Tortie-Something...

Well, I wasn't gonna post tonight, but Mr. Z just sleep-walked out of his room and basically handed me a post. It's 11:57 p.m., mind you, and and I'm sitting here on our bed perusing the innernecks.

I watched him walk out of his room and sit at the top of the stairs. Then he called out, "Mom? What were your torties like?"

That's right, "torties."

The Old Lady was downstairs in her office and she yelled back, "What?!"

He repeated, with a mild variation, "What were your tortoes like?"

Without missing a beat, the Old Lady shouted back, "Fine."

At this point, I was helping him to his feet and guiding him back into his room. I couldn't help myself, so I asked, "Mr. Z, what were YOUR torties like?"

He said, "Pretty good."

So, in case you're wondering, over here at the Crabbyhouse, all of our torties and/or tortoes are just fine, thank you.

Good night.

Look, Can't I Just Read You a Story?

Miss O had what may have been the most adorable little existential meltdown at bedtime tonight. I was sitting there rubbing her back and we had the following conversation:

MISS O: Dad... after I go to college, I don't know where I'm going to live. Is it okay if I still live with you and Mom?

ME: Of course, sweetie. You can live with us for as long as you'd like.

MISS O: That's good. I want to be a painter when I grow up, [her voice starts cracking, like she's trying not to cry] and I don't know the places I can live if I want to be a painter.

ME: Well, you know, painters can live anywhere. There are painters all over the world.

MISS O: Yeah? Okay, but if you guys move and you see a house on your street with one of those sale signs on the lawn, can you tell me and then I'll buy it.

ME: Sure. Maybe you can get the house across the street and then when I want to visit you, I'll just jump in the car and drive across the street and say, "Hi, I'm here!"

MISS O: [laughs] I think I'll be an abstract painter for a while and then do some other styles.


ME: That sounds great... but, you know, I think you have a year or two before you have to decide exactly what you want to do.

It went on for a bit and she vacillated between being on the verge of tears and then laughing. It's fucking wild, 'cuz I remember Mr. Z having almost the same conversations with us when he was around six. Something about realizing that they're starting to get a lot more independent and then thinking ahead and realizing what the fuck that really means.

I think I put Miss O's mind at ease, though. And I'm not worried about her -- I'm sure the minute she has the chance to move out, she'll be more than ready to bolt. And if she does want to come back and stay in her room, she'll just have to convince whatever schmucks are living here to let her in, 'cuz the Old Lady and I sure as fuck aren't gonna be hangin' around this life-suck of a town.

Actually, she can probably just rent her old bedroom out from Mr. Z. He said he's never moving out -- he's gonna get married, have six kids and live in our house forever. That's it -- shoot for the stars, boy! Everything you need is here: Cracker Barrel, Caeserland, Ye Olde Country Buffet, Heavenly Ham...

Holy crap, I gotta get outta this town.

Where's Hypothermia When You Need It?!

Ugh, what a shit-ass day. I think it's a combination of my bum foot, the goddamn Arctic tundra that is my basement and me just being a warped, frustrated old man, Mr. Potter. Unfortunately, I carried along my mood with me when I went to pick up the spawnage, after school, and I kinda 'sploded a tad.

So, I pick them up from after-care on Thursdays and Miss O usually doesn't want to leave. Understandable, as she likes to hang with her homies... I get it. But when she saw me, she crawled under the craft table and started yelling at me to leave. I laughed it off and then did a wacky pull-her-back-out-comically-by-her-legs move, that would usually get a chuckle out of her. Did she chuckle? Fuck no. She threw some papers at me. Fucking hilarious.

Then, one of the kids there tells me that Mr. Z spit on her on the playground. Mind you, she's kind of a freaky, skeleton-y albino kid that I've seen around before, so I took her salivary-saga with a grain of salt. I asked Mr. Z what the shit was up, and he started denying it, flipping his lid and yelling... AT ME?! So I've got both of these little spazmos screaming at my ass, and I'm standing there like a fucking jagoff.

We get out to the car and I kinda raised my voice, which I do, maybe, never, and told them that it was pretty shitty of them chew my ass out when they were the ones acting like dicks. It was a wonderful Crabbyfamily moment -- actually, I wish I had had my camera with me, cuz it would've been a phenomenal cover for this year's holiday card. A picture of me yelling and the two of them crying and written under it in gold leaf, "Crabby Holidays, Fuckers!"

I smoothed it all out by the time we got home and managed to salvage a moment or two of quality, happy-go-lucky time before bedtime, but I'm tellin' ya, this day definitely ripped me a new one... or seven. It's okay, though, 'cuz I get to do it all over again tomorrow!

Did I mention that I wore my snowpants in the basement today?

It's Elementary, Dear Blogson...

Well, not that it's a big fucking surprise to anyone, but:

Funny... I don't remember saying things like "Holy fuckstain!" and "mother-cock-ass" until at least junior high. Eh, maybe late fourth grade.

Anywhich, over the last couple of weeks it's gotten really fucking FREEZING down here in the basement. It's gone from that brisk autumn chill to "Shit, I think my nipples just snapped the fuck off." So, I dug out the ol' piece-o-shit space-heater I used last year and fired its ass up. I guess it qualifies as a space heater -- it heats about two square feet of space in front of it. The thing's a glorified hair dryer, is what it is.

So I have that thing spitting its little lukewarm farts onto my feet, which are ensconced in the down slippers that I've had for so long that the bottoms are completely worn away, exposing my mysteriously bruised digits. Then I'm wearing, in ascending layer order, a long-sleeved shirt, a sweater and then a fleece sweatshirt. Oh, and pants. So, I can barely move with all this shit on, and my fingers are still turning purple and all my joints are aching. I'm telling ya, it's a motherfucking Charles Dickens story down here.

And so, today, the contractor guy, who has been putting in our new front door and fixing up some other shit, presented us the plan he drew up for finishing our basement. The Old Lady has been saying that we really need to finish it up down here, so I have a nice place to work, and the spawnage can have a play area, and blah, blah, right -- like that's ever going to fucking happen.

So, I'm paging through the drawings and all the shit he's planning on doing, and it looks fucking spectacular! It's all framed in and drywalled, there are outlets all over the place, 13 can lights in the finished ceiling, it's carpeted, painted, the staircase is all opened up, there's tons of room for recording and still plenty of room for the spawnage to fuck around. I'm starting to get all excited and shit, and then I turn the page for the quote...

25K.

Well shit, dude, Miss O could come up with a fucking awesome basement design if I gave her 25,000 dollars! The CHALLENGE is to do it for, like, 10! Show me something for 8,500 -- then I'll be fucking impressed. Holy carp, I was seriously expecting less than half that price. I would SO suck on "The Price is Right." Of course, the Old Lady still thinks it's possible -- "We can do it... we'll just save up all year and then by next winter we'll have enough."

A) I won't last until next winter, and 2) no we won't. So, I don't know. I'll get another quote, and maybe ask the contractor dude to dumb it down a little... maybe get rid of all the fancy lighting... and the nice carpet... and the walls...

I'm not holding my breath, though. In the meantime, I'm thinking about getting me a pair of these:



(The USB gloves, not the lady hands.)

Pho-toe Funnies...

Okay, James and Mike, you asked for it. To the others -- if you're the kind of people who get all ookie when you see other peoples' gnarly, stanky, hair-festooned digits, turn away now. Or at least focus on the Siberian tiger. You have been warned...



Now, I'm a little creeped out that it's two dudes who want to see my toe-porn, but I'm not going to judge. Metatarsal Mike, if your name is any indication, perhaps you can bestow upon me your diagnosis. Remember, there was no apparent trauma that preceded this bruising. (It was magical.)

Other than the toe, I don't have much to say tonight. Uh, it snowed a shitload today. Not that I got outside to see it... I noticed the flakes out my tiny basement porthole (not a euphemism), and decided against actually stepping out the door to experience it. I'll save my excitement for the shit that falls during December, January, February, March and a good chunk of April, thank you.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a good hour of plugging "symptom + bruised toe + no apparent cause + deadly?" into the WebMD search field before I hit the ol' sack (that was a euphemism, by the way... only one bruise at a time, please).

This Little Piggie Don't Look Too Good...

Well, we're back. Pretty painless trip, actually. I think we made it home in under four hours, which fucking rocked. The spawnage did a great job and we managed to zip in and zip back out without any major deaths or casualties.

Actually, the only real casualty was my big toe. Fucking bizarre. I was just sitting there -- it happened while I was writing the last (riveting) post. All of a sudden, I had this pain in my big toe -- I look down and it's kinda purple. And it hurt like shit. And then, over the course of the next coupla hours, the whole fucking thing turns black and blue. What the shit?! I didn't bump it, or kick anything, or drop an anvil on it or anything. Spontaneous fucking bruisage.

Of course, my first thought was big-toe cancer. My brother (the doctuh) checked it out and he mumbled some shit about a varicosity and a ruptured something and tossed in an "I wouldn't worry about it," but that didn't help. I mean, whose toe just goes black and blue for no goddamn reason. The fucking thing looked like Jackie Gleason's foot in "Nothing in Common" -- right before they had to amputate it. How depressing was that movie, by the way? Miserable fucking piece of cinema. No wonder he died after filming it.

So, yeah, it's still kinda purple-y/mauve right now, but it's not swollen anymore. And it doesn't hurt, so I guess that's a plus. It fucking sucks getting old, though. What happened to all the young, concrete injuries, like a sprained ankle or the clap. You knew what was happening to you and you knew what salve or unguent to slap on it. Now, it's weird-ass shit, like blood vessels just bursting outta nowhere, and patches of hair growing in random, normally hairless places. What's next, am I gonna start pissing cerebral spinal fluid and shitting fire?!

What I'd give for a nice, predictable STD. Ah, youth.

I Yam What I Yam...

Quick check in from the home of Grammacrab & Grampacrab. Minimal lid-flippage by the spawnage thus far, save for a one hour chunk yesterday morning in which Mr. Z basically lost his shit in a craptacular fashion. I felt bad, at first, when we made him chill the fuck out in his room for a 1/2 hour or so, but then, last night, I saw something that made any disciplinary guilt just melt away.

As a matter of fact, I would like to make a recommendation to all parents who might occasionally have that feeling that "Gee, I feel bad 'cuz I kinda lost my temper," or "Man, I'm in kind of a shitty mood today and I'm not as patient with the spawnage as I should be."

Go see "Margot at the Wedding." I guarantee that after the end credits, you'll feel like the greatest fucking parent in the goddamn universe. Trust me... go see it. Actually, if I didn't think it would fuck them up for life, I'd make the spawnage go see it, too, just to show them how fucking good they really have it. Maybe it'll be a good rental when Mr. Z hits puberty. I'll make it a double-feature with "Squid and the Whale."

Uh oh, gotta run. I hear screaming downstairs and I can't tell if it's the good kind or the bad kind. Five bucks it's the bad kind.

Happy Turkey.

Schmeckel Me This?

Private message to the person from the Allstate Insurance Company who, at 4:48 this afternoon, Googled "what does schmeckel mean?" and got my blog:

It means schvantz.

Glad I could help.

To everyone else, I'm going to bed early tonight, as we're loading up the car tomorrow and making the ill-advised trek to Chicago for Turducken Day. I'll try to post there, but it's kinda tricky -- my dad's computer is in the room where Miss O sleeps. I'll have to type quietly or face the wrath that is the rudely awakened spawnage.

Ha, I love how Blogger underlined "schmeckel" and "schvantz" with that "you-misspelled-this-word" underline thing and suggested "Fleishman" and "servants" instead. Well, at least they put their anti-semitic, racists agenda out there in the open. Bastards.

Anywhich, off to sleep. Maybe I'll have another stress dream like I did last night, where I was on the road with my old band, and when we showed up to the gig -- Surprise! I forgot my entire drum set.

Curse you, dream-me!

I Come to Bury Caesarland, Not to Praise It...

Well, I no longer fear death -- for today I spent 2 1/2 hours at Caesarland. What's that? I'll be dead for all eternity, never to think or feel or love or breathe again? Bring it on! I've been to Caesarland!

I won't get into why I was the one lucky enough to escort Miss O to the party. I won't discuss the fact that I was one of only four parents who stayed to make sure their children weren't A) crippled while crawling around in code-defying, shit-caked play tunnels, 2) poisoned by bacteria-ridden cheese-and-salmonellaroni-pizzas, and/or III) molested by the myriad sex-offenders roaming the E.coli-stained carpets. I won't even get into the two tantrums thrown by Miss O, in front of all the other satan spawn, when she refused to fucking sit down for cake and ice cream.



Oh, and I definitely won't mention the Cops episode that broke out, mere feet from the fucking party, when police burst into the building and forcefully apprehended, handcuffed and carried off some skeev who was most likely one of the aforementioned sex offenders. I shit you not, by the way. The boyfriend of the birthday girl's mom, who looked like he was maybe, oh, 17 1/2, told me, after the altercation, "I thought that guy didn't look quite right. I seen 'im earlier when I was outside smokin', and he asked me for a light."

I'm just going to go upstairs, steal a coupla candy bars from the Miss O's halloween bag (that she fucking OWES me after today), take a long, hot shower to dislodge the silt of death that descended upon me in that Hellmouth, crawl into bed and pass out. And if I never wake up... well, at least I won't have to think about this day ever again.

You're Not Making it Work...

You know what, fuck Project Runway. Sure, they've got their fancy fashion school degrees, and their pricey fabrics and their severe hair-dos, but at the end of the day, the turds they pinch out are just plain boring.

Tell you what -- I'll start getting really interested when they start cranking out stuff like this:



I challenge you, Tim Gunn, to offer up the Cher/Osmond purple spacejumpsuit challenge! And while I'm at it -- striking writers? I fully support your strike and hope you're able to milk a coupla nickels from the engorged teats of the networks, but promise me something. When you get back to work, try to write some shit like the above clip. Now THAT'S fucking ENTERTAINMENT, goddammit! I could watch that shit all fucking day! Hell, I'll bet you could pick up Cher and, like, 90 Osmonds for 75 bucks and a case of Strawberry Ensure.

Variety shows, baby! Just pair random people together: Dana Carvey and, fuck I don't know... Shakira. Done. Number one show. How 'bout Bonnie Hunt and... The White Stripes. Done. 'Nother hit. Edie McClurg and Wolfmother. Now THAT I'd watch. And I'm GIVING you these ideas for free. Take them and run, people!

You're welcome.

Autumnal Sequin-ox...

And, being the Autumnal Sequin-ox, I have to make this a quicky, as "Project Runway" starts tonight, signaling that time of year when I inexplicably turn gay for 15 or so episodes. This season looks promising, what with their Jay clone, their Austin Scarlett/Sanjaya mash-up clone, some weird, pale street-urchin newsboy dude, and, of course, the insane chick who just slaps shit together and calls it "clothes." I apologize to those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, or who could give two shits, but when you spend 98% of your life wheezing in a dank basement, fashion reality shows somehow become important.

Again, I blame the radon.

Oh, and I'm not saying Mr. Z fucking blew the class away with his diorama presentation today, but he informed me after school that his teacher actually asked if he could keep the diorama in the class to show future 5th graders how the fuck it's s'posed to be done. I told him to tell his teacher that that would be fine, as long as he ponies up an annual display stipend, along with the requisite 10% agent fee.

We'll have to wait until tomorrow to hear how Miss O's not-a-turkey presentation goes. I'm thinking they're gonna have to build a fucking wing on that school to properly house the fantabulous treasures of the Crabbykids.

Explosive Diorama...

Okay, on to Mr. Z's school project. For his last book report, some Hardy Boys dreck, he wrote a five page journal in the voice of Frank Hardy. Right up Mr. Z's alley, and he totally rocked the hizzy and got an A+ on it. This time around, he had the option of recreating a scene from a fantasy book, called "Dragon Rider," in the form of the oldest and most beloved of all media -- the diorama. He decided to go for it, and, of course, I had visions of a wait-until-the-last-minute, tearful shoebox gluing pig-fuck.

If we were going to take on the diorama challenge, we had to hit it early and hit it hard! And that we did, my friends... that we did.

One trip to Hobby Lobby later, we sat at the table -- clay, pipe-cleaners, gold & silver paint, gold & silver lamé fabric, cotton fluff, Sharpies, fishing line, and a locked-and-loaded glue gun at the ready. Of course, I wanted to push the boy aside and do the whole thing myself, but I said to myself, "Self? Back the fuck off! This is Mr. Z's first diorama, and you must let him travel this road on his own. Yes, he will be faced with challenges... but they are HIS challenges to face, alone. You may lend him emotional support only... wait... you should probably tie the shit up with the fishing line... and definitely don't let him fuck with the glue gun, that would be disastrous. Okay, other than the fishing line and the hot glue, it's his journey."

So, I showed amazing restraint and let him do his thing. I offered a little advice on scale and positioning, but he really had his own vision for this bad boy. And personally, I think it's fucking spectacular. How do I know? To test the success of a diorama, you have to ask the question, "Would I want to shrink down and live in there?" If the answer is yes, it's the shit. My answer was a resounding, "Fuck yeah!"

Behold... DRAGON RIDER: THE DIORAMA!



A detail of Nettlebrand, the malevolent:



Fear not, however, for the silver-wing-ed Firedrake, and his riders young Ben and the Brownies, shall best the merciless monster and fly off to the Rim of Heaven in the Himalayas -- where dragons can live in harmony in a snow-capped sanctuary, free from those who seek their destruction:



If the boy doesn't get an A++ on this mofo, heads are gonna roll.

To-FUR-Key...

I've been spending my non-existent free-time, of late, assisting Mr. Z and Miss O with school projects. I'm telling ya, you really can't truly appreciate the crafting of an elementary school project until you've been out of elementary school for say, oh, 33 years or so. I swear I could do this shit all fucking day.

Let's start with Miss O's project. She brought home this outline of a turkey on a big piece of white paper. The assignment was to disguise "Tom Turkey" so he doesn't get hunted down, slaughtered, baked and then ripped apart and ingested. Apparently Miss O's teacher's a vegan, I dunno. So, the Old Lady had some idea about covering the thing up with fur and having the head peeking out, but Miss O insisted on doing it her way. The nerve!

She gathered up a shitload of the crafts crap that we have shoe-horned into every fucking open space in every drawer/closet/cubby/receptacle in the house, and started placing shit on the picture where she wanted me to glue it. I had already broken out the hot glue gun for Mr. Z's project, so I was rarin' to glue. Can I just say, by the way, how mind-blowingly awesome the hot glue gun truly is. I'm a pacifist, mind you, but you can have my hot glue gun when you pry it outta my cold, dead hand. Greatest firearm ever invented.

Anywhich, we glued all the crap onto it and it was looking pretty intense. Miss O, however, felt it still looked too much like a turkey. I suggested that she maybe draw a t-shirt on the thing to further confuse any would-be turkey-assassins. When it was all finished and we regained consciousness after huffing the glue-fumes for a 1/2 hour, this is what was staring back at us:



I don't know what the hell that thing is, but A) it sure as fuck is not a turkey, and 2) it's all Miss O. I think if the gang over at PETA were really on the fucking stick, they'd outfit the 50 million turkeys that are on the chopping block next week with duds like this. But they're probably too weak from lack of complex proteins to properly wield a hot glue gun anyway. Oh well, at least Miss O did her part.

You know, this post got a little out of hand, length-wise, so I'll save Mr. Z's project until tomorrow. To be continued...

Why Must You Have So Many Friends, Dammit?!!!

There must've been a shitload of boinkin' going on in this town around February of 2000, 'cuz the goddamn birthday invitations for Miss O are getting outta control. She just got invited to another one in two weeks and guess where it's being held? That's right, mofos, Caesarland, or as I like to call it "AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!"

I've made my feelings about Caesarland quite clear in the past, what with its e.coli-smeared play structures, the eau de Ass that hangs in the thick, smoky air right at burning nostril level, the acid-washed-jeans-wearin' moms that glare at you (with their one good eye) with that "fuck with me and I'll snap your neck like a nitrite-engorged Slim Jim" look, and, of course, the pizza that I'm pretty sure is just a photo of a pizza transfered onto a circular mound of wet pantyhose.

And did I mention that the party is from 11:00 a.m. until 3:00 p.m.?! Four hours! AT CAESARLAND!!! That's the equivalent of 18 hours, here on Earth. To expose Miss O, and myself, to that much filth for that long -- she'd have less of a chance of getting ill if I drove her over to the sewage treatment plant and scooped out a few ladle-fulls of fecal greaseballs for her choke down.

Luckily, I'm planning ahead, this time, and I think I've got the perfect outfits picked out for the party:



Bring on the pizzas, ya bastards... with extra pantyhose!

The Latest Rave to Hit the Toy Aisle...

Well, it's great to know that Miss O's favorite present that she got for her birthday is basically a date-rape-drug dispenser:



In case you missed the news, Aqua Dots, the latest craze sweeping our moronic fucking nation, just so happen to be coated in a chemical called gamma hydroxy butyrate, better known as GHB to all you budding date-rapists out there. Eat them, and you die. Brilliant! 'Cuz it's not like the thousands of tiny, brightly colored plastic balls, that are the keystone to the whole fucking product mind you, look like delicious shiny candies or anything.

And here's the kicker -- guess who gifted the Aqua Dots? That's right... the TWINS WHO PAINTED THE HORRIFYING BLOOD-SPATTERED PENGUINS, THAT'S WHO!!! I guess if they're not around to personally steal your breath, they send in proxy murderers in the form of poisoned craft supplies. Those devious doppelgangers!

The fucked thing is, back in my college days, I'd probably eat a couple of those plastic bb's to see if I'd get a good buzz off of 'em. Now, I'm thinking about downing a few just to get a good night's sleep. Don't worry, I'll be sure to drink tons of water first and sleep with a couple of glow sticks.

1 + 1 = AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

We finally picked up all the pottery from Miss O's birthday party and it all turned out pretty well. Of course, we had to deliver it all to each kids' house, and by "we" I mean the Old Lady did it, so it wasn't really that big of a pain in the ass at all. Actually, it was quite painless.

So, I didn't bother posting pics of Mr. Z's and Miss O's pieces -- they did a dinosaur and a dog, respectively, and frankly, they were eh. It's not like they sculpted the fucking clay or anthing -- they just slapped some fucking glaze on a pre-made tchotchke and that was it.

The piece that really stood out, though, was done by one of these twins that Miss O knows. Now, I'm sure I've mentioned before the extent of my crippling twin phobia. And my ability to pick out a twin, even if I've never met them before and have no idea that they even have a twin? Have I mentioned that? Fucking creepy motherfuckers, twins. They always have that look like they never quite "finished" in the womb. Like there wasn't enough skin and shit to go around, so instead of one "complete" human, you end up with two not-quite-done humans.

The hair on the back of my neck just stood up thinking about it.

Anywhich, you might not have a problem with twins but you fucking should. They're like cats -- they steal your goddamn breath when you're sleeping. And they stare at you with those sunken baggy eyes of theirs. And, they paint horrifying clay abominations... LIKE THIS:



That, right there, is enough to turn your fucking hair white instantly, but remember... THERE ARE TWO OF THEM!!! AND THEY'RE EXACTLY THE SAME!!!!

I've gotta go. I just shit my pants.

Foyer Consideration...

Miss O's friend, Miss A, came over to play after school today. I don't know what the fuck they do up in that room when they get together, but when it's time for Miss A to leave, I go up there and A) the two of them are invariably wearing each others' clothes, and 2) every goddamn thing that Miss O owns is littered over every square inch of her floor.

So, Miss A's brother, Mr. R, came over to pick her up and there I was, stuck making small talk with a 10 year old.

ME: So, how's school going for ya there, Mr. R.

MR. R: Uh... okay.

[2 minutes of silence]

ME: Hey, how'd Halloween go for ya? Get a lot of candy?

MR. R: Yep.

ME: [looking at feet] That's cool... candy's excellent.

MR. R: Yeah.

[3 minutes of silence]

ME: Boy, those girls sure do take a long time up there. Ha! [silence] Uh, I'm gonna go see what's keeping them.

[run upstairs -- Miss O and Miss A are now in their underwear and are preparing to put on COMPLETELY DIFFERENT OUTFITS!!!]

ME: You guys, Miss A's brother is waiting. You've gotta get dressed in your own clothes and get downstairs. C'mon. Two minutes.

MISS O/MISS A: [ignoring the shit out of me] Okay.

[run back downstairs]

ME: They're still getting ready. I'll tell ya, they sure do like to take their time, those two.

MR. R: [silence]

[I realize that the onions I'd been sauteeing are now burning, so I excuse myself and run to stir them.]

MR. R: What're you cooking?

ME: Oh, just making some potato and turkey sausage soup.

MR. R: Oh.

ME: Soup sure is good on a chilly day like today, huh?

MR. R: What?

ME: I say, soup's good on a--You know... lemme go check on the girls again.

[I run back upstairs but cut the corner too close and ram my hip into the motherfucking banister -- pain shoots through body but I try to act like it's no big deal. I have potentially broken my pelvis.]

ME: [yelling up stairs] YOU GUYS! WE'RE WAITIN--

MISS O: Duh, Dad. We're right here. You don't have to yell.

ME: Oh... heh, hey guys. Good job. Come on down.

They finally make it downstairs and then have to do their goddamn secret handshake for five minutes. As I smell the onions turning into carbon in the kitchen, I just keep saying, "Oookay... there you go... finish off that handshake there... yep, all right now... that should do it... let's go... all right... just... that's it... just... JUST FINISH THE FUCKING HANDSHAKE FOR FUCK'S SAKE!!!!"

By the time they finally fucking leave the house, I've got an ulcer, a fractured pubis and burnt onions -- the spoils of yet another successful play-date.

I've really gotta find a friend my own age.

In Need of a Short Crabbatical...

Thanks for the "KONK/SLAP" combo, Monica. I needed it. I've been burning the old candle outta both holes, or however that saying goes, and I've somehow managed to rip mySELF a new one. The last coupla nights, after working into the wee hours, I've found myself staring at this blank text box, unable to pinch-off an original fucking thought. So, rather than waste virtual paper, I've given myself a little break.

Anywhich, let's see. Last night was Halloween. Windy, cold and wet, as usual. Who the fuck decided to have a walking-around-the-neighborhood-for-two-hours holiday at the end of October?! Oh yeah, it was Satan. Guess it makes sense, then, actually. Nevermind.

So, Mr. Z was Yoda and Miss O was Sparkle, the sun fairy.



I went as "Old Man at Wit's End." Miss O lasted for about an hour and then wisely headed back to Casa de Crabby with the Old Lady. Mr. Z, wet productive cough, hoarse voice and all, decided to keep the jocularity up for another hour, so off the fuck we went. Five pounds of fun-sized-frivolity later, we found our way back home, where Mr. Z sorted out his booty and I dried off mine.

I was hoping to chow down on some of the leftover candy the Old Lady had been passing out, but, of course, there wasn't any. I KNEW it. I told her two weeks ago at Target that we hadn't gotten enough, but she said, "Oh c'mon! This is PLENTY! We'll have tons left over."

Bupkus.

However, she redeemed herself tonight when she came home with this:



That, my friends, is why I married the woman. Goetz-fucking-caramel-creams! They're like scrumptious cross-sections of tiny, corn syrup impacted candy rectums. Confectionary sphincters of deliciousness. And they're all mine. Maybe they'll even help me shake off this brain cloud that's been plaguing me.

I hope so, 'cuz I really want to want to start posting again. It's just been kinda painful lately, like pushing out one of those turds that feels like it's coming out sideways. But, you know, when it finally does make its way out, it's such a satisfying feeling, ya know? Like, "Man, it was really painful getting that thing outta there, but just LOOK at it! I made that! Me! With my own two hand-- er, colons."

Man, I need a vacation.