Chewin', Nay, Suckin' the Fat...

Time for another episode of...

CRABBYDAD'S HEINOUS EXPERIENCES WITH INSANE, MEDIEVAL DOCTOR-IMPERSONATORS!

Today's story finds our hero at some random surgeon's office -- for what he was told was supposed to be a "consultation." We were supposed to be consulting about the "sucking a fat sample from my stomach" test prescribed by Count Von Bloodula.

The surgeon looked like a paler Jim Gaffigan with a Moe Howard haircut and Coke-bottle glasses. I know. He had the kind of glasses that, if you look at him through said glasses, his head looks about 10 inches thinner than if you look at his real head. So he's basically blind, which is really what you want from a surgeon. He comes in the room and says, "So, you're here for a hernia?"

Exsqueeze me?!

I told him, "Um... no?" and then did my best to explain what I was there for. He replied that he'd never actually heard of this procedure before, which further bolstered my "zero confidence in this clown" factor. He actually excused himself to "go look it up for a sec."

Yobbita-yobbita-WHUH?!

Anywhich, he finally comes back in, giving me the whole, "Oh yeah... I know what they want. Yeah, I was just kidding back there with the 'never heard of it' thing. Heh..." Of course, he goes on to criticize the whole "aspirating with a thin needle" method -- the method that's apparently really quick and doesn't hurt. Instead, he wants to do a few "core needle biopsies," just to make sure they get enough to send to the lab. I'm like, "Dude, I weigh like 98 pounds -- three core needle biopsies is a third of my fucking body weight!"

Then he says, "Hey, we can do it right now, if you'd like." Shit, why the fuck not, Dr. Magoo. Bring it!

So, we go into this mini surgery room and he instructs me to lie on this skinny table. The nurse comes in and he tells her what he wants to do and, get this, she opens this li'l recipe box and pulls out a soiled, weathered index card, that apparently has the fucking directions for the procedure written on it. I'm just lying there, alternating between thinking, "I am SO going to be dead in about eight minutes," and "I sure as fuck hope that's the procedure card and not the process for preparing a goddamn brisket."

What happens next is a blur. First the dude shaves half of my fucking stomach -- DRY -- and then wipes alcohol over the freshly, DRYLY shaved patch. Excuse me but OW, MOTHERFUCKER! Then he spreads a surgery sheet thing over it and tells me he's going to numb the area. Needle. Hey! Stings! STINGS! Then he says, "Okay, first I'm gonna punch out a hole..." WHAT?! I'll punch out YOUR hole! Actually, I didn't feel that part, so his hole was saved... momentarily. Then he gets out this fucking mongo needle thing, like two feet long, and tells me he's gonna stick it in that fresh hole and grab some samples. At this point, I'm convinced he's making this shit up just to fuck with me. He says there's going to be a loud "Click!" which there was, but I didn't feel it, so again, his hole was spared.

Then, as quickly as it started, it was over. He bandaged me up, told me not to swim for a coupla days and that was it. At that point, I finally had the nerve to look down at my stomach -- my bandaged, half-hairless stomach. Great. That'll go over really well at the pool. What is more repulsive to an early 20-something lifeguard -- a skinny, middle-aged man covered in way-too-much body hair OR a skinny, middle-aged man covered in way-too-much body hair with a giant patch of said hair shaved off on one side of his abdomen? Oh, and with a band-aid covering a fresh hole on said bald patch. It's quite a toss-up... and I'm thinking people will be "tossing up" either way.

So, now I'm just sitting here, feeling slightly nauseated, waiting for the sepsis to set in. Should be any minute now... like a black death-cloak.

Oh, and Count Von Fuckula's office called this afternoon and scheduled my bone marrow biopsy for Tuesday. Can't wait for that pig-fuck. The Old Lady's going with me, so she'll be able to identify the body quicker when it's all over.

Hey, maybe the Count can use the same hole that Dr. Magoo made!

Fledgler's Blog!

It's finished! From the mind and voice of Mr. Z comes the latest KICKSOME KLASSIC -- "Fledgler's Log (Polka-Dot Feet)"! I think it's his best song to date, which is saying a lot 'cuz the boy has cranked out some beauts. I think story-wise, though, this one is totally solid. It's the story of an outcast bird who is taunted by his classmates for being different. (Hmm... how does he come up with these crazy ideas?) Luckily, the bird finds a good friend, and the two of them proceed to win over the world with the help of a mysterious stump. But here, let Mr. Z explain it.

OH! And check out Mr. Z's very first solo -- he rocks the hizzy with a Farfisa lead!

Enjoy!



"Fledgler's Log (Polka-Dot Feet)" by KICKSOME



Fledgler's Log (Polka-Dot Feet)

Here's a story 'bout a bird called Peet
That had some funny polka-dot feet
Peet's classmates made fun of Peet
Just because of his polka-dot feet

Well, Peet went to his good friend Dog
Dog helped him build a Fledgler's Log!
Peet thought the log was very swell
And brought it in for Show & Tell!

Oh, it's a log!
(What sort of log?)
A Fledgler's Log!
(What is a Fledgler's Log?!)
A very special kind of log.

Peet's classmates thought the log was neat
And they didn't make fun of his polka-dot feet
Everyone though Peet was neat
And Peet now loves his polka-dot feet!

[Mr. Z's Keyboard Solo!]

Peet saw Dog and a nice piece of ice
And they feasted upon worms and rice
Peet and Dog and Ice loved the rice
And from then on, the classmates were nice!

Oh, it's a log!
(What sort of log?)
A Fledgler's Log!
(What is a Fledgler's Log?!)
Oh, it's a log!!
(What sort of log?!)
A Fledgler's Log!!!
(What is a Fledgler's Log?!?!)

A very special kind of log
It was loved by Peet and Dog
They found the log in a big, giant bog
And I hope you liked my story of the Fledgler's Log!

Wake up and Go to Sleep!

Blaaarrrrgh!

I got four, count 'em, four hours of sleep last night. First, I couldn't fall asleep, probably because I was thinking about the blood doc appointment I had this morning. You know, new doc, new horrific tests involving electrical shocks or claustrophobia death-tubes, and all. Then, as I was finally drifting off, Mr. Z starts calling out at 2 a.m. He had a sore throat and his tonsils sounded so swollen, I thought it was former Bulls center Bill Cartwright calling out from his room.

So, between going back and forth to the boy's room with water/Motrin, and obsessing about Dr. Blood, my night fucking sucked donkey balls.

And, the blood doc didn't let me down today. He's of some sort of Slavic descent, so he had this kind of Dracula vibe going on, which seemed very appropriate, being interested in blood and all. Basically, he wants to do more fucking tests on me. X-rays... fine. Regular blood tests... no problem. Aspirate a sample of fat from my stomach... huh-WHUH?! Suck a sample of bone marrow from my hip bone... WHAT THE SHIT, DUDE?!?!

Once again, I'm convinced these dudes just make this shit up. "Hmmm... numb toes, eh? Well... let's stick a needle in your... in your HIP. Yeah, that's it! Then, we'll suck out a sample of your bone marrow and then, ah what the hell... just for good measure, let's... stick a needle in your belly and suck some of that shit out, too. Sound good? Great! That'll be nine million dollars, please. Oh, and did I mention that the bone marrow thing is going to HURT LIKE BALLS?!!"

After all this dickin' around, I better have fucking bubonic plague, goddammit. There's no way I'm going through all this bullshit so they can tell me I'm healthy. Fuckin' fuckers.

On a positive note, I've been toiling away the last coupla nights on Mr. Z's latest song, "Fledgler's Log." It's pretty rockin' -- his lyrics are incredible. I've just been trying to come up with some music that'll do it justice. Oh, and did I mention he sings it in a British accent?

Anywhich, I'm passing out now.

Why I Never Liked Room 222...

Just to give you a little peek inside the dark, twisted little minds of the spawnage, they do this thing whenever they see a clock with the time 2:22 on it. It's a chant, basically, that lasts until the time changes to 2:23. Like everything else they do, it was kinda funny the first 9000 times they did it, but it tends to grate on one after a while... like coarse-grit sandpaper on the inside of your eyelid.

Well, I was innocently packing lunches this morning, as the spawnage ate their breakfasts, when it suddenly dawned on Mr. Z just what day it was today. What follows is only ONE, SINGLE MINUTE of what proved to be a painfully long... unrelenting... never-ending... perpetual... uninterrupted morning:


"222" by MR. Z and MISS O



Wake me up when it's 2/23.

That's What Firenbs Are For...

After getting home from day-5-President's-Day-Kids'-Club, Miss O showed us a note that her friend Miss C made for her. The two of them met at Montessori a couple of years ago, but have since moved on to different grade schools, so they only really see each other on these day-off daycare days, or on the occasional play-date.

Anywhich, it's pretty damn cute:



Still waiting to make my ferst firenb in this town. You know... someone to get nice letters form.

Would that it wer.

No Wonder Lincoln Was Shot...

Day four of the 5-days-off-President's-day extravashitfuck. At this point, the entire Crabbyfamily has cut the bullcrap -- we're fucking sick of being around each other and, frankly, we're not afraid to show it. Whining, crying, stomping around -- and you should see what the spawnage are doing. Luckily, for everyone's sake, they're off to the Kid's Club camp tomorrow, allowing all of us a chance to settle the fuck down and return our lids to non-flipped status.

I mostly blame the goddamn arctic shitstorm outside for our collective crabbitudes. If it weren't iced over like fucking Hoth outside, we'd all be able to venture beyond the confines of Casa de Crabby and run around to let off a little steam. But it's so fucking hayeen-ass out there that I just want to slice open my Tauntaun carcass, climb inside and hibernate until spring.

I will admit that I had a teensie bit of something that resembled "fun" today, as I helped Mr. Z with his latest school book report project. This time, he has been tasked with creating a mobile based on the subject of the biography he just read. His subject: Mr. B.B. King. Now, if you know me, you'll know that I'm not the biggest fan of "the blues" on the planet, but shit, at least it wasn't Robert Cray. Why is that man famous? Anyone?

So we set about creating the BEST GODDAMN MOBILE BASED UPON A NOT THAT ANNOYING BLUES LEGEND EVER CREATED!!! The vision was pretty much Mr. Z's... I played more of the logistician role. But it was his idea to use guitar/microphone/guitar pick shapes for all the components, and, of course, he made sure all the text involved employed EVERY SINGLE FONT KNOWN TO HUMANKIND! I helped a bit with the tying and balancing because shit, if I let him do all that, a) we'd still be working on it in April, and 2) it'd look like carp, so what're you gonna do.

Photographing the fucker proved quite elusive, but here's what I was able to capture:



My favorite guitar pick information nugget Mr. Z wrote was either the one that says, "King currently has 13 children, (5 adopted), with women he met while touring. Some of his kids' names are Shirley, Claudette and Barbara," or "In 1944, B. B. married Martha Denton, and got divorced in 1952. Then, in 1958, King married Sue Carol Hall. But... In 1966, they got a divorce. Now,
King doesn't have a wife." Ain't the blues a bitch.

The mobile's pretty fucking massive -- Mr. Z said that most people use a hanger to make their mobiles, so the "wow" factor should be pretty fucking hilarious when he walks into the class toting this mofo.

I really hope I get an "A+!" I mean... he gets an A+. Heh... uh... right.

Tanks Fer Nuttin', Noonan!

Okay, so I guess I have to fulfill this archive meme obligation that Burbanmom foisted upon me. Apparently, if I don't follow through on this virtual chain letter, she's going to do something drastic, like starting to use paper napkins or throwing away used crayons or, even worse, using the "More Dry" setting on her dryer, and, frankly, I can't live with that kind of responsibility.

So, I'm supposed to link to five posts from the Crabby archives that fit this criteria:

• Link 1 must be about family.
• Link 2 must be about friends.
• Link 3 must be about yourself, who you are... what you're all about.
• Link 4 must be about something you love.
• Link 5 can be anything you choose.

Now, because I'm a lazy sack of shit, and the thought of poring over 507 crappy posts makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a grapefruit spoon, I'm just going to pick five random posts and hope that they fit the bill. So here we go...

1. The "Family" post.

2. Since I don't have any friends of my own, I'll let Miss O talk about one of her friends for the "friend" post.

3. A post about me? Shit, aren't they all? I dunno... this explains me pretty well.

4. A coupla things I love: "thing one" and "thing two."

5. And finally, I choose this one, 'cuz I just want this post to be over.

There. Done. Holy shitstain, that was more painful than I could've possibly imagined. My life's depressing enough the first time through, without having to relive it in slapdashedly-written crabbytext. But thanks anyway, Burbanmom. I guess what doesn't kill me makes for a halfway decent blogpost.

Oh, and I guess I'm supposed to "tag" five people for the same meme. Shit. I guess I'll just throw it over to the rarely updated "I Heartily Endorse These Links" list on the right there. No pressure, though. If you don't feel like doing it, I'll take the bad mojo hit. Shit, 'tweren't for bad mojo, I'd have nothing to fucking write about.

Spee-D'oh!

Well, the new bathing suit was delivered today (the "Spiffy") -- unfortunately for the members of the YMCA, it showed up a coupla days late. The other night, I realized that my old suit hadn't been washed in a while and was starting to smell a tad ballsacky, so I rummaged around for one of my other suits. I found this red pair of board shorts that I forgot I had, and thought I'd go with those. Problem was, they were a little loose around the waist and I worried that they might whisk off suddenly in the churning, brackish waters of the pool.

I asked the Old Lady what she thought and she said, "Don't worry about it. It's not like you're going to be diving in or splashing around or anything. They'll be fine." And, of course, if you're familiar with the Old Lady's uncanny jinxing ability, you'd realize that I should have incinerated those board shorts right then and there. For some bizarre reason, however, I trusted her.

Cut to the Y -- I enter the swimming area and, wouldn't you know it, it's all women in there. Every lane but one is taken -- the center lane. I put my towel down, pull my goggles on and slip into the water. Instantly, the suit balloons out like a grade school, gym class parachute, soaks up a couple gallons of water, and then starts feeling really heavy. I figured, "C'mon... there's a drawstring. They're not going to fall off."

So, I started my first lap. Before I take my first breath, the top of the suit slips down to about plumber level and, with each additional stroke, threatens to slip down even further... like to Chris Farley level. I managed to finish the first length, but had to pause at the opposite end of the pool to figure out some sort of suit-bondo that would at least allow me to get back to the other side without flashing a "full crabby."

I rolled the waistband over a couple of times and it seemed to tighten things up a bit. Just to play it safe, I did the breast stroke on the way back. I went really slowly to keep the friction to a minimum, but about halfway across I could feel the waistband unrolling and my junk unpouching. I stopped at that point and just walked back to the wall, dragging my deflated circus tent along with me.

It was at this point that I noticed the young, freshly scrubbed life guardess looking down at me from her lofty perch. She basically had a bird's eye view of the whole fi-ass-co, and, frankly, she didn't seem pleased. I decided to do everyone a favor and just call it a day. Another couple of laps and the cops would've been called and, to tell you the truth, skinny-dipping in that water, whether intentional or not, is a good way to catch a bad case of "the drip."

So, tomorrow I try out "The Spiffy." I tried it on today -- modeled it for the Old Lady. It basically makes the area from my waist down to my knees look like some sort of Lycra blood sausage. It's really quite revolting. But I think I'd definitely rather be known around the Y as "Squeezie VonPorkcasing" than "Harry McCrackandsack." I just hope I make it out of there tomorrow without getting slapped.

Portrait of the Fartist As A Young Girl...

So, the Old Lady called tonight, conveniently right before she was supposed to get home to help out with the spawnage, and informed me that she was going out to tip a few back with a couple of her fancy professor cronies. Which is fine, mind you -- I'd do the same if'n I had a crony.

But that meant that I, and I alone, had to feed the li'l rugrats, bathe them, help with the homework and the piano practicing and all that other nighttime bullshit that "parents" have to "do." So, while I was getting dinner ready, Mr. Z was finishing up his homework and Miss O was drawing at the table. I popped by to see what she was up to, and found her finishing up this so-cute-it'll-make-you-shit self portrait:



Isn't that the shit? Her new thing is making herself jump up in the air in all her pictures, and she's started drawing herself looking off to the side like that a lot. Classic. And it looks surprisingly like her, to boot. Except for the giant three-fingered hands and the club-foot.

So, I get back to fixing up the vittles, and Mr. Z comes waltzing in and, before long, the two of them are flipping their lids and yelling at each other. Miss O said, "Dad! Mr. Z drew a mean picture of me!" He replied that, in fact, it wasn't mean and that it looked exactly like her. This is what he drew:



I totally had to hold in a giant blow-snot-outta-my-nose-laugh 'cuz I think the drawing is fucking hilarious. It doesn't look anything like Miss O, of course, but it is such a perfect older brother making fun of his younger sister's drawing drawing that it was hard not give him props for it.

It all evened out in the end, though, as Miss O brought Mr. Z to the verge of tears after she jinxed him during dinner and refused to say his name.

Payback's a bitch, Mr. Z.

My Boy the Fartist...

From the sounds of it, the spawnage have a fairly inspired art teacher at school. They come home with some pretty wacky projects that aren't usually your bullshit construction paper, yarn and Elmer's grade school slapdash-o-ramas. Mr. Z has been talking about a t-shirt that he's been working on for the last coupla weeks -- apparently, each kid created their own design and then made some sort of crude silk-screen to transfer it to the shirt. He came home wearing the finished product today:



Is that the greatest fucking t-shirt ever, or what?! Robots rule. Truer today than ever.

ME: That shirt is AWESOME, Mr. Z!

MR. Z: Yeah... it's not what I originally wanted to do, though.

ME: Really? What was the original idea?

MR. Z: It was going to say 'Robots Rule but Aliens Drool," but it wouldn't all fit on the shirt. So I just went with 'Robots Rule.'

ME: Wise choice. I mean... what else is there to say?

Maybe I should quit my job and have Mr. Z just crank out more unwittingly ironic slacker shirts that I could sell over at Urban Outfitters for like 40 bucks a pop. The boy's a marketing genius!

Rectum?! Yep... sure did...

Oh, hi. I didn't see you there, as I was busy picking pieces of my ass off the floor... you know, the ass that had been ripped clean offa my backhole after pulling a brutal all-weekender, right after pulling a brutal three-or-four-week-freelancer. If I don't ever have to descend into that seeping, hellmouth of a basement to plop my no-longer-there-ass in front of those soul-sucking giant monitors again, it'll be too soon. What's that? I have to do it tomorrow? Oh, okay.

I have to say, though, that part of me relished the challenge of the all-weekender. It was an impossible task I had to accomplish -- create this massive audio demo, chock full of sound effects, music and voice-over, for this project we may or may not get -- but I think it ended up sounding pretty craptacular. It reminded me of the old days... back when I could stay up working until two in the morning, back when I knew people over the age of nine, back when the only extremity that tingled was the one that was supposed to tingle... back when I didn't have to look for energy in the bottom of a 1/2 gallon coffee mug... back before my fucking neck started getting all crepe-y.

The other part of me, though, relishes being a crabby fucking shitball. Who the fuck wants to stay up until two? Working, no less?! And I like hanging around people under ten -- they're very easy to please, I can crack their asses up by simply blowing a fart, and if I manage to feed, clothe and mildly amuse them on a fairly regular basis, they think I'm the fucking shit. And I like coffee, goddammit.

But the crepe-y neck thing is a fucking pisser.

Work-O-R-Kuh-and-Oh!!!

I know I've been absent since Thursday's post but I've been working my bung off on this ridiculous last minute project for work that has managed to suck up the last three days and nights like some sort of sucking machine that sucks things dry until they can't be sucked no more.

Wait a minute... why am I horny all of a sudden?

Anywhich, I'm still neck-deep in the muckety-fuck, so I'll have to catch up with all the wacky, crabby goings on tomorrow sometime... which, by the way, is rumored to be another snow day...

[SFX: a single tear dripping onto a computer keyboard]

I Told Me So...

Do I really need to talk about today? Is it necessary to mention the goddamn foot of snow outside and the again-with-the-no- school and the hacking/hocking spawnage and the dickloads of work I have to do? Yeah, I thought not.

I will mention this, though. Remember that game I invented where I basically take a nap on the couch and the spawnage put different things in my hand and I have to guess what said things are? Well, we were playing that again (surprise) and there was one item that had me completely stumped. It felt like some sort of little vial, and when I shook it, I could hear something lightly clattering around inside of it, but I couldn't figure out what the fuck it was. Finally, I gave up and opened my eyes. This is what I was holding:



It's a tiny glass jar that Miss O has apparently been saving her discarded, used band-aids in. That's my girl. Little Dr. Frankenspawn. You know, she's always wanted a little sister... maybe she's trying to clone a wee, scabby version of herself. Who knows what other little jars she's got stashed away, stuffed with fuck knows what? I think the next time I play the guessing-while-napping-game, I'm gonna wear me some rubber gloves.

Loogie Houser...

Well, both of the spawnages are sick... again. There's seems to be a never-ending, boogery river of snot, phlegm and sputum that courses straight through the crabbyhousehold, and it looks like she's never gonna stop a-flowin'. Of course, I blame their mutant, bacteria-encaked classmates, smearing their infecto-fingers 'cross the desks, chairs and water fountain spigots of the school, while wheezing out their viral plague-vapors through their crud-taminated cakeholes.

The trouble is, they've already been out of school so much with the snow days and the other 'mystery' days off that there's no way I'm going to keep them home unless they have a fever, or they're bleeding from their eye-sockets. They've been waking up kinda iffy, but once they get all lubed up with a glass of juice, they hock up a coupla lung oysters, perk up and then they're rarin' to go. Thankfully they inherited their perkiness-in-the-face-of-infirmity from the Old Lady, instead of my I'm-gonna-die-from-this-scratchy-throat feebleness.

Though, looking at the overnight forecast, I'll bet the left half of my rucksack that they're gonna close that fucking school again tomorrow. One to three inches tonight and another five during the day. Motherfucker. Who's the moron who built this state so fucking close to Canada?! What a dick.

Then again, we're the assholes who moved to a state known as "the mitten."

Screw That...

This weekend was quite the handyman's special for ol' crabbydad. I got that "there's too much cluttery crapshit in this house" bug all up in my sphincter, and I went on a major purging spree. I started in the basement and just started chucking shit into a giant hefty-hefty-hefty bag. I didn't make a fucking dent in the impacted colon that is our basement, but I filled the bag, so at least it felt like a satisfying dump.

I also unearthed the camera tripod I was looking for that I was thinking of using for my "Cooking with Crabbydad" idea. I ripped it apart and had this bright idea that I was going to duct tape it to my bike helmet for the ultimate first-person-shooter-type head cam. I got it all taped up and it looked pretty fucking awesome, but when I strapped it to the ol' noggin', I almost a) fell over, and 2) choked myself with the helmet's neck strap. There was no way I was gonna be able to keep that thing on my head and cook a fucking meal without auto-asphyxiating myself in the process -- and that's not really the type of video vibe I was going for.

So I ripped the duct tape off and tried to figure out another way to mount the crabbycam. I ended up just sticking the tripod pole through the front of my belt and then taking another belt and cinching it around my chest, making a sort of Baby Bjorn camera holder. It works surprisingly well -- as long as I don't try to crouch down, 'cuz then I'll pull a Phineas Gage through the ol' nutsack. I'm gonna try to do a test run sometime this week and see just how unfunny and ill-advised this whole moronic idea is going to be. (My prediction: "extremely" and "way.")

I also decided to finish replacing the few remaining light switches/outlets that I promised the Old Lady I'd replace back in July of 2004. Things were going along swimmingly until I forgot to trip one of the breakers for the upstairs playroom, and I literally electrocuted myself. Serious lightning bolt from my fingertips to my already tingling toes. It was classic -- the Old Lady was at the grocery store and the spawnage were downstairs watching tv, so if I had actually succeeded in killing myself, no one would've found me for a good 3-4 hours. Luckily, it was only enough electricity to singe the hair off my knuckles and make me go "NYARRRRRGGGGGNNMRRFFFFLLNNNGGG!!!"

Oh, I also put up a wall coatrack hanger thing in the mudroom/back hallway area AND it didn't rip itself right outta the wall when I hung the spawnages' coats and backpacks on it, which is totally bonus for a crabbydad-screwing-something-into-the-wall type project. It'll probably crash to the floor overnight, but it managed to stay up for a whole day, so fuck yeah!

So what's that... three home-improvment projects in one weekend? Shit, man, I'm good until at least 2011.