Commodeus Explodeus...

Moronically emboldened by the successful mailbox installation yesterday, I foolishly decided to take on another of the nagging Crabbyfamily projects that I never quite get around to -- the forever-running-toilets. It was time to grab the leaky ballcocks by the... ballcocks, and FIX THE MOFOS!

Big mistake.

I promise that from this day forth, I will set up a video camera on a tripod and record whatever "Mr. Fixit" project I tackle, because it's guaranteed to be comedy gold. I would KILL to have a recording of me breaking the toilet today. I really thought I was on the right track for a while -- I shut off the water, yanked out the old ballcock, got the new one in there and re-hooked up the water. I turned on the ol' water valve and flushed the fucker. As I excitedly watched the tank fill with water, I was preparing to give myself yet another handyman-high-five when, and I kid you not, the top of the new ballcock blew off, hit the ceiling and a three foot geyser of toilet water shot full force into my dumb-ass face-hole.

I tried to draw a picture of it, but it just doesn't capture the dunderheadedness of it all:



So, I'll be calling the plumber in the morning. To sum up, when it comes to mailboxes, I'm a regular fucking Norm Abram. Plumbing and electrical... more of a Curly Howard.

Idol Hands...

Both of the spawnages were off on playdates today, so, with the Old Lady and I home alone on a Saturday afternoon, there was only one logical thing to do... yep, we installed the new mailbox. And that is not a euphemism... unfortunately.

With the house newly painted and all (and holy fuckshit, that's another post, by the way) we thought it was high time we ditched the old mailbox, that has been giving our mail carrier tetanus for the last three years. So, it was out with the old:



... and in with the new:



My nipples are rock hard just looking at that photo. It's a shame we're still gonna receive the same shit-ass mail in that thing. I'm going to have to start subscribing to "Mailbox Fancy" magazine now.

Anywhich, while I was busy stripping the screw heads as I tried to affix this monster to the post, the Old Lady was digging all the little white rocks the previous owners had sprinkled around the base of the post. See, we're not "little-white-rocks-around-the-base-of-things" people. And we're not shiny globe in the garden people, or Easter flag on the porch people, or inflatable Sparty on the roof people. And if we ever become those people, hunt us down and shoot us in the eyes.

So, she's diggin' away and she sees this thing sticking out of the dirt at the base of the post:



I asked her what the shit it was and she had no idea. So she pulled it out of the dirt, and it was something plastic wrapped in an old baggie. [cue "Twin Peaks" music] She opened the bag and...



AAAAHHHHHHH!!! WHAT THE SHIT IS THAT?!?!?! It's either some weird religious talisman, or the creeps who lived here before us worshiped Robert Wadlow:



Whatever it was, I wanted no part of it (after I took pictures of it for the blog, of course). I didn't see what the Old Lady did with it until I was cleaning up the front porch and found something in the old doorbell hole:



I just hope we have enough time to enjoy the new mailbox before someone smotes us.

The Ol' Reacharound...

"Mad Men"... what a fucking show. I gotta start wearing me some suits.

Anywhich, I'm tie-red and I've gotta swim in the morning, so here's a quickie.

Apparently, some Freudian follies transpired during the ride home after school today. The Old Lady went to pick up the spawnage, and while driving home, she spotted a Mini Cooper driving by. You might remember from an older post that when the Crabbyfamily sees a Mini, the first person to yell "Mini Innie!" gets to pinch/poke the nearest person in the belly-button.

It's good, clean family fun, people. Look, you try to entertain a 5 and 9 year old all fucking day and see what ridiculous bullshit you come up with.

So, because Mr. Z was sitting behind the driver's seat, the Old Lady reached back to get the boy. She said she felt what she thought was his shirt and, well, poked. This was Mr. Z's response:

MR. Z: Mom?! You just tickled my nuts!!!

If you're keeping score, Thursday, September 27, 2007 marks the day that Mr. Z begins his quest to find a girl who will be able to someday give him a special "Mini Innie" the way his Mom once did.

Those Who Can't, Teach... Gym

Mr. Z came home all pissed yesterday about his gym class. His gym "teacher" sounds like a total Mr. Woodcock-asswipe. Apparently, they had to do an eight minute run (why the shit for, I know not... he's a child of the MIND for fuck's sake) and at one point, Mr. Z stopped to tie his shoe. Professor Turfshoe yelled at him for stopping, "What are you doing, Z?! You can't stop! Get going!!!"

Then, apparently, while running with an untied shoe, Mr. Z, logically, tripped. Again, Dr. Dodgeball yells, "What are you tripping for, Z?! Watch where you're going!!!" So, understandably, the boy was fucking pissed.

I told him:

ME: Hmm... sounds like your teacher put you into a double bind, or what's known as a paradox. See, you tripped over your shoelace and that got your teacher mad. But stopping to tie your shoelace also got him mad. So there's nothing you can do in that situation that won't get him mad.

MR. Z: I know?!! What was I supposed to do?!

ME: Well, you could've said, "Mr. D, you're trapping me in a bit of a paradox here. There's really no course of action on my part that won't result in you getting mad at me."

MR. Z: I'm not going to say that!

Then I remembered Mr. Z mentioning that this quasi-teacher is one of those people who pronounces the days of the week like, "Mondee, Tuesdee, Wednesdee, etc." You know... a moron?

So I told him that he can always just say, "Well, Mr. D, I'll just be sure to tie my shoelaces extra tight on Thursdee."

And I'll be expecting a note from Mr. D on Fridee.

Dental DAMN!

First off, I'm incredibly intrigued by the person from Joliet, at "Advanced Urology Assoc.," who was Googling the phrase "fish truck" and ended up at my blog. I hope you found what you were looking for, but just a word of advice -- now I'm no urologist, but I think your patients might prefer it if you use the proper term, "bajima truck."

Okay, down to bidness. Today was my return trip to the dentist to get my temporary fake tooth replaced with my permanent fake tooth. The exchange took about 15 minutes and only cost me 500 FUCKING DOLLARS! Shit, if I knew it was gonna be that fucking expensive, I would've made my own tooth out of chewin' wax. Tooth-stealin' bastards.

The bigger story, though, was that Mr. Z accompanied me on the trip because he needed to get his two baby eye-teeth "wiggled out!" That's violently ripped out of his skull, to you and me. And once again, the boy proved to a total fucking trooper. He handled the Q-tips with strawberry numbing gel that were jammed into his gums very well. He had ever-so-mild lid-flippage when he saw the giant needle that was to be jammed into said gums, repeatedly, but the reaction was completely within the normal to mildly abnormal reaction continuum.

And the dude didn't even flinch when the doc revealed the GIANT PLIERS and proceeded to twist/snap each of those fuckers right out of his head. I, on the other hand, just about passed out from all the skull-diggery. Holy shitfuck, what a barbaric profession. I think it's one notch below cow-fondler.

But there he sat, when it was all done, bloody gauze packed into his talkin' hole, happily digging through the treasure-chest-of-plastic-garbage, looking for the perfect light-up-tooth-ring or bendy-lead-painted-toothbrush-person. The dude's a fucking rock star, I'm tellin' ya.

So, tonight he was totally jacked that he's gonna get DOUBLE the normal tooth-fairy booty. He left this out on his night stand for her:



And I just happen to have the T.F.'s reply right here:

Dear Mr. Z,

First of all, congrats on losing two teeth! Now, technically,
I'm not supposed to give money for teeth that are professionally
extracted, but you were so brave (I hear!) that I'm going to make
an exception this time!

Unfortunately, I can't leave Pokemon cards, as those fall under
the "gift" jurisdiction, and gifts are strictly the domain of Santa, the Easter
Bunny, Hannukah Harry and Kwanzaa Kevin. All of my transactions
are cash only. I'm sure you understand.

I have seen a Manticore... once. It scared me so much that I practically
soiled my wings. They are evil, evil beasts, second only in evilness to
the Mantihamster. Talk about scary!!! I'm getting the willies just thinking
about it.

I have not met Sparkle the Sun Fairy. She sounds very nice and I'd love
to meet her some day... as long as she stays off my tooth turf. She can
collect other things under pillows, like lint or boogers. The teeth are mine!

And I love your Luna Lovegood poster. She's very cute and seems mighty
smart. Just like you! You've got great taste in women!

Anyway, I've got to fly. Lots of teeth await me. Keep brushing!

Love,
The T.F.

Heckuva (Paint) Job, Brownie...

So, we've been getting our house painted over the last week and I am so ready to have the fucker completed, I can't even tell you. I think it looks pretty good, but these painter dudes just can't pull the fucking trigger and finish the job. And I am incapable of looking at the house as a "whole" -- I just instantly focus in on the shit that doesn't look right -- a sloppy window pane here, a rough spot there. It would've been so much easier (and smoother) to just cover the fucker in aluminum. Or shrink-wrap it. Or douse it in that waxy chocolate shit that they dip the Dilly Bars in at Dairy Queen.

I mean, I don't wanna be a dick about it, but we're paying a healthy chunk o' change to get this done and I want to be as not-completely-dissatisfied as possible. And "not-completely-dissatisfied" is about as pleased as I ever get when people do shit to the house, believe me. So, tonight, after they left, I walked around and put little pieces of blue painters tape on all the spots I want them to fix. I know -- total douche move, but fuck you. The head dude's pretty cool and he'll probably fix it all. Besides, I'm not giving him the final 5 hondo until he does.

Anyhouse, here's one of the few pics of El Rancho Crabbo in all its "shit-brown-and-buttercream-80s-leisure-suit" glory.



As soon as Brushy VonSlowpaint and his crew of sloppy sluggards finish up, I'll post a pic of the "after."

Should be sometime in '08.

... and Boy, Is My Coccyx Tired!

Just got back from taking the kids to see G'ma and G'pa over the weekend in suburban Chi-town. A whirlwind ass-ripper, to be sure, but all in all, worth the whirling rippage. Some highlights:

* the Accord, which we just got serviced, is now shaking on the highway when we go above 80, and the brakes (which we were told were fine) sound like the pads were replaced with a thick slice of ham wrapped in pinecones. So that's excellent!

* the Old Lady and I went out to dinner with some (of her) friends on Friday night and, while the company was great, the meal kinda sucked for everyone except me. My scallops and risotto were pretty fucking good, but everyone else was kinda pissed with their dishes. Consensus was "West Town Tavern" gets two thumbs up... my risotto-caked asshole.

* we went to the Shedd Aquarium on Saturday and saw every fucking fish they had on display. Mr. Z had a blast, Miss O enjoyed it for about 15 minutes before she started whining and demanding to leave. Got her to clam up (ha!) with some shitty lunch in the cafeteria and a stuffed dolphin at the gift shop. Why did we give in to her? Hey, what can I say... that's a-moray:



* realized that if I take more than three days off from blogging, my posts start to really suck ass and I rely on shitty puns to get me through it

* we measured the spawnages' heights on the wall in my parents' laundry room -- both Mr. Z and Miss O have grown TWO-AND-A-HALF INCHES SINCE JANUARY!!! No wonder Mr. Z has been occasionally complaining that "my legs hurt." He's a goddamn Stretch Armstrong. I've gone ahead and ordered the caged railway car and we're going to drive them out to Coney Island next summer to cash in on some of that freakshow money. We'll really rake it in if I can get Miss O to grow a beard by July.

What else? Uh, that's about it. No time to stop for Trader Joe's or good bagels, so that blew. I'm tired, dehydrated and crabby. In other words, back to normal.

Beaver at 12:00!!!!

Last Sunday we went to Hawk Island, this park in Lansing that we've been meaning to get off our lazy asses and visit. It's pretty cool -- big ol' park with a lake, and they rent rowboats and those goddamn pedal boats that seem like a great fucking idea until you're out in the middle of some body of water and your calves are cramping up and it takes you like an hour to travel 50 yards.

So we rented a rowboat, which, I soon remembered, is also a pain in the fucking ass. But it was really great, aside from Mr. Z constantly almost tumbling over the side and Miss O whining the whole time that she was thirsty... and tired. She's tired and thirsty, and I'm the asshole who's rowing.

Anywhich, it was like the fucking nature channel over there -- we saw a turtle on a log (not a euphemism), a fucking MUSKRAT, and what I'm pretty sure was a beaver. Granted, it's been a while since I've seen a beaver... especially up close. A REALLY long time. So long I can almost taste it. Boy, I could sure go for seeing a beaver tonight...

Where was I? Oh, the beaver. Right. We took a picture of it:



That's a beaver, right? We told the neighbor kid about it, and he was pretty dubious. He said, poindexterly, "Beavers are pretty rare around here. And they're very large." It was large, kid. What the shit, that's a beaver, isn't it? I guess it could've been a woodchuck. Or a gopher. No not a gopher. I know it's not a badger. Is it a badger? No. Fuck I don't know.

After about an hour and a half of our beaver hunt, we rowed it back in and headed on home. Good, clean, wholesome family fun, goddammit. See what happens when we leave the confines of our front yard? Mother Nature and her wild beaver, right in the face. Crazy.

What McStinks?!

Well, Mr. Z is so grateful for all of your purchases and his pending prize bo-nanza, that he has dusted off the ol' singin' box and recorded a brand new tune -- "The Stinky McSewer Theme Song"! It's a rough mix, but shit, after compressing the fuck out of it for the innernecks, the mix doesn't really matter, now, does it. Let me know if you can't hear the vocals enough, or if there's too much marimba, or whatever. I'll also print the words, 'cuz his Tom Waits imitation makes the translation a little wacky. Enjoy!


"The Stinky McSewer Theme Song" by KICKSOME


THE STINKY MCSEWER THEME SONG
(© 2007 by MR. Z and KICKSOME)

V1
Stinky Mc, Stinky Mc, Stinky McSewer
Wah-wah-wahwah-wah-wah-waaah
Stinky Mc, Stinky Mc, Stinky McSewer
Wah-wah-wahwah-wah-wah-waaah

Stinky is a shark with tons of friends
They sometimes get in trouble but the fun never ends!

Stinky Mc, Stinky Mc, Stinky McSewer, yeah!

V2
[repeat first part, again]

Stinky and Carol and Ellen and Iggy
When they solve crimes they sometimes get wiggy

Stinky Mc, Stinky Mc, Stinky McSewer, yeah!

BRIDGE
Stinky! Carol! Ellen! And me Iggy!

V3
[repeat first part... AGAIN!]

Grif is an evil stuff-stealin' guy
But for Stinky and his friends he's just a French fry!

Stinky Mc, Stinky Mc, Stinky McSewer
Stinky Mc, Stinky Mc, Stinky McSewer
Stinky Mc, Stinky Mc, Stinky McSewer, Yeah!

Yeah!

He's Got a Way with the Ladies...

First off, thanks to all of you who have supported Mr. Z in his quest to sell more crap than a first-rate turd-salesman. I think he's up to 20 credits, so far, which qualifies him for the "already-broken-yo-yo," the "t-shirt-of-unwearable-size," the "electronic-plushie-of-annoying-repetitiveness," and, of course, the "eardrum-perforating-whistle-horn."

And for those who haven't visited yet, I'm sure there's plenty of crap left!!!

We had a great weekend, but I'm too tired to recap it now, so I'll just offer up a conversation Mr. Z and I had while he was taking a shower tonight. It started when I shouted into the shower:

ME: Hey, you know, next year in jr. high, you're going to have to shower after gym class every day... NAKED, with all your friends!

MR. Z: NO WAY???!!! Why do I have to do that?!

ME: 'Cuz that's how they roll in jr. high. The girls have to do it, too.

MR. Z: [thoughtful pause] Life must be hard if you're a jr. high girl.

ME: Why?

MR. Z: Because you have to take naked showers with a bunch of naked girls and naked girls are NASTY!!!

ME: Well, my friend, you're not going to think that for long.

MR. Z: Yeah I will! They have big fat boobs!

ME: First, jr. high girls don't have big fat boobs. And B, what are you talking about?!

MR. Z: They're all, 'Ooh, I have big fat boobs!'

ME: Dude, finish your shower! And don't forget to wash your nards.

Holy shitstain, I'm not ready for jr. high again...

The Women of Crabby Club... (and Innis)

Well, while the Innisbrook website doesn't seem to be crediting Mr. Z with any of your purchases (yet!), I am humbled by all of your generositude. Hopefully, they'll award him the pointages, and he'll be well on his way to his first, shiny piece-o-crap!

I do feel as if I owe something to you all, though, for foisting such rubbish upon yourselves. Therefore, anyone who orders crap from this place:

Don't forget to buy crappy drek to help Mr. Z win shitty prizes!!!!

(holy fuck, he pitched it again, the bastard!) will receive a FREE/GRATIS/UNRECOMPENSED/CUFFO copy of the forthcoming Mr. Z and Miss O CD, due whenever I shift my lazy ass into gear. Yes, you'll get all your favorites:

"Dracula's Walk Day"
"Washclosh"
"A Cool Pair of Shoes (Is All I Need)"

Plus, brand newies, like:

"Stinky McSewer Theme Song"
"My Pet Peeve"
and
"The Toilet Duet"

So, I'm keeping track. So far I've got Nora, Sarah, Innis, Monica, and Kim. If you've purchased something and your name's not in that list, lemme know. If you haven't purchased anything, well then, you either hate children and want to see Mr. Z flunk out of school, or you're already flush with bath salts and inferior chocolate novelties. Either way... no CD for you!

Now I've got to go write an angry e-mail to the Innisbrook.com sales department, and then go catch the latest episode of my new, favorite televised black-tar heroin, "Mad Men."

Nighty night!

DON'T LOOK AT ME!!!!

Most people are fortunate enough not to be aware of the exact moment when they pass from free-thinking, semi-alternative, aging hipster to "one-of-those-parents." I, unfortunately, am not so lucky. You are about to experience my sad, sad downfall... now.

Mr. Z came home today with a large envelope with the phrase "Fall Fundraiser" stamped across its front. Now, he's brought these things home over the last couple of years, and they've always gone straight to the recycling bag. This year, however, the boy has decided that he is not only going to participate in the fundraiser, he is going to sell more worthless crap than any other student in the history of the school.

I know Mr. Z, and when he gets something into that over-sized noggin of his, well, he can be pretty formidable. But there's no fucking way I'm going to walk around the neighborhood with him, door-to-goddamn-door, and watch him try to sell wrapping paper and chocolates to the neighbors. It ain't gonna fucking happen. And I can guarantee that the Old Lady's not going to do it.

So, I looked this Innisbrook company up online and, sure enough, these assheads make it very easy for an underage workforce to do their evil bidding on the innernecks.

You see where I'm going with this now, don't you? [head droops in shame]

Look, no pressure. I told him I would ask, but I also told him not to get his hopes up. (Holy fuck, I feel so dirty right now.) Here goes: if you happen to find yourself in need of, say, wrapping paper, or chocolate-covered Oreos, or a subscription to Sports Illustrated or Food & Wine, or even a fucking box of assorted bath salts, perhaps you might help an enterprising young spazmo realize his dream of winning "some-shitty-prize-that'll-end-up-unused-in-a-
pile-with-all-the-rest-of-the-worthless-unused-shit-we've-already-got-
littering-the-goddamn-house."

And you can help that enterprising young spazmo here:

Help Mr. Z Win a Shitload of Crap!

Shit, I hate myself. So, yeah, if you buy anything off of that link, he gets credit for it and his school will make a little money and you'll get your shit mailed to you and I'll never be able to look at myself in the mirror again.

There, I did it.

Now I might as well just shave my fucking head, buy some pleated khakis, pick up the latest Dave Matthews cd, grow a goatee, go buy a minivan, order a cellphone with a camera in it, and then sit in a cloud of self-hatred on some leather couch as I laugh/cry my pathetic ass off to an episode of "According to Jim."

Someone shoot me.

Zoinks! I'm Board!

For some reason, I've gone all board-gamey with the spawnage lately. Over the weekend, Mr. Z and I busted out the Heroscape game that we got him for his birthday, and, lo, battles were a-waged. It's pretty cool, in an extremely nerdariffic way. The problem is, the boy kicked my warrior ass. See, it sucks because you're completely at the mercy of the fucking battle dice.



For example, he rolled three skulls to my one shield. So he wins the battle, right? But what the shit -- I've got Mimring: Dragon from Icaria -- a colossal prehistoric dragon-beast, and he's got Krav Maga -- some puny Matrix-wannabee she-minx?!



Bullshit, I tell you! In real life, a single drop of my acidic demon drool would have eaten right through her polyester pant-suit, and melted her brittle bones into a puddle of gurgling goo. These fucking game-makers today -- where's the realism?!

And then, yesterday, Miss O, Mr. Z and I played a rousing game of "Scooby-Doo Hide & Shriek" that just about drove me Scooby-daft.



Mr. Z kept trying to cheat and peek at everyone's cards, and Miss O -- holy carp, she was driving me INSANE! In the game, you can move your piece in either direction around the board, and she kept going back and forth over the same goddamn spot, over and over and over! She'd land on a space, look to see if it matched one of her cards -- it didn't -- and then on her next turn, she'd go back to THE EXACT SAME SPACE AGAIN AND LOOK AT THE EXACT SAME CARD THAT STILL DIDN'T FUCKING MATCH! I'd say, "Hey Miss O, why don't you go the OTHER direction this time?" and she'd say, "No thanks, I want to go this way." Oh my fuck, I could feel the veins in my head ballooning and preparing to pop, but I eventually just let go, and the whole thing became a very zen exercise. Mr. Z cheated his way to a win, Miss O eventually ventured to another part of the board and took second, and I, along with my "Daphne" avatar, peacefully accepted the loss with grace and dignity.

Although I would've fucking won if it weren't for those meddling kids!

That's My Bad Ear...

I finally harvested the single ear of corn that Miss O planted in the garden at the beginning of the summer. It looked impressive enough:



That is, until I shucked the fucker.



Look at that! One, single kernel!? Those goddamn Japanese beatles ate every fucking kernel except one. Understandably, Miss O was a tad miffed. She asked, half-heartedly, "Can I eat that kernel?" Cue the sound-effect of the icy shell on my heart melting. I told her that she probably shouldn't, because it was probably rotten, and she was pretty cool with it. So, the corn was a bust, but the 'maters more than made up for it. We're still pulling cherry 'maters off the vine. It'll be nice when they stop popping up, actually, so I can go back to producing well-formed turds again.

My chest cold is still a-lingerin' -- still hockin' up the morning lung balls that loop over the shower drain until I "saw" them off with my big toe. It'll be nice to get back to my normal wheezy self soon. Sorry my posts have been so fucking carpy of late but I can't seem to form a cohesive thought when my gray matter is cocooned in green matter.

I've decided that when (if?) I get better, I'm going to buckle down and record more shit with the spawnage. They've both got a assload of songs ready to go and I wanna finish up the CD before my next illness. Let's see, there was stomach flu, chest cold -- I guess the next one up is either leprosy or Candiru infestation:



I've gotta stop peeing in the lake.

Consizzer the Possibilities!

Just as I was about to shut off my computer, Mr. Z walked into our room and said:

MR. Z: Dad?

ME: Mr. Z?! What are you doing up?!

MR. Z: Uh, I was just coming out to get a consizzer.

ME: [realizing that he was asleep] A what?!

MR. Z: A consizzer.

By now, we were both standing in the dark hallway, and he was headed toward the bathroom.

MR. Z: [leading him toward the toilet] Well, why don't you check over here.

He sat down and whizzed. When he was done, I helped him back to his room and said:

ME: So, how'd that consizzer work out for you?

MR. Z: Pretty good. Goodnight.

ME: Sleep tight.

His sleepwalking fucking freaks me out. Luckily, he's the happy-go-lucky, wandering-the-halls-making-up-words kind of sleepwalker and not the murder-your-parents in their sleep kind.

So far.

Sonofablecch!

I'm fucking sick again, goddammit. Total ubervirus hit me -- woke up fine yesterday and by 5:00 p.m., I was coughing shit up from the sputum-splattered nether regions of my withered lungs and my throat felt like I had gargled with pink Owens Corning insulation. What the shit am I busting my ass swimming for?! For this?! Motherfucker!

And I never know what to do when I start coughing shit up from my lungs. In the olden days, (my "wan, sickly days" as I lovingly recall them), I'd immediately go to the doctor and whine until the doc gave me some antibiotics and that would be that. Now that I don't really get sick very often anymore (HA!), I usually just wait it out and it usually ends up being viral and it goes away on its own. And I always get sick at the end of the fucking week, so even if I did want to go to the doc, it's too late. So I either have to sit on my ass all weekend and hack/hock, or go to one of those fucking "urgent care" cesspools, see some doc-flunkie/trainee who doesn't know fuck, and then end up catching some other goddamn disease from the snot/spore-littered waiting room.

I think my new fake tooth has compromised my immune system. Or maybe the fake tooth is the only healthy part of my body now. Maybe I should just replace the rest of my body with gold and porcelain.

That's it -- I'm gonna get me a shiny new "body crown."

You Can't Handle the Tooth...

Had a fantastic lunch today at the dentist's office. I figured that since I didn't have to pick the kids up early from school, or take the car into the mechanic, I might as well pop in to the dentist to get one of my molars shaved down and fitted with a fake molar cemented right over the top of it. And the visit sure didn't disappoint.

First of all, it took like an hour and a half. My dentist's a nice enough guy, but it's like the dude suffers from major ADHD. He'd drill for awhile, chat for a bit about his upcoming fishing trip, then disappear for about ten minutes, then come back for more drilling, then jam some cotton in my face hole, then chat about his golf trip, then go take a shit, then come back and drill some more. I was half expecting to look like fucking Dionne Warwick when he was done in there, but all I was left with was a cartoony looking temporary fake tooth that's wedged in there until the real one's ready in TWO FUCKING WEEKS. There goes my weekend caramel party.

I told the spawn about my new gold tooth that they're making, and Mr. Z asked if he could have one. I told him that when I die, he and Miss O can yank it out of my head and go halvesies on it. They were disturbingly jacked about it. I'm definitely hiding the pliers and sleeping with one eye open tonight.

And I'll leave you with my bedtime conversation with Miss O tonight:

MISS O: Hey Dad, I'll bet baby chicks have a hard time going to sleep at night.

ME: Huh, why's that?

MISS O: Because their daddy tells them not to make a peep! [pause] But they have to because they're baby chicks! Get it?!

ME: That's a great one! Did you make that up?

MISS O: Yep. Oh, and guess what?

ME: What?

MISS O: My butt-crack is tickling my butt.

ME: You should've closed with the baby chick joke. Goodnight.

It's Hellementary...

A couple of quick, first day of school highlights:

Eager to kick off her first-grader status, Miss O woke up ON TIME and MADE HER BED! I predict that that will be the last time that this happens all year.

The asshead bully kid who has been in Mr. Z's class every goddamn year is, once again, in his class. If he continues to fuck with Mr. Z this year, I will be forced to teach Mr. Z the "Vulcan Nerve Pinch" and/or the "Klingon Foot to the Nards."

Mr. Z is a "safety" this year. What does that mean? A) he gets to wear a bright green sash and yell "WALK!" at all the kids in the hall, 2) he gets to use a walkie-talkie, and III) Miss O and I have to sit on our collective ass for an additional 15 minutes after school everyday while Barney Fife, Jr. is on patrol.

A younger kid from down the street is apparently going to be walking with us to and from school every day, which would be fine if the lad weren't the LOUDEST, MOST ANNOYING FUCKER EVER. He even came over to play with Mr. Z after school today and he just really bugs the shit outta me. Listening to his voice is like having a fucking goose in heat rammed into your tympanic membrane, and he's just kind of a dick. And he makes Mr. Z seem like he's taken a goddamn vow of silence. I'm thinking tomorrow we'll play the "Quick! Let's leave five minutes early today!" game.

After walking home from school today, Miss O dropped her backpack on the floor and sighed, "That's the last time I'm walking home from school. Let's drive tomorrow."

We are so walking tomorrow.

Whatta Beach...

Well, we broke down and drove out to Lake Michigan yesterday for a long fucking day at the beach. Two hours there, two hours back and a blurry haze of whatever happened in the six hours in between. I think the spawnage dug it, though, so it was probably worth it. Although I think they only really dug it 'cuz we ended up buying each of them one of these fucking ripoff Webkinz stuffed animals at some shitty-ass toy store while we were waiting the 40 minutes it took to get a table at the world-famous Clementines restaurant, home of the amazingly devoid of taste perch sandwich.

The beach was nice, though. Miss O and I went to town on a dee-lux sand castle that made Hogwarts look like a fucking Motel 6:



Okay, so it didn't photograph well -- if you saw it in real life, you would've shit your speedo. Mr. Z, as usual, proved once again that his real father is Icelandic, as he jumped right into the lake and basically stayed in that fucking ice-bath until we left. Here's a picture of him peeing in said ice-bath:



He said, "Dad, I have to pee. Where's the bathroom?" and I informed him that he was soaking in it. I told him to just walk out as far as he could and then just let it fly. I also told him to pretend he was looking at the boats and to just "not look down." So he looked down the whole time.

Miss O had to pee the minute we got there, but refused to whiz in the lake. She held it for the entire day. Five bucks I'm gonna be taking her to the urologist this week for a busted ureter.

But we did it, and I'm glad. We made the effort. We were can-do parents on a holiday weekend, we got the spawn off their asses and outta the house, and we had a good ol' family time.

And that better hold 'em until spring.