I can smell a school closing in the air. The smell is a combination of tears, bile and, strangely enough, burnt circus peanuts. I hope to fuck I'm not right but... I am. I'll bet my left buttermaker that the spawnage aren't goin' anywhere tomorrow morning. I wonder how many hours I can get them to enjoy the "lie-on-the-couch- with-my-eyes-closed-and-have-the-spawnage-place-things-in-my-
open-hand-and-I-have-to-guess-what-it-is" game?
On a more personal note, I have the most incredible eggy flatus tonight and I know not from whence it comes. Well, I know from whence it comes... I just don't know from whence it was created. I didn't eat anything out of the ordinary today -- the usual bagel with cream cheese, coffee, turkey/swiss sandwich, fritos, apple, yogurt, carrots, a bowl of Cheerios, some pretzels, a few Newman-Os, half of Miss O's Morningstar Farms Griller Prime, some of Mr. Z's french fries, some Cheez-its, a couple of dried apricots, a sweet turkey sausage for dinner, and a handful of Nestle's semi-sweet chocolate chips before I headed up to bed. Where did the egginess come from? There's a lethal combo in there somewhere... I'm leaning toward the fusion of the Fritos, Swiss cheese and the sausage. Actually, I think those are the main ingrediments in mustard gas.
I just feel bad for the Old Lady tonight. In all seriousness, the other night, I apparently blew one in my sleep and woke us both up. She kinda pushed me and cursed me, and then I just sat there in the death vapor, laughing my skinny ass off at four in the morning. There's definitely an inadvertent, somnolent dutch oven a-brewin' this eve'n.
Poor Old Lady.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Two Children Left Behind...
I literally have NO FUCKING IDEA why the schools are closed today. Apparently, the school superintendant looked out her window this morning and proclaimed, "OH MY FUCK! IT'S A BIT BRISK AND THERE'S SOME WIND! CANCEL SCHOOL, IMMEDIATELY!!!" This is Michigan, isn't it? Known as "the wolverine state"? An animal with a special upper molar in its mouth that allows it to tear off meat from prey or carrion that has been FROZEN SOLID and also to crush bones, which enables the wolverine to extract marrow. Apparently, the animal mascot for Okemos is "The Chickenshit."
And, conveniently, the Old Lady has a day full of meetings today, so I've been enjoying a nice, peaceful morning of ten minute work bursts, followed by a distant blood-curdling scream upstairs, followed by me sprinting up two flights of stairs to see who has stepped on who's head, followed by me saying some variation of, "Dudes, I have to get some work done today -- do you think, maybe, you could play for, like, five minutes without murdelizing each other?!," followed by me fighting the urge to just let them just play the Wii all fucking day, followed by me clomping back down to the goddamn basement, only to repeat the whole fucking process every ten minutes.
Wait... was that a scream or a laugh? Make that every five minutes.
EPILOGUE
Well, today did suck for the most part. At least work-wise -- I barely got any shit done. I did spend some quality time with the spawnage, though, so it wasn't a total douche. I made up a new game, as a matter of fact. I call it the "lie-on-the-couch- with-my-eyes-closed-and-have-the-spawnage-place-things-in-my-
open-hand-and-I-have-to- guess-what-it-is" game. It's a fucking brilliant game. I basically got to nap while they had the time of their lives. I was pretty unstoppable guess-wise, too, but I'd throw in a red herring every now and then to make them crack up. Like, "Ew, what is that?! Is that... a poop?!" Got 'em every time. The game went on for quite a while, but I had to put a stop to it when, at one point, Miss O actually sat on my hand and farted. The game rules clearly state that if, during the course of gameplay, one of the guessees flatulates on the palm of the guesser, said guessee forfeits and the game is over. And rules are rules.
It's a great game, though. I recommend it highly.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Paper View...
It's late, I'm getting phlegmish and I've been banging my fucking head against the dewy basement wall for the last two hours trying to come up with a 3 second musical loop using sitar, tablas, oboe, flute and strings. Unfortunately, it's sounding less like Ravi Shankar and more like Rotting Chancre.
Anywhich, I'll make this quick. Over the weekend, I walked into Mr. Z's room and was suddenly blown away by how much fucking paper and paper-related detritus was strewn all over the goddaman place. Fuck cows and logging companies and disposable napkins -- the single greatest cause of deforestation on the planet is Mr. Z's personal paper consumption.
So this happens like once a year -- I get all worked up about the clutter in his room and I say, "That does it! We've gotta throw MOST of this stuff out -- it's a fire hazard in here, boy! Sit down!" And then we sit down and leaf through the piles, splitting things into "keep" and "discard" piles until I get tired and lose interest. Usually, he wants to keep everything and I have to say things like, "Look... do you REALLY need this torn Post-It with a drawing of what looks like a frog or a poop that you did when you were four?!" And he'll say "YES! I LOVE THAT DRAWING! AND IT'S NOT A FROG OR A POOP... IT'S CHARMANDER!" And then it goes into the keep pile.
This time, however, he was all for getting rid of shit. He couldn't throw it away fast enough. At first I couldn't believe my fucking luck. Then, I started looking at the stuff he was tossing and I was like, "Dude! You can't throw this out! This drawing is AWESOME!" And so I started fishing papers out of the garbage bag and starting my own pile. There was some classic shit in there. Like this, for example:
It's a concept for a "Little Slug" album called "Brr! Freezing Popsicles and Silly Songs" that he drew up when he was, oh, about five or so. In case you can't make out his handwriting the songs are:
1. Fledgler's Log
2. Baby Birdey's Squirrel Nut
3. Stuff Your Starfish Silly
4. Who Wants to Get on the Tire? I do!
5. Frosted French Fries
6. Orange Snail Eater
7. Curly Baby Fun
8. Exercises
9. Black Feather Sassafras
10. Cardinal, Crow & Magpie
11. He's Smoothbill or Groovebill
12. Great Blue Karen
That has to be the greatest set of song titles ever written. It's like some lost Captain Beefheart album. "Black Feather Sassafras"?! I should sell that one to Tom Waits. And there were like eight more Little Slug albums he had come up with, too. I kept them all. And I am SO going to get him to actually write these songs and record them.
But for now, I'm going to go upstairs, pinch a "fledgler's log" and hit the sack.
Anywhich, I'll make this quick. Over the weekend, I walked into Mr. Z's room and was suddenly blown away by how much fucking paper and paper-related detritus was strewn all over the goddaman place. Fuck cows and logging companies and disposable napkins -- the single greatest cause of deforestation on the planet is Mr. Z's personal paper consumption.
So this happens like once a year -- I get all worked up about the clutter in his room and I say, "That does it! We've gotta throw MOST of this stuff out -- it's a fire hazard in here, boy! Sit down!" And then we sit down and leaf through the piles, splitting things into "keep" and "discard" piles until I get tired and lose interest. Usually, he wants to keep everything and I have to say things like, "Look... do you REALLY need this torn Post-It with a drawing of what looks like a frog or a poop that you did when you were four?!" And he'll say "YES! I LOVE THAT DRAWING! AND IT'S NOT A FROG OR A POOP... IT'S CHARMANDER!" And then it goes into the keep pile.
This time, however, he was all for getting rid of shit. He couldn't throw it away fast enough. At first I couldn't believe my fucking luck. Then, I started looking at the stuff he was tossing and I was like, "Dude! You can't throw this out! This drawing is AWESOME!" And so I started fishing papers out of the garbage bag and starting my own pile. There was some classic shit in there. Like this, for example:
It's a concept for a "Little Slug" album called "Brr! Freezing Popsicles and Silly Songs" that he drew up when he was, oh, about five or so. In case you can't make out his handwriting the songs are:
1. Fledgler's Log
2. Baby Birdey's Squirrel Nut
3. Stuff Your Starfish Silly
4. Who Wants to Get on the Tire? I do!
5. Frosted French Fries
6. Orange Snail Eater
7. Curly Baby Fun
8. Exercises
9. Black Feather Sassafras
10. Cardinal, Crow & Magpie
11. He's Smoothbill or Groovebill
12. Great Blue Karen
That has to be the greatest set of song titles ever written. It's like some lost Captain Beefheart album. "Black Feather Sassafras"?! I should sell that one to Tom Waits. And there were like eight more Little Slug albums he had come up with, too. I kept them all. And I am SO going to get him to actually write these songs and record them.
But for now, I'm going to go upstairs, pinch a "fledgler's log" and hit the sack.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Classy or Assy?
So, I totally need a new bathing suit -- the crotch netting part is doing such a shitty job keeping my nards pouched that during my laps, the other day, I thought I was being pursued by a wrinkly manta ray.
I think it's time to move away from the board shorts I've been wearing toward something a little more streamlined, but there's no fucking way I'm gonna wedge my wee willie winkie into a goddamn banana hammock. The only other alternatives are either the "jammer" style that I've seen a coupla guys wearing -- kinda like those bike/compaction shorts but shinier -- or the retro square leg numbers that are making a comeback -- kind of a Charles Atlas meets Ursula Andress thing.
Of course, I could never imagine myself in those square leg numbers but part of me is drawn to them just to see how people would react if I walked into the YMCA pool area sporting a pair. I'm imagining a slow motion reaction shot of 80 year old ladies vomiting in the water and 90 year old men climbing out of the pool to kick my scrawny ass. Or vice-versa.
Anywhich, I've decided to leave the choice up to you, gentle reader. Here's a picture of each style:
You make the call. Your wish will be my command. Vote away.
I think it's time to move away from the board shorts I've been wearing toward something a little more streamlined, but there's no fucking way I'm gonna wedge my wee willie winkie into a goddamn banana hammock. The only other alternatives are either the "jammer" style that I've seen a coupla guys wearing -- kinda like those bike/compaction shorts but shinier -- or the retro square leg numbers that are making a comeback -- kind of a Charles Atlas meets Ursula Andress thing.
Of course, I could never imagine myself in those square leg numbers but part of me is drawn to them just to see how people would react if I walked into the YMCA pool area sporting a pair. I'm imagining a slow motion reaction shot of 80 year old ladies vomiting in the water and 90 year old men climbing out of the pool to kick my scrawny ass. Or vice-versa.
Anywhich, I've decided to leave the choice up to you, gentle reader. Here's a picture of each style:
You make the call. Your wish will be my command. Vote away.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
That School's Got No Class...
I was going to write about how the spawnage only had half a day of school today and no school tomorrow, and how every other goddamn day in January and February seems like another no-school day, and how, even though the Old Lady and I split the days when the spawnages are home I never end up getting any work done and I should just assume I won't get anything done and then I could just enjoy the time with them and not worry about working, but for some reason I'm a fucking moron and I think I can actually accomplish something, which I can't, but I have to 'cuz it's Friday and there's shit I have to accomplish... which I won't.
And then I was going to bitch about the fact that I also have to take Miss O to the doctor tomorrow, not because she's sick mind you, but because the fucking doctor won't refill prescriptions over the goddamn phone anymore, fucking dick, so I have to take her into the doctor's office where she will pick up a microbe/spore encrusted Dr. Seuss book, which will infect her fingers, which she will jam into her nose, thus launching the microbe-spores into her briefly-healthy system and she will proceed to actually GET sick. Then I'll be taking aNOTHER trip back to the doctor's office to cure the superbug she would never have caught if the goddamn doctor would've refilled her fucking prescription over the phone in the first place. Fucking dick.
But I'm not going to bitch about that shit 'cuz I'm too tired from working all night on this freelance project I decided to take so I could earn a little extra money so that someday, many years henceforth, we'll be able to finish the dungeon of a basement I work in so I won't dread every fucking day when I have to descend into that hellhole for 10 hours, go back upstairs to cook dinner and put the spawnage to bed, and then re-descend into said hellhole to work on freelance shit so I won't dread every fucking day that I have to descend into that hellhole for 10 hours.
Whoa... I almost got stuck in a stream-of-consciousness feedback loop there.
So, yeah, no post tonight.
And then I was going to bitch about the fact that I also have to take Miss O to the doctor tomorrow, not because she's sick mind you, but because the fucking doctor won't refill prescriptions over the goddamn phone anymore, fucking dick, so I have to take her into the doctor's office where she will pick up a microbe/spore encrusted Dr. Seuss book, which will infect her fingers, which she will jam into her nose, thus launching the microbe-spores into her briefly-healthy system and she will proceed to actually GET sick. Then I'll be taking aNOTHER trip back to the doctor's office to cure the superbug she would never have caught if the goddamn doctor would've refilled her fucking prescription over the phone in the first place. Fucking dick.
But I'm not going to bitch about that shit 'cuz I'm too tired from working all night on this freelance project I decided to take so I could earn a little extra money so that someday, many years henceforth, we'll be able to finish the dungeon of a basement I work in so I won't dread every fucking day when I have to descend into that hellhole for 10 hours, go back upstairs to cook dinner and put the spawnage to bed, and then re-descend into said hellhole to work on freelance shit so I won't dread every fucking day that I have to descend into that hellhole for 10 hours.
Whoa... I almost got stuck in a stream-of-consciousness feedback loop there.
So, yeah, no post tonight.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Shock & Ow...
Okay, so I won't say that the EMG I got today was as horrendous as everyone on the innernecks made it out to be, but shit man, what demented fuckhole thought that primitive torture-fest up?
So, I'm lying there on the table, once again wearing nothing but the 95-year-old Polish cleaning lady's housecoat, and the doc starts taping some electrodes to my wrist. I'm thinking, "Okay, how bad can this be? He's just gonna send a little current down my nerve and the electrodes are gonna measure the intensity of the signal. No problem." He says, "Okay, there's going to be a little jolt," and then, well, there was a little jolt. Not too heinous -- kinda like what it feels like if you lick a fully charged 9-volt battery... with your anus.
So, I'm thinking, "Okay, that wasn't too bad. I can handl--NYYAAAARRRRGHHNNGGG!" The second jolt was a mofo. I looked like Daffy Duck when he gets electrocuted -- my whole body turned black but you could see my skeleton all lit up. Then my beak fell off. And then he just kept repositioning the electrodes and zapping different parts of my body -- bicep, forearm, thigh, calf, ankle, foot, scrotum. (He told me that one was just "a gimme.")
After that was finished, he said, "Okay, now for the second part of the test." The second part consisted of him taking a fucking needle, jabbing it into different muscles, and then kinda wiggling it around until he found a position he liked. Then he'd hold it there and listen to the crackling noise it was producing through the metal box in front of him (the metal box, mind you, that had duct tape wrapped around part of it. Hi-tech shit). When he felt satisfied with whatever the fuck he was listening to, he'd remove the needle and then jab it somewhere else. It really wasn't as horrible as it sounds -- except for when he poked it into the back of my hand, the back of my thigh, my elbow and my eye. Okay, he didn't poke it into my eye, but I was definitely ready to poke it into his if he didn't wrap things up pretty fucking quick.
When it was all over, we chatted. He said that I definitely have pinched nerves in both elbows (which I already fucking knew). He did say that a coupla spots in my leg were "a little slow," and didn't necessarily know why. He's sending me to a hematologist for a follow-up blood test. Excellent! Another doctor! What a fucking racket these doctors have.
The good news is that he said that all this shit is due to some peripheral nervous system problem, so he's basically ruling out any central nervous system causes (MS, brain cloud, etc.). So he basically told me something I already knew, and he has no explanation for the other shit. Hey thanks, doc!
So it's off to the fucking hematologist. I can't wait until he tells me that everything looks fine, except my blood's gonna have to come out.
So, I'm lying there on the table, once again wearing nothing but the 95-year-old Polish cleaning lady's housecoat, and the doc starts taping some electrodes to my wrist. I'm thinking, "Okay, how bad can this be? He's just gonna send a little current down my nerve and the electrodes are gonna measure the intensity of the signal. No problem." He says, "Okay, there's going to be a little jolt," and then, well, there was a little jolt. Not too heinous -- kinda like what it feels like if you lick a fully charged 9-volt battery... with your anus.
So, I'm thinking, "Okay, that wasn't too bad. I can handl--NYYAAAARRRRGHHNNGGG!" The second jolt was a mofo. I looked like Daffy Duck when he gets electrocuted -- my whole body turned black but you could see my skeleton all lit up. Then my beak fell off. And then he just kept repositioning the electrodes and zapping different parts of my body -- bicep, forearm, thigh, calf, ankle, foot, scrotum. (He told me that one was just "a gimme.")
After that was finished, he said, "Okay, now for the second part of the test." The second part consisted of him taking a fucking needle, jabbing it into different muscles, and then kinda wiggling it around until he found a position he liked. Then he'd hold it there and listen to the crackling noise it was producing through the metal box in front of him (the metal box, mind you, that had duct tape wrapped around part of it. Hi-tech shit). When he felt satisfied with whatever the fuck he was listening to, he'd remove the needle and then jab it somewhere else. It really wasn't as horrible as it sounds -- except for when he poked it into the back of my hand, the back of my thigh, my elbow and my eye. Okay, he didn't poke it into my eye, but I was definitely ready to poke it into his if he didn't wrap things up pretty fucking quick.
When it was all over, we chatted. He said that I definitely have pinched nerves in both elbows (which I already fucking knew). He did say that a coupla spots in my leg were "a little slow," and didn't necessarily know why. He's sending me to a hematologist for a follow-up blood test. Excellent! Another doctor! What a fucking racket these doctors have.
The good news is that he said that all this shit is due to some peripheral nervous system problem, so he's basically ruling out any central nervous system causes (MS, brain cloud, etc.). So he basically told me something I already knew, and he has no explanation for the other shit. Hey thanks, doc!
So it's off to the fucking hematologist. I can't wait until he tells me that everything looks fine, except my blood's gonna have to come out.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Oily to Bed...
Will someone please explain to me why I don't get massages at least once a goddamn month? Holy fuckcrap, it's like sex but you don't have to put forth any effort whatsoever, there's no messy cleanup and crying is pretty much kept to a minimum. It does hurt a little bit more... but you get a little heart-shaped chocolate candy when it's all done. I don't think I've ever gotten a little heart-shaped chocolate candy after sex. I think the Old Lady offered me an Altoid, once, but that's about it.
The young massage-lady was very nice. She kicked the shit out of my musculature for a good hour and a half and she definitely zeroed in on the problem areas. She informed me afterwards that my trapezius muscles are completely fucked. Apparently, my left side is way higher than my right, and there are all kinds of knots and shit in there that she wasn't able to knead out. She suggested that the fucked-uppedness of the muscles could well be fucking with my nerves, causing some of my numbness. What the shit -- where were you a month ago, lady?!
When I first got there, I was telling her about the tingling and numbness shit, and then I told her that I was going for an EMG on Wednesday. She said, "Oh no, really?! Ooh, my mom had one of those and she said it was horrible!" I thanked her for that news flash, as I felt another knot or three twist up inside my already clenched trapeziuses. Guess she wanted to really ratchet up my stress level before she started, just to give herself a little challenge.
When it was all over, I just laid there in a heap -- all oily and loose, like a sodden hush-puppy from Long John Silvers. And strangely, there was tartar sauce in my ass crack. Hmm...
So, I've gotta go now -- I've decided to start selling all of the crabbyfamily's possessions on eBay so I can make enough cash to hire a full-time masseuse. I wonder how much I can get for this laptop...
The young massage-lady was very nice. She kicked the shit out of my musculature for a good hour and a half and she definitely zeroed in on the problem areas. She informed me afterwards that my trapezius muscles are completely fucked. Apparently, my left side is way higher than my right, and there are all kinds of knots and shit in there that she wasn't able to knead out. She suggested that the fucked-uppedness of the muscles could well be fucking with my nerves, causing some of my numbness. What the shit -- where were you a month ago, lady?!
When I first got there, I was telling her about the tingling and numbness shit, and then I told her that I was going for an EMG on Wednesday. She said, "Oh no, really?! Ooh, my mom had one of those and she said it was horrible!" I thanked her for that news flash, as I felt another knot or three twist up inside my already clenched trapeziuses. Guess she wanted to really ratchet up my stress level before she started, just to give herself a little challenge.
When it was all over, I just laid there in a heap -- all oily and loose, like a sodden hush-puppy from Long John Silvers. And strangely, there was tartar sauce in my ass crack. Hmm...
So, I've gotta go now -- I've decided to start selling all of the crabbyfamily's possessions on eBay so I can make enough cash to hire a full-time masseuse. I wonder how much I can get for this laptop...
Sunday, January 20, 2008
I Finally Got Some Trim...
Well, I got my hair chopped off yesterday 'cuz I was starting to feel like I'd taken the grease-ball axe-murderer look as far as I could. It's not totally short but, for me, it's a change. It grows so fucking fast, though, that I'll be back to dirtbag-level within the month.
The spawnage weren't too thrilled with the trimmage, however. Miss O has told me multiple times over the past two days, "Dad, I don't like your haircut. Not at all." And tonight at the dinner table, Mr. Z, after an uncomfortably long study of my physiognomy, pronounced, "Your nose is prominent, Dad." Of course, I had to inform him that, between my giant honker genes and the Old Lady's bump-in-the-nose genes, he's gonna have to wear a goddamn jockstrap over his schnoz just to keep it from dragging on the ground.
Oh, and I didn't really experience my normal haircut discomfort this time at the 'salon.' I've mentioned before how I never close my eyes when the haircut-lady massages my scalp or washes my hair 'cuz it makes me feel like some sort of perv -- like I'm getting off on it or something. So I usually sit there like a fucking dorkus, just staring up at the ceiling like, "Ho-hum... just getting my hair washed and I'm enjoying it in a perfectly appropriate, non-pervy way."
But this time, I just said "fuckit" and closed my eyes and tried to enjoy it. And you know what? I didn't, really, because haircut-ladies never massage hard enough, ya know? I wanted to say, "Hey! What's with the noodle fingers, lady? C'mon, press harder and get some fucking scalp under your nails, will ya?" But I just sat there and eventually re-opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. It's a good thing they don't let you tip there, 'cuz that massage/shampoo woulda been a tip-breaker.
The amazing thing, though, was that this wee little woman came by during the cut and asked if I wanted, get this... A HAND MASSAGE! Then I realized she meant that she was just going to massage my hand, which, of course, would also be nice. And it was incredible. She spent a good five minutes on each hand and my fingers ended up quite relaxed and they stunk purty to boot. She offered it to the other two morons sitting next to me first, and they were all uncomfortable and shit, and hemmed and hawed and looked down at their feet. I was like, "Bring it, wee massage woman!" And she brought it. I felt like asking her to offer a massage tutorial to the haircut-lady, but I kept my mouth shut and just enjoyed my newly dewey digits.
Oh, and it was free. And no tips allowed. I love the no tips allowed thing! What's that? You want to charge me a little the more and then outlaw the tipping -- perfect! That's what I call a stress-free transaction! Unfortunately, the stress will be more than made up tomorrow, when I get my massage from the amazingly-tense-rescheduling-massage-woman.
I just hope she presses hard.
The spawnage weren't too thrilled with the trimmage, however. Miss O has told me multiple times over the past two days, "Dad, I don't like your haircut. Not at all." And tonight at the dinner table, Mr. Z, after an uncomfortably long study of my physiognomy, pronounced, "Your nose is prominent, Dad." Of course, I had to inform him that, between my giant honker genes and the Old Lady's bump-in-the-nose genes, he's gonna have to wear a goddamn jockstrap over his schnoz just to keep it from dragging on the ground.
Oh, and I didn't really experience my normal haircut discomfort this time at the 'salon.' I've mentioned before how I never close my eyes when the haircut-lady massages my scalp or washes my hair 'cuz it makes me feel like some sort of perv -- like I'm getting off on it or something. So I usually sit there like a fucking dorkus, just staring up at the ceiling like, "Ho-hum... just getting my hair washed and I'm enjoying it in a perfectly appropriate, non-pervy way."
But this time, I just said "fuckit" and closed my eyes and tried to enjoy it. And you know what? I didn't, really, because haircut-ladies never massage hard enough, ya know? I wanted to say, "Hey! What's with the noodle fingers, lady? C'mon, press harder and get some fucking scalp under your nails, will ya?" But I just sat there and eventually re-opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. It's a good thing they don't let you tip there, 'cuz that massage/shampoo woulda been a tip-breaker.
The amazing thing, though, was that this wee little woman came by during the cut and asked if I wanted, get this... A HAND MASSAGE! Then I realized she meant that she was just going to massage my hand, which, of course, would also be nice. And it was incredible. She spent a good five minutes on each hand and my fingers ended up quite relaxed and they stunk purty to boot. She offered it to the other two morons sitting next to me first, and they were all uncomfortable and shit, and hemmed and hawed and looked down at their feet. I was like, "Bring it, wee massage woman!" And she brought it. I felt like asking her to offer a massage tutorial to the haircut-lady, but I kept my mouth shut and just enjoyed my newly dewey digits.
Oh, and it was free. And no tips allowed. I love the no tips allowed thing! What's that? You want to charge me a little the more and then outlaw the tipping -- perfect! That's what I call a stress-free transaction! Unfortunately, the stress will be more than made up tomorrow, when I get my massage from the amazingly-tense-rescheduling-massage-woman.
I just hope she presses hard.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Socked It to Me...
I punched myself tonight. I was getting in the car to go pick up our shitty Indian food take-out order, and as I was pulling the seatbelt across my chest, my hand slipped and, close-fisted, I punched myself in the jaw. Really fucking hard. So hard I saw stars. It was actually the first fight I've been in since I traded punches with Mike Bastone in jr. high school. Actually, he punched me, I tried to punch back but missed and fell off the bleachers. Tonight, however, was the first fight I've ever actually won. Sort of. And you should see the other guy.
So, Miss O is now a Brownie. I know, I'm not necessarily thrilled about it, but her friends are in it and she wanted to do it, so fuck it. They don't wear the whole uniform -- just the sash. The whole thing has this quasi-military vibe to it, though, and it makes me a little uneasy, but what are you gonna do? Anywhich, they're getting ready to sell Girl Scout cookies. Which is fine, 'cuz I can suck down about 50 sleeves of those fucking Thin Mints in an afternoon. But the whole process, so far, has been confusing as shit. We had to fill out this order form thing and then decide how many boxes of each kind she was going to sell. How the fuck do I know how many she's gonna sell?! What am I, a goddamn psychic?!
So we picked out 25 boxes total: 7 boxes of Tagalongs, 7 boxes of those dusty Trefoil shortbread things that the Old Lady likes, 10 boxes of the Thin Mints, and 1 box of the coconut/caramel shitballs called Samoas, cuz' dammit, I like those fuckers. We figured we'd keep a few boxes and then sell the rest to neighbors and shit. Now, at $3.50 a box, I'm out $87.50 already, and there ain't nary a fucking cookie coursing through my colon yet. Fucking shysters, these Brownies.
Then we get another form tonight that's the kind you use when you go door-to-door, where you write down peoples' names and addresses and shit and collect the money. So what, she's supposed to go door-to-door and take orders and then say, "Oh sorry, I don't have any of those. Nope none of those either. Ooh, fresh out of those." It's gonna be like that fucking Monty Python "Cheese Shop" skit.
Now, maybe I'm a dipshit, but it just doesn't make any sense to me. Why not go around the neighborhood taking orders FIRST, then send the fucking orders into Brownie Central, have them fill the orders, send us the cookies and then we'll go drop the fuckers off. But no... we have to guess what we're gonna sell first, send in the money, go see what people really want but tell them they can only get what we ordered, then wait for the cookies to fucking show up, then go hand out the cookies no one wanted, and try to make our money back.
Are the actual Brownies running the head office over there, 'cuz this brilliant marketing scheme sure the fuck sounds like it was thought up by a bunch of six year olds. But that's the military for ya. I'm probably gonna end up eating the $87.50, loading all the cookies into the basement and stuffing my face-hole with those fuckers over some long hazy, trans-fat-induced bulimic binge-jamboree.
But as long as Miss O gets her little iron-on cookie patch for her fascist soldier-sash, my future adult-onset Diabetes Mellitus will be well worth it.
So, Miss O is now a Brownie. I know, I'm not necessarily thrilled about it, but her friends are in it and she wanted to do it, so fuck it. They don't wear the whole uniform -- just the sash. The whole thing has this quasi-military vibe to it, though, and it makes me a little uneasy, but what are you gonna do? Anywhich, they're getting ready to sell Girl Scout cookies. Which is fine, 'cuz I can suck down about 50 sleeves of those fucking Thin Mints in an afternoon. But the whole process, so far, has been confusing as shit. We had to fill out this order form thing and then decide how many boxes of each kind she was going to sell. How the fuck do I know how many she's gonna sell?! What am I, a goddamn psychic?!
So we picked out 25 boxes total: 7 boxes of Tagalongs, 7 boxes of those dusty Trefoil shortbread things that the Old Lady likes, 10 boxes of the Thin Mints, and 1 box of the coconut/caramel shitballs called Samoas, cuz' dammit, I like those fuckers. We figured we'd keep a few boxes and then sell the rest to neighbors and shit. Now, at $3.50 a box, I'm out $87.50 already, and there ain't nary a fucking cookie coursing through my colon yet. Fucking shysters, these Brownies.
Then we get another form tonight that's the kind you use when you go door-to-door, where you write down peoples' names and addresses and shit and collect the money. So what, she's supposed to go door-to-door and take orders and then say, "Oh sorry, I don't have any of those. Nope none of those either. Ooh, fresh out of those." It's gonna be like that fucking Monty Python "Cheese Shop" skit.
Now, maybe I'm a dipshit, but it just doesn't make any sense to me. Why not go around the neighborhood taking orders FIRST, then send the fucking orders into Brownie Central, have them fill the orders, send us the cookies and then we'll go drop the fuckers off. But no... we have to guess what we're gonna sell first, send in the money, go see what people really want but tell them they can only get what we ordered, then wait for the cookies to fucking show up, then go hand out the cookies no one wanted, and try to make our money back.
Are the actual Brownies running the head office over there, 'cuz this brilliant marketing scheme sure the fuck sounds like it was thought up by a bunch of six year olds. But that's the military for ya. I'm probably gonna end up eating the $87.50, loading all the cookies into the basement and stuffing my face-hole with those fuckers over some long hazy, trans-fat-induced bulimic binge-jamboree.
But as long as Miss O gets her little iron-on cookie patch for her fascist soldier-sash, my future adult-onset Diabetes Mellitus will be well worth it.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
The Barefoot Crabtessa...
I know I haven't been talking about the spawnage much lately. I've been so busy bitchin' about my recent "condition" that I guess I haven't given them much blog time. Don't worry, though -- they're still alive and I'll continue with their exploits very soon. A lot has happened with them over the last coupla weeks. Mr. Z is all googley-eyed over some frida at school and not only is Miss O getting ready to sell girl-scout cookies (don't worry, I won't be doing the hard sell like I did for that crap Mr. Z was hawking) but she also recently had a little body-modification done. No, she didn't get a tattoo or any scarification... yet. Let's just say she has a couple more holes in her head than she did last week, and she's sportin' some fancy new blizzing in her earlizzobes. More later.
More importantly, while I was making dinner tonight I think I realized what I want to do with my life. I found my special purpose! I need a fucking cooking show. I'm serious. It'd be the perfect forum for me. I'll just video myself making dinner while talking and shit over it. I was going through it in my noggin while I was cooking tonight, and I have to say, it would've made for great fucking TV. It'd be like that old Food Network show "How to Boil Water," but without the dipshit, unfunny host. Instead, I'D be the dipshit, unfunny host. I know! It's brilliant!
The only problem is, a) I need to figure out how to shoot it, and 2) I can't record it while the spawnage are around, 'cuz I plan to work a little blue, as crabbydad is wont to do. I'm thinking of duct-taping the camera to my forehead and videoing it after the spawnage are in bed. There, problems solved.
I'm telling you, this is either going to be the greatest thing I've ever done, or... I'm going to lose interest in it by tomorrow morning and you'll never hear another word about it again, just like every other brilliant idea I never doing anything with.
I either can't wait, or don't care!
More importantly, while I was making dinner tonight I think I realized what I want to do with my life. I found my special purpose! I need a fucking cooking show. I'm serious. It'd be the perfect forum for me. I'll just video myself making dinner while talking and shit over it. I was going through it in my noggin while I was cooking tonight, and I have to say, it would've made for great fucking TV. It'd be like that old Food Network show "How to Boil Water," but without the dipshit, unfunny host. Instead, I'D be the dipshit, unfunny host. I know! It's brilliant!
The only problem is, a) I need to figure out how to shoot it, and 2) I can't record it while the spawnage are around, 'cuz I plan to work a little blue, as crabbydad is wont to do. I'm thinking of duct-taping the camera to my forehead and videoing it after the spawnage are in bed. There, problems solved.
I'm telling you, this is either going to be the greatest thing I've ever done, or... I'm going to lose interest in it by tomorrow morning and you'll never hear another word about it again, just like every other brilliant idea I never doing anything with.
I either can't wait, or don't care!
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Therein Lies the Rub...
So I was all fucking excited because I finally made an appointment for a massage for 5:00 tonight. See, the Old Lady got me a gift certificate for an hour-and-a-half massage at this local place... LAST MARCH. I remember getting it for my birthday way back then and saying, "Shit man, I haven't had a massage in forever. I can't fucking wait!" And then I proceeded to stick it in a drawer and forget about it for 10 months. What a dick.
And I love massages. Every time I get one, I'm like, "Holy fuckstain, that was awesome! I've got get one of those mofos every goddamn month!" And then two years goes by and I'm like, "Why does my skeleton hurt?"
Needless to say, I was excited about tonight's massage. That is, until I get a phone call this morning from the masseuse. Masseur? It's a lady... I think it's massousela. Anywhich, she's all flustered and shit and says, "Hi, uh, I accidentally double-booked massages for tonight and, uh, would it be okay if we rescheduled yours?"
No.
Of course I said "yes." I always say yes. The thing is, she was all nervous and apologetic and freaking out, and I'm thinking, "Is this the kind of energy I want transferred to my numb, atrophying muscles?" I thought massage people were supposed to be all zen and shit. Shit, she made me seem like the goddamn Dalai Lama.
So I rescheduled it for next Tuesday. It'll probably suck. And I'll be stressing the whole time, wondering how much to tip her. What do you tip a massager? I give the pizza guy 5 bucks. He drives like five minutes to my house and hands me a pizza. She's gonna be kneading my scrawny, unclothed, hair-caked body for 90 minutes. Based on what I give the pizza-dude, I'd owe her like 1000 dollars.
No wonder I only get a rubdown like every two years -- it's too fucking stressful. I'm just gonna buy me one of them massage chairs. Stick it in the fucking basement, sit in it, flip the switch and not tip it a goddamn penny.
And I love massages. Every time I get one, I'm like, "Holy fuckstain, that was awesome! I've got get one of those mofos every goddamn month!" And then two years goes by and I'm like, "Why does my skeleton hurt?"
Needless to say, I was excited about tonight's massage. That is, until I get a phone call this morning from the masseuse. Masseur? It's a lady... I think it's massousela. Anywhich, she's all flustered and shit and says, "Hi, uh, I accidentally double-booked massages for tonight and, uh, would it be okay if we rescheduled yours?"
No.
Of course I said "yes." I always say yes. The thing is, she was all nervous and apologetic and freaking out, and I'm thinking, "Is this the kind of energy I want transferred to my numb, atrophying muscles?" I thought massage people were supposed to be all zen and shit. Shit, she made me seem like the goddamn Dalai Lama.
So I rescheduled it for next Tuesday. It'll probably suck. And I'll be stressing the whole time, wondering how much to tip her. What do you tip a massager? I give the pizza guy 5 bucks. He drives like five minutes to my house and hands me a pizza. She's gonna be kneading my scrawny, unclothed, hair-caked body for 90 minutes. Based on what I give the pizza-dude, I'd owe her like 1000 dollars.
No wonder I only get a rubdown like every two years -- it's too fucking stressful. I'm just gonna buy me one of them massage chairs. Stick it in the fucking basement, sit in it, flip the switch and not tip it a goddamn penny.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Sticking My Finger Back into the Booty...
This is my public apology to the GARRETT ACE 250. I am so sorry I ever disparaged your good name, GARRETT ACE 250. All other metal-detectors cower in your presence. If there is ever booty to be unearthed, you, sir, are the only one to make that booty call. You are the fucking shizzle of metal-detizzles!!!
I got up this morning and I was seriously bumming about the missing ring. I felt completely naked without it -- it felt like I was shopping at the Kroger with my schvantz hangin' out. (Or what I imagine that would be like... heh, I'd never do something like that at the Kroger! Now, at the Meijer...)
So, instead of my usual Sunday a.m. reading of the NY Times, I grabbed the GARRET ACE 250 and headed back out for another pass at the lawn. I decided to start as far away from the spot I was standing as I could, and then make my way back toward ground zero. I wanted to be very methodical about it and leave no patch unprobed. Since it was 9 a.m., I plugged some headphones into the GARRETT ACE 250 so as not to wake the neighbors, and to increase my fucking nerd factor one thousand-fold.
I started scanning at the property line between our lawn and our neighbors'. I thought to myself, "Self, there's no fucking way the ring flew all the way over here," but then I realized that my instincts are usually completely fucked, so I ignored myself and kept scanning. Then, after about 30 seconds, the GARRETT ACE 250 starting going fucking nutso. I was scanning near one of the underground sprinkler heads, so I figured it was just the metal from the sprinkler setting the thing off. But I bent down to check it out anyway, and then I saw this:
There it was!! Right next to a giant red "X"! I launched a steaming relief-turd into my nappies, bent over and picked the fucker up. I couldn't believe it -- the GARRETT ACE 250 came through! I shall never question a rented machine that uses VLF electromagnetic technology again!
So, there you have it -- the annulment is off. The Old Lady is once again an honest woman. The spawnage are once again legit, and are no longer bastards. (At the moment.) And I will now embark on my new training regimen of eating two boxes of Little Debbie Zebra Cakes a day to fatten up my ring finger, so this will never, ever happen again.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
I Was with the Band...
I don't know how I made it for 12 years without it happening, but today I finally did it -- I lost my wedding ring. And it's all because I was trying to be a "good" father. I'm sure as fuck never gonna do THAT again.
The Old Lady had taken Miss O to a (nother!) birthday party, and I was hangin' with Mr. Z. His pal from next-door swung by and the two of them scooted outside to fuck around. I was in no mood to go out there and get roped into some fucking game of statue-maker or tag, so I stayed inside and sat on my numb ass. A little while later, I looked out the window and saw Mr. Z and his friend playing catch with the dad from next door. Sonofabitch! Of course that meant that I had to go out there and make a goddamn appearance so I didn't look like a complete asshead.
So I shuffle out there and they're playing some keep-a-way game and I'm like "ah, what the shit," and I join in. Now remember, I'm already a little thinner than usual 'cuz I haven't really had a huge appetite lately, what with the numbness and the stress and the flayvin. AND it was kinda cold outside, so my fucking fingers were already like mini pretzel rods. So, the ball comes to me and, like a complete dick, I do this big underhand throw over Mr. Z's head. The ball goes flying and then everything goes into slow-motion, as I feel the ring go rocketing off my finger and out of my field of vision. I don't know if it shot out one foot or 20. It was fucking gone.
So everyone gets down on their hands and knees and starts looking for the fucking thing. Oh wait, everyone except Mr. Z. He was complaining 'cuz nobody was playing anymore. At least he was until I made him feel really shitty about it and he half-assedly joined in.
An hour later, bupkus. On a whim, I called my pals over at A,C&E Rental (they of the "Water Cannon" fame) and asked if they had a metal detector. THEY FUCKING DID! I bolt over and pick it up, and then spend another hour and a half waving that worthless piece of fuck over the lawn like some treasure-huntin' dipshit. Neighbors walking by, me looking like I'm clearing the area of land mines. "Well hey there neighbor! Just looking for the ol' wedding ring! Yep, gotta find it before the Old Lady comes back. Heh, heh... [SFX: gunshot/me falling in heap on lawn]."
Never found the fucker. I'm gonna give it another go tomorrow, but there's no fucking way I'm gonna find it. Some gopher ran off with it or something. Using it as some sort of rodent cock-ring. I hope it cuts off the circulation and its goddamn beaver-balls drop off.
So yeah, if anyone knows someone who can get a fella a deal on a platinum wedding band, send 'em my way. In the meantime, I'll be out in front yard with the metal detector and a flashlight duct-taped to my head.
The Old Lady had taken Miss O to a (nother!) birthday party, and I was hangin' with Mr. Z. His pal from next-door swung by and the two of them scooted outside to fuck around. I was in no mood to go out there and get roped into some fucking game of statue-maker or tag, so I stayed inside and sat on my numb ass. A little while later, I looked out the window and saw Mr. Z and his friend playing catch with the dad from next door. Sonofabitch! Of course that meant that I had to go out there and make a goddamn appearance so I didn't look like a complete asshead.
So I shuffle out there and they're playing some keep-a-way game and I'm like "ah, what the shit," and I join in. Now remember, I'm already a little thinner than usual 'cuz I haven't really had a huge appetite lately, what with the numbness and the stress and the flayvin. AND it was kinda cold outside, so my fucking fingers were already like mini pretzel rods. So, the ball comes to me and, like a complete dick, I do this big underhand throw over Mr. Z's head. The ball goes flying and then everything goes into slow-motion, as I feel the ring go rocketing off my finger and out of my field of vision. I don't know if it shot out one foot or 20. It was fucking gone.
So everyone gets down on their hands and knees and starts looking for the fucking thing. Oh wait, everyone except Mr. Z. He was complaining 'cuz nobody was playing anymore. At least he was until I made him feel really shitty about it and he half-assedly joined in.
An hour later, bupkus. On a whim, I called my pals over at A,C&E Rental (they of the "Water Cannon" fame) and asked if they had a metal detector. THEY FUCKING DID! I bolt over and pick it up, and then spend another hour and a half waving that worthless piece of fuck over the lawn like some treasure-huntin' dipshit. Neighbors walking by, me looking like I'm clearing the area of land mines. "Well hey there neighbor! Just looking for the ol' wedding ring! Yep, gotta find it before the Old Lady comes back. Heh, heh... [SFX: gunshot/me falling in heap on lawn]."
Never found the fucker. I'm gonna give it another go tomorrow, but there's no fucking way I'm gonna find it. Some gopher ran off with it or something. Using it as some sort of rodent cock-ring. I hope it cuts off the circulation and its goddamn beaver-balls drop off.
So yeah, if anyone knows someone who can get a fella a deal on a platinum wedding band, send 'em my way. In the meantime, I'll be out in front yard with the metal detector and a flashlight duct-taped to my head.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Como se dice "Muttonhead"?
At 6:45 this evening, someone from Miami, Florida was directed to this blog after doing a Google search for "how do you say burrito in Spanish." I'm not sure if that has made me lose all faith in humanity, or if it has completely restored it. But, as a public service to that person, I will do the translation for them.
"Burrito," in Spanish, is "cago en tu leche."
De nada.
"Burrito," in Spanish, is "cago en tu leche."
De nada.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Are You My Mother?
Miss O told us tonight that she accidentally called her teacher "Mama" today. That always cracks me up. Mr. Z has done that a shitload. He called his 3rd grade teacher "Dad" once, called his 4th grade teacher "Grandma," which I'm sure she fucking loved, and, this year, he called his 5th grade teacher "Dad." He said his teacher looked at him and said, "Dad?! I'm not your dad!"
I laughed at that response at first and then I thought about it for a second. "Wait a minute -- is his teacher saying 'I'm not your dad' like 'You think I look like that hairy freak that loiters in the fucking lobby after school?!'" If so, then them's fightin' words, sir!
But I guess I'd be flattered, as a teacher, if a student called me "Dad." I guess it means the kid trusts and looks up to you like a parent. Or it could mean that their real parent is such a fuck-up that they call any adult who pays even the slightest bit of attention to them "Dad." It's a fine line.
Personally, I don't care who they call what -- as long as they don't start calling me by the janitor's name.
I laughed at that response at first and then I thought about it for a second. "Wait a minute -- is his teacher saying 'I'm not your dad' like 'You think I look like that hairy freak that loiters in the fucking lobby after school?!'" If so, then them's fightin' words, sir!
But I guess I'd be flattered, as a teacher, if a student called me "Dad." I guess it means the kid trusts and looks up to you like a parent. Or it could mean that their real parent is such a fuck-up that they call any adult who pays even the slightest bit of attention to them "Dad." It's a fine line.
Personally, I don't care who they call what -- as long as they don't start calling me by the janitor's name.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
BRAINS!!!
Went to the brain doc today. It went pretty okay. He made me strip to my fundies and put on what I think was an old Polish woman's house dress. Did the complete neuro test -- walking on tippie-toes, touching my nose, getting my knees hammered, tuning forks on various body parts, needles stuck in the bottoms of my feet, complete anal cavity search. No, wait... sorry, that last one was from my dentist visit.
After all the testing, he said, "Okay... so, why don't you get dressed and then I'll come back in and we can talk." Nice. Way to fucking milk it for dramatic effect, doc. So, I was basically convinced he was gonna come back in and say my brain had to come out.
But, he came back and we chatted and he said that, in all likelihood, it isn't MS. The fact that the symptoms are in both hands and both feet kinda negates that... sorta. He didn't come right out and say "you don't have it!" but, in so many words. Which, basically, I knew but it was nice to not hear him say it.
He did say, though, that I should come back in a coupla weeks for an EMG, which sounds like a rip-snortin' good time. I actually performed an EMG on a cat in my Advanced Neuropsych class in college, so I already know how much it's gonna fucking suck. Hopefully, his office will be a little more sterile than the psych building, though, and I sure hope he doesn't leave me on a too-hot heating pad, like we did to the cat, and cause me to die of dehydration. That karma's a fucking bitch, ain't it? Touche, dead kitty... touche.
I also got some fancy blood test to check the proteins in my blood. THAT was fun, by the way. The lab was chock-full-o' fucked up people who make my ridiculous little symptoms seem, well, pretty goddamn ridiculous. There was Oxygen-Tank Man, One-Leg Lady, and my favorite, Prisoner-Woman-with-Leg-Shackles, who was being escorted by a Giant-Sheriff Man. Nothing like a big spoonful of reality pudding to make me feel like a complete douche with my coupla numb toes and fingers.
So, for now, I'm going to try to actually enjoy not having something for a day or so. Should be nice. Then I can get back to the real work of worrying about what the shit I DO have.
After all the testing, he said, "Okay... so, why don't you get dressed and then I'll come back in and we can talk." Nice. Way to fucking milk it for dramatic effect, doc. So, I was basically convinced he was gonna come back in and say my brain had to come out.
But, he came back and we chatted and he said that, in all likelihood, it isn't MS. The fact that the symptoms are in both hands and both feet kinda negates that... sorta. He didn't come right out and say "you don't have it!" but, in so many words. Which, basically, I knew but it was nice to not hear him say it.
He did say, though, that I should come back in a coupla weeks for an EMG, which sounds like a rip-snortin' good time. I actually performed an EMG on a cat in my Advanced Neuropsych class in college, so I already know how much it's gonna fucking suck. Hopefully, his office will be a little more sterile than the psych building, though, and I sure hope he doesn't leave me on a too-hot heating pad, like we did to the cat, and cause me to die of dehydration. That karma's a fucking bitch, ain't it? Touche, dead kitty... touche.
I also got some fancy blood test to check the proteins in my blood. THAT was fun, by the way. The lab was chock-full-o' fucked up people who make my ridiculous little symptoms seem, well, pretty goddamn ridiculous. There was Oxygen-Tank Man, One-Leg Lady, and my favorite, Prisoner-Woman-with-Leg-Shackles, who was being escorted by a Giant-Sheriff Man. Nothing like a big spoonful of reality pudding to make me feel like a complete douche with my coupla numb toes and fingers.
So, for now, I'm going to try to actually enjoy not having something for a day or so. Should be nice. Then I can get back to the real work of worrying about what the shit I DO have.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Talk about Your Power Naps...
We put the spawnage down at the normal time tonight. I left Mr. Z's room at maybe 8:25. A thunderstorm had started and at around 8:37, all the power in the house went out for, say, 10 seconds. When it came back on, I heard Mr. Z yelling from his room:
MR. Z: Hello? Hello?! What happened?!!
ME: (running upstairs) It's okay, Mr. Z. The power went out for a second but it's back on.
MR. Z: (getting totally panicked) Oh no! 8:39?! Oh no! We're late! We're totally late for school!!!
ME: What? Dude, it's 8:39 at night. You've been asleep for, like, four minutes.
MR. Z: What? Oh. Whew. Goodnight.
Every day, little by little, that poor boy is turning into me. Man, I hope he got at least one or two of the Old Lady's genes, or he is fucked.
MR. Z: Hello? Hello?! What happened?!!
ME: (running upstairs) It's okay, Mr. Z. The power went out for a second but it's back on.
MR. Z: (getting totally panicked) Oh no! 8:39?! Oh no! We're late! We're totally late for school!!!
ME: What? Dude, it's 8:39 at night. You've been asleep for, like, four minutes.
MR. Z: What? Oh. Whew. Goodnight.
Every day, little by little, that poor boy is turning into me. Man, I hope he got at least one or two of the Old Lady's genes, or he is fucked.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Penciling the Town Red...
So, a coupla weeks ago, our babysitter offered to watch the spawnage for this past Friday night and, back then, it sounded like a grand fucking idea. Cut to Friday, and the Old Lady was feeling like carp 'cuz of some plague she caught and, of course, I was knee-deep in whatever the fuck I have... the grippe or the consumption or boola-boola, but fuck, we're not gonna turn away a babysitter, right? We were going to go out to dinner and then see a movie, but we felt so shitty we just decided to do the dinner. Besides, the only movie that was around was "Charlie Wilson's War," and frankly, I wasn't quite in the mood for some fucking political potboiler, ya know? Enough with the political potboilers, already. Holy fuck.
So we drive on over to this place in a goddamn strip-mall, like every fucking restaurant in this miserable anus of a town, and shuffled our pathetic asses in. The place is called "Four Seasons Bistro," and if I were to judge it solely on its looks, I'd say the "four seasons" were salt, pepper, Lowry's Seasoning salt and Velveeta. It had potential, mind you -- a nod to some sort of half-assed Frank Lloyd Wrightian interior, but the tables had vinyl tablecloths and the air smelled like a cross between Clorox and cigar-farts. Which, for East Lansing, is the sign of a fine-dining establishment.
Anywhich, the meal was pretty good. I ordered the special sea bass which, judging by the size of my portion, was the runt of its litter. It tasted good, though, in all its punyness. It would've been a perfect portion, had I been Billy Barty. The Old Lady had some salmon that, while dry, wasn't shitty, so she gave it a thumbs kinda up. We both had a drinky-poo, which pretty much knocked us on our sickly asses, and then we shared an apple crisp that, if by "crisp" they meant "not crisp at all but totally fucking rubbery yet strangely pleasing," well, then,yes, it was an apple crisp.
Then we went home. Yay... we're old.
EDIT: I forgot to mention my favorite part of the restaurant. We were at a corner table, and I was sitting on the vinyl booth-type bench while the Old Lady had a chair. The 'great' thing about the bench is that it was pitched forward in such a way that my pants were constantly yanked taut against my giblets, so, basically, it was as if my Balzac were being stretched on a goddamn rack. The thing was pulled so tight you could pretty much read the menu through it. Which I did... just for fun. We got home extra quick after dinner 'cuz I was able to use said Balzac as a spinnaker for the car.
Just thought I'd share.
So we drive on over to this place in a goddamn strip-mall, like every fucking restaurant in this miserable anus of a town, and shuffled our pathetic asses in. The place is called "Four Seasons Bistro," and if I were to judge it solely on its looks, I'd say the "four seasons" were salt, pepper, Lowry's Seasoning salt and Velveeta. It had potential, mind you -- a nod to some sort of half-assed Frank Lloyd Wrightian interior, but the tables had vinyl tablecloths and the air smelled like a cross between Clorox and cigar-farts. Which, for East Lansing, is the sign of a fine-dining establishment.
Anywhich, the meal was pretty good. I ordered the special sea bass which, judging by the size of my portion, was the runt of its litter. It tasted good, though, in all its punyness. It would've been a perfect portion, had I been Billy Barty. The Old Lady had some salmon that, while dry, wasn't shitty, so she gave it a thumbs kinda up. We both had a drinky-poo, which pretty much knocked us on our sickly asses, and then we shared an apple crisp that, if by "crisp" they meant "not crisp at all but totally fucking rubbery yet strangely pleasing," well, then,yes, it was an apple crisp.
Then we went home. Yay... we're old.
EDIT: I forgot to mention my favorite part of the restaurant. We were at a corner table, and I was sitting on the vinyl booth-type bench while the Old Lady had a chair. The 'great' thing about the bench is that it was pitched forward in such a way that my pants were constantly yanked taut against my giblets, so, basically, it was as if my Balzac were being stretched on a goddamn rack. The thing was pulled so tight you could pretty much read the menu through it. Which I did... just for fun. We got home extra quick after dinner 'cuz I was able to use said Balzac as a spinnaker for the car.
Just thought I'd share.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Button, Button, What's in the Button?
D'ya ever try to pick that shit that's inside your belly-button out with a tweezers, but sometimes you accidentally grab onto a hunk-o-skin, and it kinda hurts but it also kinda itches in your nards? Yeah, uh, me neither. Shit, I hope those tweezers were sterilized.
Well, another week has almost come to a close and I still haven't been to the neurologist yet for my mystery ailment. Here's a tip -- if you have shit going on in your brain that's freaking you out and your doctor wants you to go see a neurologist, when the neurologist's secretary calls to make the appointment and she suggests an appointment date that's a month down the fucking road, don't say, "Oh, that sounds perfect. Thank you so much." It's gotten to the point now where if the doc doesn't find something seriously fucked up with me, it's going to be a major disappointment.
I think I've resigned myself to the fact that it's either MS or my spine is going to have to come out. One or t'other. Personally, I hope it's the latter. Maybe then I could finally bend forward enough to see what the shit is in my belly-button and perform a proper extraction.
And, while I'm down there...
Well, another week has almost come to a close and I still haven't been to the neurologist yet for my mystery ailment. Here's a tip -- if you have shit going on in your brain that's freaking you out and your doctor wants you to go see a neurologist, when the neurologist's secretary calls to make the appointment and she suggests an appointment date that's a month down the fucking road, don't say, "Oh, that sounds perfect. Thank you so much." It's gotten to the point now where if the doc doesn't find something seriously fucked up with me, it's going to be a major disappointment.
I think I've resigned myself to the fact that it's either MS or my spine is going to have to come out. One or t'other. Personally, I hope it's the latter. Maybe then I could finally bend forward enough to see what the shit is in my belly-button and perform a proper extraction.
And, while I'm down there...
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
My Brain Hurts...
I've got a headache that could kill a fucking goat right now, so fuck the post tonight. Instead, please watch the following video, preferably from about two minutes in until the end. It'll make you shit.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
2008... inches of snow on my driveway...
Well, the fucking Snow Miser just emptied his goddamn colon on our humble burg last night and I got to spend my first morning of 2008 shoveling his load off our driveway. Fucking dick. And by the way, why is he called the "Snow Miser" if he's the guy who makes it snow? There's nothing miserly about him. He just dumps snow willy-nilly all over the fucking place. If anything, HE'S the Heat Miser, and his brother would be the Snow Miser. Doesn't make any fucking sense. I think the morons who made "The Year without A Santa Claus" should pull their animated heads out of their rankin-bASS.
And while we're on the subject of shitty Xmas specials that ruined my childhood, what the shit ever happened to the most depressing of them all: "The House without a Christmas Tree"?! I used to have to watch that fucker every goddamn year and fight the uncontrollable urge to fucking slit my wrists afterward because I was so depressed. It had Jason Robards as this asshole dad who was clinically depressed because his wife had died, and then there was his bespectacled daughter who wanted to have a Xmas tree every year but the dad would always say ixnay on the uckingfay eetray. I think it either ends with the dad finally giving in and getting a tree, or the two of them drinking bleach and stumbling outside into the snow to die. No wonder I get depressed every Xmas. Fucking Jason Robards. Dick.
I think it's a good thing the spawnage are heading off to winter break camp for the next few days -- 11 days of the crabbyfamily crammed together in close quarters is starting to take its toll on everyone. Miss O is doing the camp at the elementary school and Mr. Z is heading out into the arctic tundra at the nature center camp in Lansing. I think it'll do him some good to get outside and kill a bear, or whatever it is they're gonna do over there. He's been sitting inside for the last 11 days with his face glued to the screen of his new Nintendo DS that we got him. Fucking crystal meth machine is what that thing is. Personally, I don't get it. I know they're all the fucking rage, but the thing bores the shit outta me.
Now the Wii that we got -- that's another fucking story. Holy shitballs, the fucker is tits. I've been bowling my ass off for the last coupla days and I think I'm ready to join the Pro-Bowlers tour. I'm a regular Earl Anthony... er, Earl Anthonii.
More about the Wii later. I gotta take a wii and get some fuckiing sliip.
And while we're on the subject of shitty Xmas specials that ruined my childhood, what the shit ever happened to the most depressing of them all: "The House without a Christmas Tree"?! I used to have to watch that fucker every goddamn year and fight the uncontrollable urge to fucking slit my wrists afterward because I was so depressed. It had Jason Robards as this asshole dad who was clinically depressed because his wife had died, and then there was his bespectacled daughter who wanted to have a Xmas tree every year but the dad would always say ixnay on the uckingfay eetray. I think it either ends with the dad finally giving in and getting a tree, or the two of them drinking bleach and stumbling outside into the snow to die. No wonder I get depressed every Xmas. Fucking Jason Robards. Dick.
I think it's a good thing the spawnage are heading off to winter break camp for the next few days -- 11 days of the crabbyfamily crammed together in close quarters is starting to take its toll on everyone. Miss O is doing the camp at the elementary school and Mr. Z is heading out into the arctic tundra at the nature center camp in Lansing. I think it'll do him some good to get outside and kill a bear, or whatever it is they're gonna do over there. He's been sitting inside for the last 11 days with his face glued to the screen of his new Nintendo DS that we got him. Fucking crystal meth machine is what that thing is. Personally, I don't get it. I know they're all the fucking rage, but the thing bores the shit outta me.
Now the Wii that we got -- that's another fucking story. Holy shitballs, the fucker is tits. I've been bowling my ass off for the last coupla days and I think I'm ready to join the Pro-Bowlers tour. I'm a regular Earl Anthony... er, Earl Anthonii.
More about the Wii later. I gotta take a wii and get some fuckiing sliip.
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