I don't know how I'm feeling about this new, above-ground crabbydad. I don't know if it's the higher concentration of radon-free oxygen, or the constant bombardment of the UV sun rays, but he's kinda douching my crabbybuzz. Por ejemplo, yesterday, after picking up the spawnage from school, I rallied said spawnage (whose natural instinct is to scurry inside and stay there... as is mine) to go on a fucking bike ride around the neighborhood.
Who am I... Ozzie McHarriet?!
Oh, and they actually enjoyed the ride, by the by. For like a half an hour! They fucking loved it -- didn't argue, didn't complain about their legs hurting, didn't plow into the back of any parked cars. (Well, Mr. Z did get his wheel stuck in a sewer grate, momentarily, but he didn't even rack himself.)
And then yesterday morning, on my way out of the Y, I picked up this little ticket for the circus that's coming to town.
Now, I've picked up the exact ticket for the past three years, always thinking, "Hey, maybe I should take the spawnage to the circus. They'd probably dig it." Then I'd stick the thing in my pocket and forget about it. You know -- the time-tested, crabbydad way.
This time, though, the new above-terranean (is that that opposite of subterranean?) crabbydad got online tonight and ordered four row-three tickets to the goddamn circus! Can I get a "what the shit?!" Row three! The fucking clowns are going to be all over us like... like stink on clowns. We'll be close enough to feel the warm mist of elephant whiz raining down upon us, and when one of the motorcycles goes spinning out of control and bursts through the walls of the metal death-sphere, we'll be the ones ripped to shreds, as the steel-spiked tires tear through our sallow-usually-inside-people skin.
And it's all because of this dick: Go-Get-'Em-Dad.
The dude's gotta be stopped. If I don't keep his gumption in check, he's gonna do something really fucked, like volunteering to run the school rummage sale or, even worse, signing the spawnage up for after-school soccer practice. I think I'll go sleep in the basement tonight and force him back down into the dessicated, lifeless husk of my crabbycore where he belongs.