sure!

[she takes a whiff]

MISS O: MMMM!!!!

OLD LADY: You think it smells good?!

MISS O: Yeah! It smells like Purell!

Puppetry of the Z-ness...

Well, another Mr. Z project in the ol' hopper -- this one with the "assistance" of the Old Lady instead of me, for a fucking change. Last night, the boy, and m'Lady, finished up the puppets for his "Hoot" book report. I think they turned out pretty Hoot-tastic:



Just the right mix of creative and creepy. Of course, the creepiest of them all has to be the narrator -- I think it's the combination of the woman's owl blouse, the capri pants, the bad-touch moustache, the knowing smirk and the strategically placed popsicle-stick-that-looks-like-a-giant-schvantz.



I'm guessing Mr. Z will get an "A" on the project, and/or the narrator will be turned in to Child Protective Services.

Oh, and check this shit out -- some other kid in Mr. Z's class turned in a model Maglev train for the science project, too! What the shit?! Of course, according to Mr. Z it sucked donkey balls in comparison to the masterpiece that we birthed, but still. Methinks the kid's dad is reading this blog and stealing all my fucking brilliant ideas. I'm telling ya, if there's another skeevy, narrator-molester puppet in class today, heads are gonna fucking roll.

CrabbySkate 2008

Apparently, a year has passed since the crabbyfamily took an ill-advised jaunt to the school roller skating fundraiser. I swear to shit it seems like it was only yesterday that we dropped by that rink-that-time-and-deodorant-forgot, and I shattered my coccyx into a fine powder. But no, the archive confirms it -- a year.

And, apparently, the only thing that has changed in that year is that instead of photos, I have video. The first half of this clip is the tail end of the Hokey-Pokey, featuring a hip-shakin' Miss O and your's crabbily. If I look a little wooden in my hokeying and/or pokeying, it's either due to the fact that A) I can't fucking skate, or 2) I must have a giant, steaming turd in my trousers. How old am I, 200? "Not too fast there, Miss O -- remember, Daddy's got a case of the lumbago!"

The second half of the video is fucking gold. It seems that at some point, Mr. Z slipped into the alley and downed a coupla pints of Southern Comfort, 'cuz he was flopping around that floor like... like Mr. Z on roller skates. But every time he went hurtling ass first to the lumber, the dude got back up and just kept on a-flailin' along. For like and hour and a half -- he had a blast! That boy is inspiring -- he's like Rocky, if Rocky were a complete spazmo nine year old and Apollo Creed were the floor. Oh, and I get to be Burgess Meredith.

AND, at the end of the night, Mr. Z won the raffle drawing. The prize? A free pass for MORE SKATING! Xanadu? More like Xana-don't.

Anywhich, enjoy. (Oh, and extra points if you find the dead kid at the end.)

Explosive Diary...

Mr. Z has been somewhat obsessed with this book called "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" of late, and it has apparently inspired him to start his own diary. He's calling it "Mr. Z's World™," and it's a cross between real shit that's happening to him and completely fabricated events that usually involve Miss O or the school bully being humiliated in various and sundry ways. All I know is that it's fucking hilarious and I can't wait to read every new entry.

Here's the entry for last Thursday. It could be completely fictional but, man, I'm hoping this scene really happened...

Behold!

Sometimes a Trunk Is Just a Trunk...

Sorry, I've been up late (early?) for the last few nights doing freelance shit and trying to wrap my puny brain around Mr. Z's science project, which is gluing as we speak. Still don't know if that fucker's gonna work yet. Oh well, it's just his future that hangs in the balance.

Quick recap of a dream I had last night...

It was a fucking blizzard outside and I was out stomping around on the front lawn with the spawnage and we were trying to navigate these 20 foot snow drifts that were all over the place. At one point, we get separated, and when I finally look up, I see Mr. Z and Miss O fall backwards into this hellacious crevasse. I run up to the edge of the icy canyon and see the two of them sunken into the rotting carcass of a giant elephant.

I manage to somehow extricate them from this putrid pachyderm, and then I reach down, for some dumb-ass reason, to try to lift this decaying Dumbo from the hole. I grab ahold of its wrinkly skin and pull, and all the flesh from the head just rips off in one big sheet, and I'm left standing there, holding onto this giant, floppy, dripping, maggot-infested Silence-of-the-Lambs skin mask. I turn to show it to the spawnage, but they're gone, along with the snow, and I'm just standing there on my front lawn with this leatherface-esque elephant mask.

And when I woke up, an empty pillowcase was on my head. No, it wasn't, but wouldn't that have made this an awesome post?

Oh well.

Really, It's Okay -- Leave My Children Behind...

Enough with the fucking homework, grade school teachers, okay?! Jeez-ass! Look, I get it -- by sending work home, you're showing us skeptical parents that you're crackin' the ol' whip and really learnin' the spawnage some fancy knowledge. But spread it the fuck out a little, will ya? Holy duckballs, it's like a fucking Stanley Kaplan review session every night, here at the Crabshack.

Miss O's workload, I can handle. One math worksheet a week, maybe the odd drawing, some spelling words and even an occasional project. Fine. Mr. Z's teacher, however, is some kinda homework-hitler. The boy's got a coupla paragraphs for spelling due on Friday, a Social Studies test on Friday, a fucking Science project about magnets and motors and shit due... ON FRIDAY, and he's gotta write, create and perfect a puppet-show-book-report to be performed next Wednesday. I don't think I did that much work in a month... in college!

Granted, the science project was apparently assigned before Spring Break, but it somehow slipped Mr. Z's mind, so instead of casually assembling the thing over a leisurely two-week period, we've basically got to slap together some sort of nuclear fission accelerator in the next three fucking days. And the assignment sheet was completely vague -- make something with magnets or a motor or circuits or lights that illustrates the concepts they've been studying in class.

ME: So, what have you been learning about these things in class, Mr. Z?

MR. Z: Uh... I'm not sure.

Perfect. Then let's connect a bunch of circuits to a giant electromagnetic motor that illuminates a bunch of little lights that spells out, "I'm Not Sure." And then I'll help you take it into class on Friday, where I'll carefully set it on your teacher's desk and then proceed to drop my pants and take a steaming dump on it. Whattya say?!

And of course I won't allow him to do anything half-assed (see past project 1 and past project 2). So, we've decided to create something simple -- a working, mini-model of a MAGLEV train. And yes, I am insane, thank you very much.

ME: Hey Mr. Z! I have an idea -- let's make a working model of a LEVITATING MAGNETIC TRAIN!

MR. Z: Cool! How do we do that?

ME: I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA!!!!

All I know is that, instead of a leisurely breakfast, a big mug-o-coffee and the New York Times tomorrow morning, I'll be shuffling up and down the aisles of Hobby Lobby looking for shitloads of magnets, some foam core, a coupla boards and some plexiglass, to recreate in three days what it probably took the Chinese five years and over a billion dollars to complete. Should be no problem.

Of course, if we fail miserably, there's always the magnetic levitation Plan B...