I'm in no mood to jibber-jabber tonight. Perhaps, instead, you might spend your time checking out what's airing on Mr. Z's ZPC channel. Check your local listings:
Me, I'm definitely setting the DVR for "Crazy Raisins!" and "Doggie Business." Although the description for "The Swiddle Swarm" is looking quite intriguing:
I've gotta start copyrighting the boy's stuff -- five bucks Fox starts airing "Herry Maximum" this fall. Bastards.
Miss O has been having some poop issues, of late. That's kinda her thing. She gets constipated a lot, mainly because she doesn't seem to enjoy drinking liquids very often. Last night she told us that her stomach hurts "pretty much all the time," which means we should either be really worried, or she's full of shit (probably literally).
Today we gave her some prunes and dried apricots, in addition to the Citrucel that we usually give her after dinner. She spent some time on the crapper and basically filled the goddamn bowl with, as she said, "lots of giant dugongs." (Don't ask... for some reason, years ago, Mr. Z started likening his shits to these, and the practice just stunk... er, stuck.)
So, after admiring her newly birthed dugongs, Miss O free-styled a little poem:
When I was little Mom and Dad knew what to do. They gave me prunes and apricots To help me make poo.
Now, I don't like to rely on the Stat Counter for post ideas because it seems so fucking lazy, but I have to comment on a search someone did tonight that led them here. Someone from New York did a search, at 10:02 p.m. EST, on ask.com for:
"i have two small like holes above of my ass crack what are they"
While I'm no doctor, I think I have an answer for this inquisitor. They're called "back-nostrils," and while today, they serve no real function (much like the appendix), they did at one time have a purpose. About 1.2 million years ago, an early ancestor of ours, Australopithecus, began searching for food bipedally, distinguishing them from their ancestors, the apes. Quicker on their feet than their quadruped counterparts, Australopithecus was able to hunt more successfully, using their hands and arms to wield weapons, rather than relying on them for locomotion.
C'mon, get to the point, Crabbydad, you say? Can do. Fossil records show that around this same time, the first back-nostrils appeared. While there is some disagreement about the nostrils' exact purpose, most paleontologists agree that they acted as sort of a primitive alarm system. See, bipedalism made these early hominids much more agile, and they were better able to sneak up on their prey. The problem was that, while they were hiding behind a rock, waiting to stone a Wooly Mammoth, they had no idea if, say, a hungry sabre-tooth tiger were sneaking up behind them. Remember, Australopithecus had a brain the size of a kumquat, so it would not even occur to these morons that someone, or something, was eyeing them as potential prey. The evolution of the back-nostrils allowed them to "watch their back," so to speak, and it allowed them to not only survive, but to thrive and evolve into Paranthropus and, eventually, Homo Erectus.
Of course, as time passed and our ancestor's brains grew, they no longer needed such primitive structures in order to survive, but for some reason, the back-nostrils stuck around as a vestigial oddity in certain individuals -- especially those settling on the east coast. Every now and then, if you find yourself on a New England beach, steal a glance at the backside of a particularly hairy sun-worshipper. You just might be lucky enough to spot the flaring nares of a "heinie honker." If you do, be sure to make a wish (they're said to be "good luck!").
I hope that answers your query, my ass-sniffing friend from New York.
Apparently, Mr. Z was learning about 'greater than' and 'less than' in math today, and he felt he needed some way to remember the difference between the two symbols. He told me he had a sudden inspiration and jotted it down quickly before recess on a scrap of paper:
When he got home from school, he grabbed a piece of card stock and got right to work. He only got one of them done before his three minute attention span timer expired, but I think it's pretty fucking awesome. The character for the 'greater than' symbol is named "Greetirzan," and, if you'll look at his mouth, it's a greater than symbol. He says the 'less than' character is named "Leezan," and faces the other direction. I think when I was his age, I was still writing 'L' and 'R' on my P.F. Flyers.
While he was working on that, Miss O (not to be outdone) created a stunning puppet for their upcoming puppet show:
From the looks of it, I think they might be doing a production of "Harry "Telescoping-Hydraulic-Neck" Potter and His Housecoat of Many Colors."
Crabbydad Tip #327:Every now and then, maybe once a year, do the exact opposite of what all common sense tells you to do and it might, just might, not turn out to be the shittiest idea you've ever had.
Case in point -- tonight was the PTO Family Night, a concept that normally makes me involuntarily dry-heave and produce the sound "Flnrrgnharfff." We had absolutely NO intention of attending, ESPECIALLY since the festivities were being held at a nearby ROLLER RINK. The spawn, however, had other notions, and were convinced that, oh yes, we were going to attend. I don't know if it was the sunny weather, the extra three cups of tea I had today, or the micro-stroke I must have suffered some time this afternoon, but I said, out-loud, "Ah, what the shit-- let's go skating!"
Of course, the Old Lady wasn't home, so I didn't have to duck after blurting it out. I called her up at work and sprung the idea on her and, boy, was she thrilled. She was so thrilled, in fact, that she gave my idea a ringing endorsement by stating, "Are you fucking fucked in the fucking head?!" Apparently I was, because a 1/2 hour later, we were in the car, rolling to the rinkage.
Now, up until the moment we entered the place, Mr. Z and Miss O were so excited they were practically shitting themselves, and all around them, with glee. The SECOND we walked inside, however, Miss O became "Miss O-rnery" and decided she was going to skate over my cold, dead body -- turning her mope-o-meter to moperdrive.
But I wasn't gonna let that stop me. Mr. Z was still stoked and I was gonna ride this bad idea all the way to its inevitable bone-splintering, tear-soaked conclusion. We rented our skates, strapped 'em on and hit the ol' wooden oval. Now, let me remind you that Mr. Z is THE MOST uncoordinated person on Earth, however, he is completely unaware of said uncoordinatude and will dive headlong into any coordination-required situation like a possum going after a tub of naval jelly.
Imagine a combination of Barney Fife, the Keystone Cops and a newborn foal on a pair of heavily-buttered jellyfish and you'll get an inkling of the hilarity that was Mr. Z attempting to propel himself across the floor on eight wheels. Oh my shit, I laughed so hard I nearly crapped my pants... through my nose. And he refused any help from me. Didn't want me near him.
I seriously have no idea how he didn't break every goddamn bone in his body. It was like a really bad actor pretending to be a really bad skater -- lots of windmilling arms, kicking-up feet and constant "Whoooaaaaa! Whooooaa!!!s." Like something Lenny & Squiggy might have done on a very special rollerskating episode of "Laverne & Shirley."
Finally, the boy allowed me to teach him a couple of basics, like "don't lean back," and "try alternating your feet," and "LOOK OUT!!!!" And sure enough, by the end of the night, his spazz-factor had plummeted considerably and he was actually doing pretty well. That boy never ceases to amaze me! He said it was the best time he's had in, maybe, ever. Major "proud-papa" moment.
We ended the evening joining the soiled, bad-touch rink mascot in rousing renditions of the Hokey-Pokey and the Chicken Dance. YES, the fucking Chicken Dance -- I told you, it was the EXACT OPPOSITE of what every crabby bone in my body was telling me to do... the goddamn Chicken Dance, for fuck's sake. And there I was, roller-dancing and laughing like I had just downed three grams of 'shrooms and a tank of nitrous. Fucking nuts.
Miss O spent the night riding the bench with the Old Lady, living vicariously off the fumes of Mr. Z's and my own little Xanadu.
So, you may recall that a while back, almost a year ago actually, I had this brilliant plan to make notebooks out of recycled paper and the cereal boxes that they don't let us recycle here in the land of things that they won't let us recycle. Anywhich, I made a bunch of them and then, like every brilliant idea I have, I got bored and moved on to some other dumbass project. So, the basement is full of boxes of recycled paper and huge assloads of chipboard boxes -- cracker boxes, cereal boxes, macaroni and cheese boxes, tampoon boxes, boxes that used to contain other boxes... you get the idea... assloads of unrecyclable shiznit.
Well, wouldn't you know that the hippy farmer folk who run the farmer's market are having a special chipboard box recycling day tomorrow. They're probably gonna dump a steaming load of vegan tofurrhea in their hemp nappies when they see me drive up with my five grocery bags of Cheezit and Cheerios boxes. I think I'll still keep a few of the more interesting boxes for notebooks, though... maybe the tampoon ones and the wacky off-brand cereal boxes.
But I think it's high time I moved on to my next brilliant project -- finding something to do with the 200 Altoids boxes I've been stockpiling. Just gotta figure out what the shit to turn them into... maybe some sort of wallet, or iPod case. Or a bong. No, wait! I've got it! Maybe I could use them to store some sort of small round candies.
The spawn are indoor kids, no doubt about it. If they had their druthers, they'd cower in darkened, drapes-drawn rooms like naked mole rats and would hiss if the sun ever hit their pink eyes and lanugo-covered wrinkly skin. But it was so fucking beautiful out today that I felt obligated to force them into the light. So, instead of driving to pick them up after school, I walked and brought along their scooters and helmets. Surprisingly, they didn't seem to mind, and actually seemed to enjoy the 900 hours it took to walk back home.
Once home, though, they were ready for some indoor time. But fuck that shit -- I've been cooped up in that fucking dungeon all goddamn winter and I need me some serious sunnage, so out we went. I tried to engage them in some vaguely sporty pursuits -- throwing shit back and forth and all that jock crap, but who the shit was I kidding... we're just not the sportin' kind -- our playing field is "the mind."
Then I realized that I've been meaning to put in a second elevated garden bed, and it seemed like the ground was soft enough to start digging so, digging it was to be. I knew I had to sell it the right way to the spawnage, though, or they'd never buy it. So, I gave them both a couple of little shovels and asked them to dig up as many worms as they could. GENIUS! Not only did they take to it like pigs to... whatever it is that pigs take to (their own corn-studded turds?)... but they decided that they were going to open a worm-themed restaurant. Before long, Miss O was doing the digging and Mr. Z was scribbling away in his notebook. Here's one of the pages I happened to swipe:
Wormworks... I like it. Hell, I think the place has potential. There's gotta be some serious minerals and shit in worm meat. It seems pretty lean for all the health-conscious folk, and I've got assloads of the fuckers just crawling around in my backyard.
Sorry no post last eve -- I was working on a new tune, jointly crooned by Mr. Z and Miss O. It's a song they wrote for my mom's birthday this Sunday and I think it's as cute a baby chipmunk with giant, tear-filled Keane eyes, surrounded by newborn puppies wearing tiny t-shirts with anime pandas on them, all contained within a baby stroller, filled with marshmallow Peeps and being pushed by a chimpanzee wearing a sailor suit.
Oh, and I threw some cellos in there 'cuz my mom always wanted someone in our family to play the cello. So, imagine you're a grandma and enjoy:
Well, Miss O has upped the contrarian factor exponentially. Tonight, at bedtime, she told me that I was pronouncing her name wrong.
I wouldn't be surprised if, tomorrow, she tells me that I was adopted.
Oh, I just remembered a classic moment from yesterday, as we were all walking home from the library. We had gotten a bunch of books, one, a cartoon-y, kids book about the facts of life. I was walking along with Miss O, the slowest walker in the goddamn universe, when I overheard Mr. Z, who was thumbing through said book, ask the Old Lady, "Mom, what do testicles taste like?"
You know it's a shitty day when you pour yourself a nice, stiff Hendricks martooni, and it has virtually no effect, whatsoever. The spawn were extry crabtankerous this afternoon, and the Old Lady got home late, so it was a perfect recipe for crab-cakery. I think it was the particulary contentious game of "Chutes and Ladders" that finally pushed me over the edge. At least I won, so the day wasn't a total wash.
Mr. Z's having troubles with a (former) friend of his at school. The kid was like his best friend for most of the year and then, out of fucking nowhere, the turd starts being an uber-dickcissel to the boy -- trying to trip him, pushing him on the playground. Little prick. Of course, Mr. Z is flummoxed by it all, but the great thing is that he doesn't cry about it anymore. I mean, he's bummed and all, but it's much more of a reasoned "why is this fucker being such dickfer," instead of a "I'm miserable and no one likes me" deal. Major milestone for the lad, I must say. Of course, it does make him kind of crabnacious at home, which is one of the reasons I had to resort to late-night martoonerie.
Then there's Miss O. Sweet lil' Miss O. Whining from the minute she stepped foot in the house. Part of her charm is that if I ask her to try not to whine when speaking to me, she denies that she's whining at all... and denies it while whining. Coupled with that is her latest refrain, "You can't tell me what to do!" -- directed in my face whether I'm asking her to wash up for dinner or suggesting that she close her eyes as I wash her hair. It's darling as shit.
So, they finally drift off to sleep and I pour my martooni, and it does crabsolutely nothing for me. Gone is the familiar sensation of my insides being coated with a gin-soaked comforter. No buzz, no floating... hell, even the olives seemed to be missing their gland-drawing punch. Though I'm sure I'll still wake up all dehydrated and cottony, tomorrow. What a fucking rip.
Maybe I've grown beyond the martooni. Perhaps I should try something new, and refreshing. Something like... oh, I don't know... peyote buttons?
I've been freezing my test-cicles off down in this cement dungeon, of late, because it's been a wintry wonderfuck around here for the last week or so. It snowed like four goddamn inches today. What the cock is going on?!
Anywhich, my icy sarcophacicle melted away when Miss O brought home perhaps the greatest illustration she has ever created. I will share it with you all as a way of hastening the thaw and bringing on the springage:
I love that she's hanging 10 on the bad-assiest wave ever -- that thing's like a fucking tsunami, and she's just chillin' in her see-thru shirt/skirt combo going "Ain't nothin' but a thang."Wonder Woman, won, indeed.
So, I bumped my swimming lengths up to 52 this morning, which for me is a big fucking deal. I had thought that a mile was 60 lengths, but I just looked it up and, apparently, it's 66, so shitty cockballs. I am getting to the point, though, where I could basically swim as many lengths as I wanted -- I stop now because I get so fucking bored. I still haven't found any headphones that'll stay in my puny earholes while swimming, so that search continues. I'm so tempted to buy that bone-conduction mp3 player but, frankly, it kinda scares me and I'm really not sure if I want my bone conducted. At least not in the YMCA pool.
Miss O has this great song we've been working on and I can't wait to record it. It's a duet, kind of a call-and-response number, and we first sang it while she was taking a bath, a couple of weeks ago. The great thing about it is, the words change each time we sing it. It can be about anything. It's the most versatile song ever. Technically, we could record a whole CD with just different versions of this song. I'm wary to record it, though, because it has been so great every time we sing it, and I'm wondering if putting it to tape will ruin it. I think we'll give it a go this weekend. Maybe we'll give Mr. Z's death-themed rock opera a whirl, too. I did just order "The Best of Black Sabbath: The Dio Years," so maybe I could prime the boy with a few choice cuts before handing him the mic.
I also ordered the latest disc from Amy Winehouse. That chick blows my shit away. Of course, I love that "Rehab" tune they're playing on the radio, but when I saw this acoustic version, I had to get the fucking CD:
I have a feeling Miss O's gonna be listening to a shitload of that CD.
Had a great afternoon with the spawnage after school, today -- we played a board game, did some puzzles and we even performed an intense 20 minute rock opera. Of course, I didn't record it... moron. They were just acting out this story and, occasionally, Mr. Z would yell out the style of music for me to play on the acoustic, and they would sing along. It was very "Tommy," though at one point it turned into sort of a Rush "Temples of Syrinx" thing. Hopefully, we'll be able to recreate it on tape, someday.
In the middle of one of the games, though, Mr. Z blurted out:
MR. Z: Dad, I really don't want to die!
ME: Aw, Mr. Z, we're having so much fun right now. Let's not get into all that right now...
MR. Z: But how do I even get OUT of it?!
Touche, boy. I talked him down, and we were able to continue with the merry-making, but he is definitely in a heavy death-assessment period right now. My dad said that when the kids were out visiting, last week, Mr. Z said, "So, Grampa, when I'm grown up and have my own kids, you probably won't be around to see them, huh?" The boy sure knows how to kill a party, doesn't he?
We'll keep talking him through it all and he'll wrap his head around it, eventually. Poor dude -- I was (am) the same way as a wee lad (non-wee adult). Maybe we can work it all out in song... perhaps in a rock opera in which Mr. Guanaco ponders being and nothingness while swinging through the jungles of Guanacoland?
Or maybe he'll just write another song about a dog building a toilet.
Well, it was a real fam-fucking-damily weekend here at Rancho Crabberito. Because of the goddamn springtime snowstorm, we spent a lot of time inside with the spawnage, who really could've used some serious outside time, what with the not-having-been-in-school-for-a-week-and-a-half and the crazy sugar-orgy at Grandma and Grandpa's house. We had some good meals though -- made some broccoli calzones last night and had turkey burgers and asparagus tonight. It was the "let's see how smelly we can make our pee" weekend, apparently.
Today, we held our bizarre, atheistic easter celebration, which has basically turned into a mini xmas. The kids woke us up at 8:00 and then ran downstairs to find the hidden plastic easter eggs filled with jelly-bellies. We also gave them the requisite hollow, shitty-plastic-y-chocolate bunnies, stuffed-animal bunnies, mini-chocolate bunnies and, for an extra-xmassy twist, they each got a video game. What can I say -- we're easy fucking marks. At one point, Mr. Z paused and said:
MR. Z: So, wait. People actually believe that this Jesus guy came back from the dead on easter? ME: Well, I don't think it was easter then, but... apparently. MR. Z: That's impossible! ME: It would seem so, yes.
Then he kinda laughed to himself as he bit the head off a Peep.
We also spent way too much time looking at dogs online, again. There was this heartbreaking story about animal-shelter dogs in the NY Times magazine today, and after reading it, we decided that it's way wrong to shell out 1500 beans for a pooch from a breeder when there are so many pups being euthanized at animal shelters. So, IF we ever break down and decide to pooch up, and that's a huge fucking "if," we're gonna have to do it through the humane society. Anywhich, we "oohed" and "awwed" at a shitload of doggies on the innernecks throughout the day and we're back to bandying the idea around, once again.
I'm sure we'll come to our senses again when the jelly-belly buzz wears off.
The spawnage have returned to Capistrano, the deafening silence has been extinguished, and balance has been restored to our crabby little home. I'd tell you all about their trip, but I'd rather let Mr. Z's trip log do the talking:
Day 1
Day 2
Day 2 (visual)
Day 3
It stops after Day 3, for some reason. Either he got tired of writing, or my parents snatched his notes away so as not to reveal to us the systematic destruction of every parenting rule and regulation we've worked so hard for the last eight years to establish. I'm sure it went something like, "Hey Mr. Z... just hand us those notes and you can have that frosted Pop-Tart that's sitting on top of that Happy Meal that's spread out in front of the TV that's showing an endless loop of violent PG-13 movies that you can watch until many hours past your very reasonable bedtime."
But turning my kids into sleep-deprived diabetics is a small price to pay for taking them off our hands for five days, so I sure as shit ain't complaining.
I think I'm suffering from some sort of food-related post-traumatic stress disorder -- I know that when I go out, the food is going to suck, yet I go anyway. It's like I'm a battered spouse, except the one doing the battering is shit-ass food. (Okay, not the best analogy, but the best I can muster on a stomach full of nathan victuals).
We tried this new Irish pub tonight -- Dublin Square -- and, while it looked very nice, I might as well have stayed at home and eaten a bucket-o-turds. I got a Guinness, which was fine, but that's where the fine-ness ended. I didn't want to go for the fish 'n' chips because I was having a few diarrhumblings in the ol' fudge-factory, so I decided to go with the "lightly breaded whitefish." Mistake. The Old Lady got the fish 'n' chips and said they were pretty good. My fish tasted like it was dipped in a bucket of bubbling chum and then lightly passed through the ass-crack of a manatee. If I had stored the air-sacs of a rotten halibut in my cheeks for a month, my mouth couldn't have been any fishier. Did I mention it was fishy?
The Old Lady said the desserts were fine, but to me they just tasted like fish carrot cake and fish death by chocolate. For the next week, everything's gonna taste like I went down on a jar of herring.
And, well, there you have it, another splendid mid-Michigan repast. Next time I mention that we're thinking of going out to dinner, will someone please give me a virtual slap? Now if you'll excuse me, I have to soak my tongue and lips in lye.
You know, what with the spawn out of town and the woodpeckers seemingly scared off by my latest attack of the side of the house with irri-tape, I find myself with very little to write about. Is that all I am? Spawn and woodpeckers?!
Things are mighty quiet 'round heeyah, minus the spawnlets. Too bad I still have to fucking work. If we were smart, the Old Lady and I would've planned to go somewhere fancy. Of course, her spring break was a couple of weeks ago and I don't get no stinkin' spring break, so fucky turdshits.
We did go out to dinner last night, which would've been great, had it been a dinner that was not here. Actually, it wasn't horrible. I think the fact that I got a four-glass flight of red wine helped me choke down the gristle-y bits. I'm pretty sure a lot of shit would go down easier with a four-glass flight of red wine. I should remember that before, say, my next dentist appointment or prostate exam.
Yeah, so we went to this place called "Dusty's Cellar," which is really a shitty name if you think about it. Boy, I'm hungry -- I wonder what's down in my dusty cellar? Maybe some silverfish, or mouse turdlets? Or... dust? The food's highly average. My caesar salad had too much dressing, the crabcakes were bland and my entree, some turkey/veggie bread-y wedge was dried out and pretty tasteless. But the wine was great and the key-lime pie was good, so it wasn't a complete wash. It was good to get out, though. I don't think the two of us have been out to dinner in, like, six months.
I don't know why we don't go out. Well, I do -- the restaurants suck bung, we don't really have any babysitters, if we do find a babysitter it's another 50 bucks tacked onto our shitty dinner bill, and oh yeah, did I mention that the restaurants suck bung. Even so, we should probably go out more often. Maybe we'll go out, but we'll sneak in our own food. Basically just pay for the table. Kinda like take-out, but it's take-in.
Anywhich, we're planning on going out again on Wednesday night. Some new Irish pub/restaurant opened up and, hey, I haven't had my bangers mashed in awhile, so why not. Maybe I can get a flight of Guinness to wash it all down.
You know, I just realized -- isn't it ironic that we ate at "Dusty's Cellar" and I work all day in my very own dusty cellar? Maybe tomorrow night we'll go eat at "Danky's Shithole."
Mr. Z and I completed "Cheez Man 2: The Escape." Things are sure heating up for the Defender of Dairy:
Meanwhile, the spawn are officially on Spring Break at my parents' house and things are eerily quiet 'round here. I was all set today to go swimming and do assloads of errands. Maybe even rearrange my setup in the basement.
