The Whole Damn House is Crabby!

So, everyone in this fucking house is on edge, lately. I've got a shitload of work heaped atop of my post-reunion ennui, the old lady is working on this mongo grant proposal, Miss O is sick, and Mr. Z is seriously bumming about the end of the school year. His on-edgedness is most pronounced, I think. He's just walking that fine line between tears and smart-assitude and, frankly, he's working my last nerve.

But the poor guy really doesn't want school to end. He LOVES his teacher and is devastated that he has to move on to fourth grade next year. He's basically like this every year, but I think it's maybe a little worse this time. I suggested that he make a card for his teacher, to show him how much he enjoyed the year. It's great:


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I mean, as a teacher, that's gotta be a pretty fucking cool thing to get from a student, no? Most kids are probably going to get him a Precious Moments figurine and some shit-ass Hallmark card. Although, I saw that classroom in action when I went to watch the puppet show -- I think the best thing to give the poor guy would be a big ol' bottle of something bubbly to dull the pain of another year under the old belt. Maybe some champagne... or some Ripple... or some Champipple. I don't know how these fucking teachers do it -- saints, I tells ya, saints!

So, yeah, school ends tomorrow and camp doesn't begin until next week, so we're going to have a lethal cocktail of crabbitude brewing in the old homestead for a few days. Should be loads of fun. Methinks there might be a little trip to the old video store in the works. Hey, desperate times call for desperate trips to Blockbuster.

Me, I've gotta write yet another fucking folktale for work. Do you know how hard it is to write a good folktale. I think I remember another post where I bitched about this, but dammit, it ain't easy. There's a reason folktales were written in like 12 A.D. They fucking suck to write. And I keep coming up with shitty ideas: "The Frog and the... Stick," no... "The Dragonfly and the... Turd." Shit! "The Lycra Running Shorts and... the Yeast Infection." Maybe? Ah fuck it, I'll just write another Country Mouse/City Mouse story like everyone else does.

"Why I'm just a little ol' Country Mouse! I've never seen such a big city a'fore!"

Where's a good aneurysm when you need one?