All Right, Summer's Over... Who Needs a Ride Home?

Last day of camp for the spawnage tomorrow. There goes the fucking summer. Man, it seems like only yesterday I had my first solid poop in a week. Wait... that was yesterday. But it seems like only the day before yesterday that the spawnage were starting their summer, the 'maters were just starting to peek out of the dirt, and I was hiding in the bushes picking off woodpeckers with my wrist-rocket.

Ahh... simpler times. Simpler times.

Don't know if we're going to actually get off our fuh-tasses and do something fun this Labor day weekend. There's talk of driving to Lake Michigan for the day on Sunday -- could be, I don't know, fun. I'm sure no one will be on the road... heading toward the lake... on a holiday weekend. The Old Lady and I are really shitty at motivating and going out and doing fun family shit together. We have fun, mind you, but not usually the let's-pack-up-the-car-and-hit-the-road-gang kinda fun. What's the payoff, ya know? The kids never want to go -- we have to drag 'em to the car, we drive for half the day, get there, sit in the hot fucking sun, spend a million dollars on shitty food, get back in the fucking car, drive home, unload all that crap and then the spawnage are uber-crabby for like a week. Good times.

By the way, Miss O, who is supposed to be aSLEEP right now, just called me, frantically from her room, and I had to run up from the basement, then up to the second floor:

ME: WHAT? WHAT IS IT MISS O? WHAT'S THE MATTER?!

MISS O: Um... [pause... pause... pause...] Uh, what's a pocket protector?

And I'm supposed to reward THAT with a trip to the beach? Yeah, THAT'll happen.

(Broken) Hip-ster...

Had to go to Meijer, sorry, "the Meijers" last night for some shit for the spawn's lunches, and it was an MSU student pigfuck in there. Fucking swarms of 'em down every aisle, looking all tanned and scrubbed and youthful and shit -- made me sick. I don't remember college students looking that healthy and attractive when I was in school. Though to be fair, while the people who went to my college may have been attractive, it was impossible to tell from the thick fur, bad skin and hemp-y clothing that covered every square inch of their (our) bodies.

Anywhich, whenever I'm around that many young'uns, I always wonder how I am perceived by them. Not in a vain, check-my-look kinda way, but, like, what category do they dump me into? Am I a "some dad" or am I "that old man" or am I "greasy perv" or what? Of course, I still think of myself as "post-college," which at this point in my life is fucking ridiculous... I mean, I guess you could say anyone is post-college. Fucking Phyllis Diller is post-college.

I don't know... I guess I just want some college student to see me pass by and say, "Huh, that dude's pretty hip for an old guy." In reality, though, they're probably saying, "Ew, that hairy old perv is looking at me. Security! Security!!!" Or worse yet, they don't even notice me.

It's even more magnified when I'm swimming at the Y. They always have these young, dewy lifeguards there, twirling their whistles and snapping their gum. I guess, in relation to the dessicated 90 year olds who I share the pool with, I probably seem "young" to them. And again, I'd like to think that when I walk out of the locker room, they might think, "All right, lookin' good, middle-aged guy!" But you know they're thinking, "AHHH!!! A REALLY OLD YETI HAS ENTERED THE POOL AREA!!! RUN!!! IT'S AN AGED SASQUATCH!!!!"

Actually, I'm pretty happy at the age I am right now. And it doesn't matter how I look, I'll always seem really fucking old to assholes in college. And that's fine. Fuck them and their youngness. What do they know, with their "I was born in the late 80s" bullshit? The dude in front of me at the checkout line was buying a 12-pack of Bud, a bag of frozen pizza rolls, some chips and a shrink-wrapped salami log. What a putz. Doesn't he realize what that's gonna do to him by the time he's 42?

My Civic Doodie...

Well, I got the Civic working again -- apparently, it just needed a new batt'ry. This time I went to NAPA auto parts instead of Wal-Fart (see what I did there, with the 'fart'? Genius!). They were kind enough to sell me a batt'ry with the posts in their correct positions, so it fit and everything. End of story, right? If you think so, then you haven't been reading now, have you?

Apparently, when you disconnect the batt'ry in a 2001 Honda Civic, you cut the power to the piece-of-shit radio/CD player that, for someone unfucking known reason, has a theft-protection system in place that renders said shitty radio/cd player USELESS unless you have a special code that was supposed to have come with the car back in 2001. Well, guess what -- we bought the fucking car from Carmax in 2003, and those shitasses never gave me a fucking code, so now I have to drive around this dessicated turd of a town humming to my goddamn self 'cuz my shitty radio/cd player is protecting itself from being stolen. Mother cock-ass!

I instantly logged on to the innernecks, to see if I could unearth some sort of work-around, but it seems most people just end up calling Honda and paying 80 bucks to get the code. Well you know what? I'm not payin'. I'm gonna keep poking around to see if I can hack into this fucker, and if I can't, then I'm just gonna drive around and hum, goddammit. Or whistle. Or play a comb with wax paper over it. Or maybe I'll get the ol' boombox and duct-tape it to the dashboard, and play some old Iron Maiden and Krokus cassettes on it.

I will NOT, however, call Honda and pay those shit-huffers 80 beans.

Yeah, I probably will. Goddammit.

Bubble, Bubble, What's in The Tub-ble?!

School is a mere week away and that can only mean one thing -- a dual lid-flippage spaz-travaganza for the spawnage. Both of those little ragamuffs are just freakin' the fuck out, and they're vacillating between tears and insane cackling and screaming and some behavior that's, frankly, just plain assholish in nature. It's just too much to get into right now, especially in my still frail post-yak state.

Here's a scene from the tub tonight. Mr. Z was having a soak, and was floating there a-whimperin' because we've banned him from his Gamecube for a week for losing his shit at us a few too many times over the weekend.

MR. Z: [tearfully] I wish I could just set up a tent in the backyard and bring my sleeping bag and my Pooh Bear and all my most-valuable possessions out there and just stay out there, by myself, until school starts.

ME: Wow, why do you wanna do that?

MR. Z: I just need some time alone.

ME: You know, you really just need to relax and take--

[MR. Z interrupts by screaming at the top of his lungs and splashing water toward the back of the tub]

ME: WHAT?! WHAT IS IT?!

MR. Z: I DON'T KNOW!!! THERE'S SOMETHING DISGUSTING IN THE WATER!!!!

ME: What? I don't see anything in the--

[I suddenly notice a GIANT silverfish floating in the water and paddling with its 9000 legs]

ME: AAHHHH!!! I SEE IT!!! BLEH!!! I NEED SOMETHING TO SCOOP IT OUT WITH!!!

MR. Z: AHHH!!! AAAAHHHHHH!!!!

[Unable to find any scoop-like implement, I thrust my hand into the murky deep, grabbed the wriggling beast, that was pretty much a cross between a Michael Dukakis eyebrow and the Iron Giant, and flung it into the toilet. I slammed the lid down (so it wouldn't fling itself back out) and flushed it back to Hell, from whence it came.]

ME: All right... I got it... it's gone. It was just a silverfish. A horrible, evil, five pound silverfish. Now, uh... just relax and enjoy your bath.

He did neither but, really, can you blame him?

It's Shit on Crabbydad Week! Who's Next?!

Obviously, in another life, I was some sort of murderous Hun, or something, because the gods of fucked-up-mojo are emptying their drippy bowels on me BIG TIME!

So today, I'm all set to have a nice relaxing day reading the Sunday Times, as the last of the viral-ass-demons residing in my colo-rectal habitrail hotel finally checks out and bids me a-doo. The Old Lady is on her way to the Y to work out and she gets in the Civic and tries to start it up. It's cranking really slowly and sounds horrible and barely starts. Now this is the car we just spent $650 clams fixing up a week ago, and here it is, not starting. What the shit?! She gets it running and we let it go for awhile, thinking that maybe the battery just needs to charge up a bit. Shut it off, try to start it up again. It's fucked up.

Fine. We'll deal with it later, we decide, and the Old Lady switches over to the Accord. Goes to start it up -- bupkes. Mother fucker. Both cars -- dead. As Maggie from "Caddyshack" might say, "Tat's oll I neeeed!Tenks fer NUTTIN!"

Blah, blah, we borrow or neighbor's minivan, load up a highly reluctant spawnage, and drive over to, of all places, Wal-Mart. I know! Look, we've never been there before, ever, but it was Sunday, and nothing else was open, so fuck off. We did the shame drive to Wal-Mart to buy two new batteries, hoping that that'll fucking fix it, even though I knew it probably wouldn't, but I figured we had to do something. Got the batteries, drove home.

By the way, until today, the most energy I've exerted over the last week, was picking dried vomitus off the toilet seat with my thumbnail, as my head hung limply in the commode. So, you can imagine, this day was going GREAT!

I decided to replace the Civic battery first. Got the old one out, put the new one in, and then I realized that the fucking thing was backwards. The positive terminal was where the negative should've been, and vice-versa. Now, I know you're saying, "Just turn the battery around, dipfuck!" Yeah, well fuck you, I tried that and then the hooky-on-things wouldn't reach.

Wal-Mart told me the thing would work in a 2001 Civic, and they were wrong. Sore-prize, Sore-prize, Sore-fucking-Prize!

No time for tears, though, so I switched to the Accord. Got that battery in fine, it fit, and hooked it all up. Went to start the car -- whirr-urr-urr-urr-uuuurrrrrrr... nothing. GODSHITTINGCOCKTURDS!!!!! I was so fucking pissed off, it's not even... no, actually it was funny. To everyone but me.

So I said FUCK IT and I called the local garage, who happened to be open strangely, and told them to swing the fuck by and tow the motherfucker in -- I was giving up. Half-hour later, the tow-truck comes, the dude gets out and asks for the keys. I said, "Don't bother, it's fucked up," but he grabs the keys, gets in, turns it, IT MOTHERFUCKING STARTS RIGHT THE FUCK UP! BALLS!!!! The dude says, "Yeah, I just gave it a little gas." I said, "I'll give YOU a little gas!" and then caved in his head with a tire iron.

Actually, I didn't say or do either of those things -- I just stood there like a complete and utter more-fucking-on, thumb in ass, and said, "Huh," and then paid him $40 for starting my car with my key and his foot.

So, we've got us a newly fixed car that's broken, two new batteries that we didn't need, and a local mechanic who is home telling his family that he just met the biggest fucking chunderhead of his life.

BRING IT ON, FUCKERS!!!! YOU CAN'T DEFEAT ME!!!!! I'VE BEATEN YOUR COLON-CURSE AND I'LL BEAT YOUR VEHICLE VOODOO!!!! BRING IT!!! OPEN A HELL-MOUTH UNDER MY HOUSE!!!! RELEASE SNAKES THROUGH OUR HEATING DUCTS!!!! HAVE ANOTHER CRACKER BARREL OPEN UP IN TOWN!!!! I'LL NEVER BACK DOWN, YOU HEAR ME?!?! NEVERRRRRRR!!!!!!

Okay, anything but another Cracker Barrel. I do have my limits.

Mother Chunker!

Holy crapfuck. That sucked turds. And it's still sucking turds, mind you -- this bastard's holding out for every last drop of my undigestiblarrghs.

You know, I hope I never get shot or stabbed or burnt-ed, 'cuz over these past few days, I've felt worse than I've ever felt in my life, save for the time that asshole sinus doc severed the artery in my head during my sinus surgery and almost killed me... but that's another story. Anywhich, as shitty as I felt this week, I'm pretty sure that getting shot, stabbed or burnt-ed feels WAYTHEFUCK worse than how I felt, and, frankly, I'm not willing to feel that kinda shit.

Seriously, if any of you are comin' after me, finish the job -- don't miss, okay?!

There's not much else to say. I've been literally laid out on the fucking bed for three days, not eating, not sleeping and whining like a dikfer. I puked myself inside out Monday night at midnight, and that was it, but the recovery just ain't happening. Today was finally okay -- my head is still pounding, my stomach's all crampy and I've got the reflux like a mofucker, but I was able to do a little work and choke down a 'nanner, some soup and some toast. Food completely repulses me, right now -- I feel like that mom on "Intervention" last week... the sinewy stick-lady who had xylophone music playing every time she walked or moved her arms.

That's it for now. Just wanted to check in and let you all know that I'm fine. Thanks for all the concern, the TWO of you. Sarah and Crescent -- you're all I've got, apparently. Shit, not even knickgrl0907 checked in. Hmm, I wonder how her trip to Cali is going... she does have all that extra cash she made from that website.

No Post... Stomach Flu...

... ack...

A Bad Case of "The Crap"

I've been having major problems with my ballcock. It's leaking, it's got a crack in it -- hell, I've tried twisting and jiggling it, but I seriously think my ballcock is completely fucked. It is pretty old. I'm thinking I may just have to rip it out and get a new one. I know that sounds painful... and expensive, but I'm at my ballcock's end!

By the way, I think we know each other well enough for me to show you a picture of my ballcock. I know, it's probably not the biggest ballcock you've ever seen, but up until recently, it has certainly gotten the job done:



Wow, that was like a bad "Three's Company" episode, huh? "Chrissy! Don't jiggle my ballcock so hard! It's starting to leak!" [cut to Mr. Furley doing a "Huh-WHUUUH?!" at the camera]

Anywhich, the toilet in our bathroom has been running for, like, ever and I finally decided something had to be done. I figured out that it was the leaky ballcock (didn't he play for the Cubs in the late 60s?), and I knew I was going to have to go to the Ace to get a new one. The problem is, most of the people working at the Ace are high school girls. I figured that would go well:

ACE GIRL: Oh, hi! Can I help you find something?

ME: Why yes, young lady! I have a leaky ballcock. It's about yay long, and I've tried jiggling it, and screwing it tighter, and, frankly, I think I just need a new one. Here, I brought in a picture of my old one, if you'd like to see it!

[ACE GIRL shoots a taser into my neck and 20 minutes later I wake up in the shed out back immobilized by chicken wire]

Luckily, when I got there, it was the high school dude who approached me. Feeling saucy, I declared, "I'm having some trouble with my ballcock," but then I added, "Where's your toilet department?" He kind of smirked, but knew what I was talking about, so he led me to the crapper supplies. I bought a new top for my ballcock, thanked him, and went on my way.

Of course, the part I bought didn't fix it, so I have to go back tomorrow and inform them that even after replacing the head of my ballcock, it's still leaking.

I have a strange feeling that I'm gonna get punched tomorrow.

I Know I'm Forgetting Something... OW! MY HEART!

As much as it pains me to admit it, I am now a pill-taker. There are three pills I have to take every day -- two I can miss and I might not die, one, if I miss, will cause the acid in my stomach to start a-bubblin' and it will shoot up my esophagus, turn all flesh it comes in contact with to coal, and will burn a one-foot-in-diameter hole through the top of my head, as it shoots out of me like a bubblin' bile blow-hole.

Unfortunately, due to my advancing years, I've started forgetting to take the "important" pill from time to time. Actually, that's not true -- I don't know if I've forgotten to take it, so I'm constantly wondering if I should take it, or if I've already taken it. If I don't take it -- bubblin' bile. If I take it after I've already taken it... actually, I don't know what would happen, but the side-effect is probably something akin to "death" or "coma," or "rectal blood geyser." So I try not to miss it.

Now, I've been desperately trying to avoid buying one of these:



I feel that once I buy one of those, I might as well toss those giant sunglasses cover-up plastic things in my cart, along with a crate of Depends and a case of Ensure. And a tube of Porcelana Medicated Skin Cream for my liver spots. And a truss. So I've been fighting it. Every time I pass the pharmacy at Kroger, I slow down as I pass the old fart aisle, but then catch myself and blow right past it, yelling, "You'll never catch me, death eaters!." I JUST CAN'T DO IT, OKAY?! I feel like Bill Pullman in "The Serpent and the Rainbow" -- DON'T BURY ME -- I'M NOT DEAD YET!!!!

The solution? I made my own pill box. A hep-cat, ironic pill box... TO THE EXTREME!!!!



I finally found something to do with one of the 500 Altoids tins I've been hoarding like a... hoar? Now it's "Daddy's Daily Doses," and, thanks to some X-acto'd cardboard, it has enough room in there for seven days of "the important pill" and the other two. (In case you're wondering, the other two are 1.) a manly multivitamin and B.) a baby aspirin -- my brother [the doctuh] said all dudes over 35 should take those ever day or THEY'LL DIE... INSTANTLY!)



Oh, and I put Toad, from the Mario games, on the cover to show Mr. Z and Miss O that taking pills can be fun and cute. Everyone who's cool takes pills! Really! Oh, and don't do drugs.

So yeah, if anyone wants me to make them a boss, cherry pill box, lemme know. Hurry, though, 'cuz I only have 499 more Altoid tins.

Shit... did I forget to take my pills today, or did I already refill the tin? Goddammit!

Two Beans, or Not Two Beans... Nope, Just the Two Beans Today

Today's catch, minus a few hunnert cherry 'maters. Check out them heirloom purple and yeller tomizzles! Sliced 'em up, thawed out a puff pastry, threw on some Parmesan, some moose-o-rella, a little garlic and some olive oil, threw it in the old cookarino, sprinkled with garden-fresh basil and Voyla!



I could eat this every goddamn night, it's so tomazing... toe! Though if I did, my colon would be like the "HydroBlaster" ride that Mr. Z was on last week at Michigan's Adventure. Actually, it would be more like the "Funnel of Fear." Or "Logger's Run," "Timbertown Railway," or "Speed Splashers." (See, basically, I'm saying that it would be unwise for me to eat it every day because the acidity from all the tomatoes would fuck up my stomach and make me shit a whole lot. But I used the water rides from the amusement park as a way of suggesting such tummy turmoil, without actually getting too graphic. But then I mentioned the shitting part anyway, so it was really all for naught. Oh well.)

Tart-ta for now.

She's Back with a Splash! (or two...)

The kerplotz of two well-formed turdlets into the crapper tonight heralded the return of Miss O's properly functioning insides, and yea, there was much rejoicing. She seems to be back to her old self, amazingly enough. I thought it may have had something to do with the "Blandest Lunch Ever Prepared" that I sent with her to camp today -- half a peanut butter sandwich (with just a fine silt of peanut butter, lightly misted onto the bread), a bag of goldfish, graham crackers, applesauce and a juice --basically the same ingredients that go into grout. But apparently she had ice cream for a snack, so what the shit, I guess she's just better.

Wish I could say the same thing for my colon, however. I don't know if I've picked up what she had, or if it's just the result of the ten pounds of tomatoes I've been trying to choke down every day, but the Rear Admiral is reporting for doodie, if you will. It's like walking around a fucking putrid egg factory in this house -- something's definitely rotten in Denmark, that's for sure. And by "Denmark" I mean "my ass."

Wait, did I go too far there? See, it's hard to tell since I had no fucking sleep for the last coupla nights, as I've been stumbling into Miss O's room practically every hour to either get her some water, rub her back, or sing her a song. And then Mr. Z got up at 5:00 a.m., last night, and was creepily wandering the hall for some reason, so I had to get up and steer his zombie butt back to bed. Of course, it was my night on watch, so each time I returned to bed, I saw the Old Lady just snoozin' the fuck away, her goddamn orange earplugs just taunting me like squishy beacons of noise-cancellation.

Who knows what treats await me tonight. Hopefully the spawn will stay in their beds, and if they do get up, may the Old Lady hear them instead of me, and take care of it. And hopefully I'll relax enough to finally get some sleep -- but not relax too much, so I don't accidentally shit the bed.

Maybe I'll go sleep in the tub tonight.

Huh--Whuh?! I'm Up, I'm Up!

As predicted, I had a shit-ass sleep while Miss O enjoyed a womb-like slumber, and this morning she was doing much better, while I kept nodding off every 10 minutes, despite my five mugs of crystal meth. No fluids purged from any of her purging holes today, and she managed to choke down some applesauce, toast, couscous and chicken noodle soup. I'll probably still worry about her tonight, but if she wakes up her normal, crabass self tomorrow morning, well, then it's off to camp with her.

The Old Lady and I split the day again, although she actually hung with the girl longer, giving me the opportunity to try (and fail) to be productive for work. Hard to write the hee-larious trivia questions on no fucking sleep. I called it a day when I was trying, unsuccessfully, to craft a question highlighting the similarities between Elvis and elves. Didn't quite work out.

I was much more productive hanging with Miss O, though. We played with her Groovy Girls for what seemed like 18 days, and we watched some Spongebob. My finest moment was when she asked if I could make her some instruments to play. I started out simple and rubber-banded some wax paper over a paper towel tube, making a tubular, yet tympanic-membrane-piercing kazoo. She tooted on that thing for awhile, but then demanded something else. I scanned the kitchen and saw the empty couscous box, an empty Cheerios box and some rubber bands. A few scissor cuts and scotch tapings later, and I handed her a fucking awesome geetar. I call it either the "Strato-couscous-ter" or "The Cheeri-axe":



It sounds awesome -- very boingy. I'm thinking we're going to record her "Math Day" song with it. It's either gonna rock the house, or sound like a five year old girl singing over a couscous box with rubber bands on it. Fine line.

And now I shall retire. Not much longer have words in fingers type for the sleeping take over.......................................

Happy Monda--BLAAARRRGH!!!!

Well, I'm a fucking wreck. Miss O has a nasty stomach virus and I spent the day tag-teaming with the old lady, handling the blowing of the chunks and the hersheying of the squirts. The bizarre part is, this bug is identical to the one Mr. Z had about a month ago. Except Miss O passed out twice, after trying to get up to walk to the bathroom. What's with the passing out in this family?! ENOUGH!

I'm telling ya, the worst thing in the world is seeing your kid's face go white as Edgar Winter's fanny as they collapse into your arms. And Miss O is so slight to begin with -- it's almost like she went clear. I just sat in her room all afternoon, giving her ice chips, offering puny spoonfuls of applesauce and trying to find the best hurling target for the trashcan. I know I'll be up all fucking night -- checking on her every hour to make sure she hasn't pulled a Hendrix in her sleep. Gimme a good ol' snot-filled nose any day -- stomach bugs suck donkeys.

She had a fever when she went to sleep, so she'll be home from camp at least one more day, which means tomorrow will be a wash, as well. The amazing thing is, both she and Mr. Z are such fucking troopers when they're sick. All their spazmo energy has been all drained out, so they just lie there like rubbery, adorable Keane paintings. She was slaying me with her cuteness today. She even made up a song called "Math Day," about a math-based holiday in Meep-Land, where everyone does math problems and gets presents. I promised her we'd record it when she gets past the point where she'll ralph all over my $600 microphone.

Please let tomorrow morning be chunk-free.

The Loins Sleep Tonight...

So, I think I mentioned recently that Mr. Z has been very eager to get to bed each night because, apparently, he's been having some very steamy nine year old girlie-themed dreams. We've known for awhile that he has a major crush on somebody, but he's been pretty hush-hush about his/her identity. And if you know Mr. Z, being hush-hush is basically a fucking impossibility.

The other night, during dinner, the boy says "I'll bet you don't know who my dreams are about." I was going to ignore him and save him the embarrassment of me figuring it out, but it was a direct challenge, so what the shit. I played along and threw out a couple of girls from his school. The king of subtlety said, "It's not anyone at my school."

Okay, that cut the already puny pool of girls he knows from probably 10 to about 4. I figured it had to be someone from TV, so I guessed:

ME: Uh... Hannah Banana, or whatever her name is?

MR. Z: No way!

ME: Okay, um who else, um... Sandy from "Spongebob"?

MR. Z: No! Okay, it's not anyone from TV.

Bingo! It had to be a movie. Unless it was Princess Peach from his Paper Mario game, and that was just too fucking sick for me to contemplate. So I tried to remember what movies we've seen lately. There was "Ratatouille," but I don't think he has a thing for animated rodents. The only other movie I could think of was... HARRY POTTER! THAT'S IT!!!!

ME: Is it someone from Harry Potter?

MR. Z: OH NO! [nervous tittering]

I knew I was zeroing in on his special lady, but which one would it be? There was Hermione -- not to sound like a complete creep but, hey, she's a hottie. Shit, everyone loves Hermione. But there's also Ginny -- sweet, unassuming, but POWERFUL Ginny. Definite possibility with her. Plus, those mysterious redheads... what goes on 'neath those fiery locks. Who else? Cho Chang? Maybe. Quiet, grieving, misunderstood. He might be going for a pity thing with her. Who knows?! I took a stab:

ME: Hermione!

MR. Z: No. [titter, titter...]

ME: Ginny!

MR. Z: Uh-uh. [tittery-titter...]

ME: Cho Chang!

MR. Z: Nope! [tee-hee, tittery-tit...]

ME: Hmm...

THE OLD LADY: LUNA LOVEGOOD!

MR. Z: [collapsing on the floor in a spastic laugh/scream breakdance of embarrassment] NOOOOOOOO!!!!! HOW DID YOU GUESS IT?!?!?!? OH NO!!!! WHY DID YOU GUESS HER?!?!?! I'M DOOOOMED!!!!!

I'm taking a wild stab here, but I'm thinking it's Luna Lovegood. And she's PERFECT for him. The weirdo girl who other kids make fun of, who sees death-animals that others can't see, who's completely absorbed in her own world and somewhat oblivious to the world around her. She's the anti-Hermione. And she's Mr. Z's special lady. I LOVE that he picked her over Hermione! Poor kid... just like his dad.

Of course, I couldn't just leave it at that. That night, I searched the innernecks for photos and found the perfect one:



I printed it out an 8/12 x 11" glossy photo and had it ready for him in the morning.

ME: Hey Mr. Z, check this out!

MR. Z: DAD!? Why did you do that?!

ME: I thought you'd like a picture of her for your room.

MR. Z: No way! You're crazy! Forget it!

ME: Okay, then I'll just throw it aw--

MR. Z: NO WAIT!!!

It's now on the wall next to his bed, and he makes us open the curtains at night so he can look at her as he's falling asleep. He keeps worrying about people outside of the family seeing it in his room and teasing him. We keep reminding him that no one ever comes over, let alone goes into his room, and he has nothing to worry about. I keep reassuring him that I won't tell a soul.

Except for all the nice people on the innernecks.

Nice 'Maters!

Well, the 'mater gods seem to be making up for last year's dump-er crop of inedible, alien-brain turd-balls, because this years crop is fucking insane.



I've got cherry tomatoes coming outta my... cherry tomato-hole -- I'm talking like 10 a day. And they're delicious! You bite into these taut, red juice-balls and you get a tangy mouthful of dewy discharge from Mother Nature's lycopenic loins. After eating a handful, I'm pretty much spent, and have to roll over and take a nap. Good tomatoes.

I've also got some yellow and purple heirlooms that are almost ready for a-pluckin'. I got those plants from the farmer's market, and I'm thinking they're gonna be insane when they're ripe. The tomatoes, not the farmers. The farmers are pretty much insane and ripe every time I walk by them at the market. Real dung-y smellin', with that crazy far-off look in their eyes. Especially them Amish farmers. But, hey, that's the kinda look and smell you want in an Amish farmer, no?

So yeah, tomatoes. I've gotta go now and polish off like 30 more if I'm gonna make a dent in these mofos. And then I've gotta go sleep in the tub. All that acid really does a number on the ol' gazpach-hole.

RIF: Reading Is Fundament... al

Miss O is finally cutting the bullshit and reading to us at night, now. For a while she'd hem and haw and say that she was too tired to read, but now I think she's having fun with it. She read the above book, "Miffy at the Zoo," to me tonight, and she rocked the fizzy out of it. But when we got to the page above, she started reading, "And look, he's stretching out his trunk to take a..." and then she paused, and said, "... to take a... piss?"

Being the five year old that I am, I did the blow-a-snot-bubble-outta-of-your-nose laugh. She had no idea what was so funny, but, of course, she started laughing, too. Then she asked:

MISS O: [laughing] What's piss?

ME: Uh... well, it's another word for "pee."

MISS O: [re-laughing now, with a purpose] I said "he's stretching out his trunk to take a piss!"

ME: Yeah, but it's not really a nice word for pee. You shouldn't really say that one.

MISS O: Okay... "he's stretching out his trunk to take a 'pee' of bread."

It went downhill from there -- I won't even tell you what she said the monkey was swinging from a tree on the next page.

We finally finished the book, and by the time I left her room, she was reading Bukowski's "Ham on Rye." Well, you know what they say: "The acorn doesn't piss far from the tree."

No-Gurt

You'd think that, as a (crabby)dad, I'd know the meaning of word "frustration." Not getting to sleep in... ever, having to read the Sunday Times in three minute chunklets, trying to fit microscopic rubber shoes on puny dolls, trying to get the spawn clothed, fed, brushed and out the door on time in the morning, and fed, unclothed, bathed, brushed and in bed on time at night, avoiding getting kneed/elbowed/punched in the cacahuetes on a regular basis, not having friends above the age of nine, not getting to do what you want to do, like... ever... you know -- frust-fucking-ration.

Well, today I realized that I don't know frustration from my stinkhole. I opened Miss O's lunchbox after camp and discovered that the girl didn't eat her Go-Gurt today. She fucking loves Go-Gurt, and it was just sitting there -- unopened. I asked her why she didn't eat it, and she said, forlornly, "Oh... I couldn't get it opened. I pulled the flap, but it broke off, so I tried to bite it off, but that didn't work." I asked her why she didn't ask one of the counselors for help, and she replied, "When I was trying to bite it off, I slobbered on it, and I didn't want them to get slobber on their hands. And you didn't give me a napkin to wipe it off -- you never give me a napkin. [dramatic pause/exhale] So I just didn't eat it."

And then we sat in silence as, together, we listened to the sound of my cold, dark heart breaking.

The Born Lid-flippery...

Well, chalk up another spazztacular year for Mr. Z -- the boy turned the big 0-9 yesterday. Nine fucking years... unbelievable. And it's really only felt like thirteen.

He was very cute yesterday. I heard him wake up around 6:30 and he was nice enough to wait in his room until 8:00, exactly, before he came in and woke us up. I felt like a little bit of a dick 'cuz I forgot to get his birthday cereal, so he could have it for breakfast. We let the spawn pick any really heinous, sugar-y cereal they want for the week of their birthday, and he wanted the cereal made famous by the Count of Chocula. I was too busy wrapping all his loot last night, so he had to go without it this morning. Hey, he's nine now -- time to face the fact that life's a big letdown and your parents are the letdowniest of them all.

He scored with the birthday booty, though. We got him "Mario Party 7" for his Gamecube, this awesomely nerd-tacular game called "Heroscape," which is like the fucking gateway drug to D&D, some Star Wars action figures, and a digital camera. He loved them all, but I think the camera was the biggest hit. He was running around the house, all day, taking close-ups of our noses, pics of Miss O's butt (in pants, mind you), and macro shots of forks and pencils and shit. I was about to tell him to try to think about his shots before taking them, but then I realized that I got him a memory card that stores like 200 pics, so what the shit? Although I did have to stop him when I heard him yell from the bathroom, "Hey, can I take a picture of poop?" Great, now the boy's gonna grow up to be the next Jack Brickhouse.

As usual, the Old Lady baked the shit out of a cake for the occasion. We went with a Dragonology-themed confection, this year:



And, as usual, it was basilisk-cious! Overall, I'd say the day was a success for the lad -- as he was getting ready for bed, he said, "Except for the day I was born, this was my best birthday ever!" And knowing him, he remembers the day he was born. I know I'll never forget it -- shit, with that noggin' of his, it was like watching someone force, I don't know, an extremely oversized baby's head through a much smaller vaginal opening.

But yeah, nine years old -- pretty amazing. The boy is pretty stellar, I must say. He's come a fuck of a long way in that short time and it's kinda blowing my mind that after fifth grade this year, he'll be heading off to Junior High.

Holy shitstain, now I'm depressed. Must eat more dragon cake.

Don't Even Get Me Started on the Klingons...

I was driving the spawnage to camp this morning, and I could feel an argument brewing between the two of them, so I quickly intervened:

ME: Hey, Mr. Z. Did you hear? Some astronomers discovered rings around Uranus!

MR. Z: (laughing) That's disgusting!

ME: And I also heard they found some giant craters on Uranus, too.

[laffs/titters]

MR. Z: Guess what? They also said that Uranus really stinks!

ME: (laughing) Hey, good one, Mr. Z!

MISS O: Oh, and know what else? MY anus is really dry and itchy!

ME: [laughing hysterically and almost driving into a ditch]

MR. Z: Miss O, that's not how you do it! You're supposed to say "Uranus."

MISS O: Oh... Uranus is really dry and itchy.

ME: Don't worry, Mr. Z... maybe we can put some ointment on Uranus when we get home.

MR. Z: HEY?!

Gabba Gabba HEY! COOL SHOES!

I think my computer's about to fucking 'splode. I was trying to upload some pics of my new "cool-pair-of-shoes" (that just happen to be all I need) and shit just started freezing up, and now everything's all break-y. So, I guess I'll just steal some pics from elsewhere.

So, I realized the other day, when we were ordering shoes for the spawnage, that I haven't really scored some new kicks in awhile. See, I don't buy myself a lot of shit for some reason. Oh, I longfor shit, don't get me wrong. I've got tons of crap just rotting away in virtual shopping carts all over the goddamn innernecks -- I just have a hard time hitting the "proceed" button. Actually, that kinda perfectly sums up my life to a certain extent -- I have trouble hitting the "proceed" button. But that's another post.

So, I'm ordering some wacky new orange and turquoise Converse hi-tops for Miss O when I notice a "special edition" Con that caused my nipples to go pert and then snap right the fuck off. I give you the Chuck Taylor Ramones Special Edition:



Of course, you can't experience their awesomeness from such a puny photo, but remember, my photoshop is borked, so what the shit. They're faded black denim, all ripped up and shit, with "Ramones" stitched across the top of the tongue. On one side, there's the classic Chuck circular emblem, and on t'other, there's a Ramones patch that says "Hey Ho, Let's Go." AND, the part that I didn't even realize until I got these fuckers today, the inside bottom of the left shoe says "Hey Ho" and the inside of the right one says "Let's Go!" OOH! I just peed a little simply thinking about them.

Now, will I look like a 42 year old ass-hat walking around with these on my feet? Most likely. Do I give a shitfuck? No sir. It's the Ramones, godfuckit! I actually almost didn't get them, but the Old Lady talked me into it. That, my friends, is why I married that woman. That, and she smelled purty. And now, with my tribute to the late Joey, Johnny and Dee Dee strapped to my feet, I actually don't have a problem going down to the basement:

There But for the Grace of No Talent Go I...

I got to go back to Ann Arbor last night to see some musician friends who were in town "giggin'," as they say. Once again, while it was really great to see them, it reaffirmed in my mind that being an utter failure as a successful professional musician was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Oh sure, I don't get all the perks, like the comfy backstage lounge (pictured above), or the delectable assorted meats tray:



By the way, I'm not sure if the Scope was for before eating the meats, or after... or for pouring over the meat before dumping said meat into the garbage.

But, yeah, the whole touring musician thing seems like it kinda sucks balls. Two of the guys are now divorced, they're on the road all fucking summer, with an occasional day or two at home, the inside of their bus looked like it was designed by Halston in the early 80s, they're not allowed to shit in the bus's toilet, they don't know whether the club they're playing is going to have a good sound system or a shitty one (last night -- pretty shitty), they're all barely speaking to each other after 20+ years of playing together, and I can't imagine they're making that much money at these gigs. I dunno, my working-in-the-basement gig is seeming pretty fucking sweet in comparison.

Of course, they do get to play in front of an adoring crowd every night, so it's not all shitty.



I guess a job's a job, you know? At least with mine, I get to eat well, I don't have to drive through multiple states for my commute, I get to hang out with my family, I wear whatever I want, there's no frat-boys hanging out by my back door asking me to sign their frisbees, and most importantly, I can dump in my own toilet whenever I goddamn-well please.

As a matter of fact, I feel an encore coming on right now.