Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Cheese (b)Log...

Well, tomorrow we leave for our first vacation in... uh... I think it's forever? It's nothing fancy, mind you -- first, we stop off in Chicago for my parents' 50th wedding anniversary party, and then it's off to tropical Lake Geneva, Wisconsin for... well, basically the same shit we do here, but in Wisconsin. We're meeting an old college chum of the Old Lady's who has spawnage the same ages as Mr. Z and Miss O, so it should be hunky-fucking-dory. For them, at least.

I don't know how much posting I'll be doing over the next week and a half, but I'm taking the ol' laptopper along, so we'll see if they have any fucking wi-fi in WI.

I do need a serious break, though. I'm just wiped the fuck out. I think I'm finally getting over my Boola-Boola, but I've got the energy level of a goddamn banana slug on 'ludes. I'm hoping the fresh dairy-air of the badger state will help air my pale, withered ass out. I am lactose-intolerant, however... well, either way, air and my ass will somehow be involved.

Hopefully I'll return with renewed vim and/or vigor and I'll be rarin' to walk amongst the living, once again. I'd like to rare... I haven't rared in quite some time. Rarely do I rare. That doesn't even seem like a word anymore... rare.... rare... eh, what is that?! Oh semantic satiation, you are a fickle mistress.

See, this is why I need a vacation. I'm pretty much clinically a moron at this point. Maybe a dolt. Or a simp. Probably more of a dunderhead, actually. I'd know what I was if I weren't such a clod.

I better stop before someone gets hurt. I'll check in as soon as I can. In the meantime, hey, enjoy your vacation from me.


Tuesday, June 24, 2008

It's Not Me... It's You....

Well, it's over. I'd be kidding myself if I said I didn't see this day coming. We were just too different -- different needs, different passions, different ideas of what exactly constitutes "cleanliness." It was just there, hanging over us for all these years... not a question of "if" it was going to end, but rather "when."

I'm leaving you, YMCA.

Don't get me wrong -- I loved the over-chlorinated pool, the scalding cauldron-like temperature of your bilge-y water, the roving hordes of locker room septuagenarian coots lathering their sagging ballsax in my general direction. The final straw, though, was that they've changed the summer lap times to 5 a.m. - 7:30 a.m. Yeah... THAT'S gonna fucking happen. The only things swimming in this house at that hour are my kidneys, engorged with a nightfull's-worth of crabby-piddle.

Plus, after Bob-the-guy-at-the-front-desk died, no one knows who the fuck I am over there, anymore, so the time is ripe for an exit.

Today, the Old Lady and I got a family membership at Court One, the fancy-schmancy tennis club that's literally a 5 minute walk from the Crabshack. It's not really fancy-schmancy, but compared to the Y, a club foot is fancy. And we didn't sign up for the tennis part. We're not tennis people. We're not even racquetball people. Nor ping-pong people. No, we're more like whacking-dirt-clods-with-a-stick people.

But we did get the membership that includes swimming (indoor AND outdoor pools), the bigfuckingass cardio room, the basketball courts, the steam room, the whirlpool, and the all the free classes we want, like kickboxing, yoga and other shit that I didn't read about in the booklet... jazzercise, maybe?

And it's basically the same price as the Y, so what the shit, ya know? I don't owe the Y any fucking loyalty. I mean, what am I doing at the Y.M.C.A. anyway? a) I'm not "young." 2) Okay, I am mannish. iii) I'm definitely not Christian. And D) I've never trusted "associations." So I'm not even their target demographic. They're probably happy to be fucking rid of me -- fucking godless heathen.

So now, I can just stroll on across the road and swim any goddamn time I want. Oh, and did I mention that this new place hands out free towels... as many as you want. Free! Towels!!! I'd be lucky to find a soiled wet-nap stuck to the bottom of my shoe, at the Y.

Yep, it's definitely over, Y. Time to move on. I'm cleaning out my locker. Aw, c'mon, don't start crying. You'll find someone new. Some young Christian man, straight outta college. Your individual membership is still very alluring to someone like that. Besides, I'm no good for you, clogging your shower drain with my hair, and making all the old ladies uncomfortable when I ask if I can "share their lane." And you were never into my kids. Sure, you had that half-assed climbing wall, but I could tell your heart just wasn't in it. You can barely take care of yourself, let alone the spawnage. No, it's best that I just go.

Let me just leave you with this... there's no need to feel down.
Just pick yourself off the ground.
Because you're in a new town
There's no need to be unhappy.

Saturday, June 21, 2008

2:22 -- Time to Move On....

Last night the Old Lady basically gave me the Olympia Dukakis from "Moonstruck" treatment re: my current sickliness and anemic-attitude -- "Snap out of it!" I realized at that moment that, sure, I may feel like crap but I've basically been a shitball to live with, of late, and I'm not doing anyone any favors by bellyachin' all the fucking time.

So, I tried the only sure-fire way of snapping-out-of-it -- I recorded a song with the spawnage. And it worked. I give you "2:22," a musical tribute to Mr. Z and Miss O's favorite time of day. And, best of all, it's exactly one minute long. With a little luck, it will be voted "The Official Song of 2:22." Fingers crossed! Of course, you can do your part by playing it every day (and night) at 2:22. Enjoy.

2:22 by Mr. Z and Miss O

Thursday, June 19, 2008


You know, I knew that going to the doctor was going to be a bad idea -- the Old Lady even told me so -- but did I listen? Uh, that would be a "negatory." I went to my family practice doc to see why the shit I've had what seems to be the flu for more than 10 days. Innocent enough. So what did I get for my troubles? A prescription for an antibiotic so powerful, it kept me up LITERALLY all night and today every joint in my body (except "that" joint) is in total pain. Baaaaad antibiotic. Seriously, my body feels like it was in a goddamn car wreck last night. The fucking pill should come with an airbag... for my airbag.

Oh, and I had to go get a CT scan of my sinuses this morning at 7 a.m. Not that it mattered what time it was 'cuz, hey, I WAS UP!!!

Can I just start this fucking year over, please? Holy shitfuck, it's been a shitfucker.

So, I called the doc this morning and gave him a "what the shit?!" and he said, through his nurse of course, "Hm... yes, those symptoms can occur with that pill. I'll call a different one in for you." Gee, don't put yourself out, Doc! I looked this new one up online and, luckily, it's the shit-your-ass-out kinda antibiotic, instead of the break-your-whole-body kind.

Shit, I can handle. (figuratively, of course) I'll just sleep in the tub for the next 10 days.

Seriously... what am I doing wrong?

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

BuTt There's Nothing to Do...

Miss O started camp this week but, unfortunately, Mr. Z's camp doesn't start until next week, so he's been moping around the house, bored off his ying-yang and begging to play the goddamn Wii all day. Oh, and did I mention he's sick... again?! Woke me up at 4 a.m. this morning with a fever. I'm beginning to think our house is built out of that toxic mold shit... or maybe WE are. All I know is that, in some way, shape or form, there's a fungus amongus.

Anywhich, I'm not taking the easy way out and letting the boy diddle around with the Wii for half the day. Call me krazy, but I don't think it's healthy for him to virtually kick Meta Knight in the throat for 15 hours in a row. Nine hours, maybe. No, we're mixing things up with a little TV here, some reading time there, some drawing time, some practice-your-fucking-piano time, and even a half-hour a day of "Hey, let's go over some math problems and see what you remember!" That's his favorite.

He's spending most of his time drawing, though. He's like a boy possessed, bent over his notebook, huffin' marker fumes and whipping off ream after ream of wildly decorated dead tree skin. Some of it is most excellent -- new characters, stories and video game ideas. A lot of it, however, is this:

It's like a Tourette's Graphic Novel. Or a shitty version of Dr. Seuss. Dr. Deuce, maybe. It really is all about butts and shit for that boy, though. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm the first one to laugh at an errant turd sketch or blow snot out of my nose at the sweet sound of a well-timed fart, but Mr. Z is truly an excrement expert, a crap connoisseur... a fartuoso, if you will. I guarantee, that lad will grow up to either be a proctologist or.... I dunno... a scat singer?

I wonder where he gets this shit? Must be his mother.

Monday, June 16, 2008

Your Lips are Sealed...

So, here's what Blogger is teaching me -- if I take about 12 seconds to crap out a three word post, I get eight comments. If I actually sit down, reflect for a moment and then spend 3 to 5 minutes crapping out a somewhat introspective 403 word essay, I get zilch. Basically, you're reinforcing me to shut the fuck up. I can take a hint.

Last week, we started our CSA thing (Community Supported Agriculture) and I have to say, kudos to Burbanmom for turning us onto this thing -- it's farmfuckingtastic. Every Monday, we show up at the pavilion where they normally hold the local farmer's market, and we load up on our share of veggies and shit. (And it's real shit, too -- clinging to said veggies!) Here's a pic of last week's harvest:

Dug straight outta nature's asshole and into my mouth! It's fucking awesome. It really gives you that holier-than-thou feeling that gives you license to look at all those planet-killers in the Kroger produce section and say, "How DARE you, ma'am?! How DARE you!"

And it's tasty, to boot. Here's the dinner I made for the Crabbyfamily tonight with the spoils from today's harvest:

A little penne with cannellini beans, kale, Swiss chard, Parmesan and an assload of garlic. Mmmmm-mmm! Can't you just taste the moral superiority? I sure did, you imported-from-other-countries-vegetable-eating-bastards.

And speaking of bastards, I'm WAY over my word limit for tonight. This post is over.

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Crabby Father's Day...

It's Father's Day, and as I sit here, a week of flu-funk beginning to slough off my gray and withered frame, the virus-veil slowly lifting from my sheet-white crabplexion, I salute not the fathers of the world but, rather, the mother of the crabbyworld. Happy Father's Day? Nay, today I say, Happy Old Lady's Day.

This woman, this SAINT, has basically nursed me back to health from her already spawn-crowded (yet still amazingly pert and shapely after all these years) teats and today, a full nine days after I initially succumbed to this diabolical indisposition, here I sit, on the road to wellness and engorged with her restorative, loving life-milk.

Figuratively, of course. She'd never let me near those things in the shape I've been, lately.

She has endured end-of-the-school-year functions, grocery shopping, movie-attending-with-the-spawnage, weekend birthday functions, breakfasts, lunches, and dinners, and countless other thankless parental obligations, all without the slightest help from yours truly, Johnny Deathbed.

PLUS, throughout it all, she's endured countless hours of my non-stop puling, bellyaching and disease-speculating. "I don't think it's the flu -- maybe it's appendicitis!" "Who has the flu for a fucking week?! This isn't the flu... it's definitely something more in the cancer family of ailments." "Wait... does this rash smell like Ebola to you?!"

I SO would've divorced me by now, it's not even funny.

And how is she being rewarded, this paragon of parenthood, this matriarchal marvel, this fetching Freda? Well, she wanted to go see the "Sex and the City" movie tonight, by herself, and so, that's what she did after dinner. And she just got back, and apparently some skeevy douchebag came up to her, in the completely empty theater, and asked if she minded if he sat down next to her. Apparently, he also said, "It's so loooonely in here." What the shit?! She looked at him and, in her best stern mommy voice, said, "Yes, I MIND!"

He high-tailed it to the other side of the theater and then apparently bolted before the movie was even halfway over. The shitball's lucky he got outta there with his fucking grape-sack still attached. You don't fuck with the Old Lady, especially when she's out solo for the first time in nine days.

So, there you have it. I dedicate this Father's Day to the Old Lady -- the best dad a whiny, sickly 43 year old baby could ever ask for.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Jeezus Returns...

Today, at exactly 1:59 p.m. EST, someone in the Wethersfield, CT vicinity posted a comment to my very first blog post ever, a post cobbled together some two-and-a-half years ago. They had apparently been performing a Google search for "who invented Polly Pocket dolls" and were directed to moi.

It's painful looking back at that post, and remembering how I fucking labored over it and wondered if I should actually hit "publish" and how, once I did, my whole life could potentially change FOREVER. Now, it's painful to think that I've actually sat at this goddamn keyboard 569 times since then and ham-fisted out my bullshit blatherings over and over and over again. And did I mention over again?

I do love how the recent commenter is obviously fucking pissed off that I don't seem to understand that THEY CALL IT POLLY POCKET BECAUSE SHE'S POCKET-SIZED YOU DOOF!!! And it is "doof," by the way, "Jeezus." From the latin "doofus," meaning "lacking and/or being in serious need of a grip and/or clue." I don't mean to call you out in such a public forum, Jeezus, but here at crabbydad, we spell our disses correctly, or we don't diss at all. Wait... or is it "dis"?

Anywhich, Jeezus, I am.

A doof.

Monday, June 09, 2008

Will Someone Just Pull the Plug, Already?

After just about hocking the snot-hydrant/lung-oyster plague out of my feeble system, you know, the one that's been ripping me a coupla fresh new ones every day for weeks, I've been inexplicably stricken with the goddamn flu. What the shit, immune system?!!

Friday night my puny muscles started feeling all achy, and I just chalked it up to the crunches I've started doing at night, to rid my puny frame of the spare tire that suddenly morphed into existence at age 43 -- okay, it's more like one of those mini-wheel spare tires --something you might find in the trunk of a Hyundai Accent.

Anywhich, I woke up Saturday morning all dizzy and shit and I had a fever. And that was it -- down for the fucking count all weekend and today, and if this fever doesn't break soon, tomorrow, too. Guess it's official -- my parents bought the 42 year warranty and it officially expired this past March. Oh well -- it was a good run, ol' paint.

Oh, and have I mentioned that I haven't squeezed out a Lincoln in, like, two days?! I'm so goddamn dehydrated that my colon's like a toboggan run in the middle of August. I'm tellin' ya, the system is shutting down, and I'm not sure a reboot is in the cards.

And the poor Old Lady -- it was just her and the spawnage all fucking weekend as I lay comatose in my fever-induced funkage. Not really sure what all they did. I know that she did take them to see "Kung Fu Panda" in Lansing, yesterday, at the exact moment when a tornado was spotted... in Lansing. I guess everything turned out okay -- they came back. All I know is that once my Boola-Boola clears, I'm gonna be picking up a shitload of the slack. Which I will do readily, if'n I can punt this pandemic.

Fuck it, I'm going to sleep. Again. My bedsores are exhausted.

Sunday, June 08, 2008

An O-tobiography...

The one great thing about the end of the school year is that all the incredible drawings/writings that the spawnage have been cranking out finally make their way home. Miss O has apparently been keeping a journal in her class since September, and it's brilliant not just because it's fucking hilarious, but because it shows just how far she's come as a writer/drawer over the course of nine months.

Here are a few of the highlights:

"Akupl" is my new favorite word. I will try to use it akupl times a day.


You're never too young to get ripped off by your brother.

That drawing could well be my next tattoo.

I like the post-bump crazed look in her eyes. Luckily, brain cells regenerate quickly at age 6.

This scarred her. She'll be talking about this event to her therapist in 20 years.

Luckily, he blew all the money on cotton candy and sour gummi worms. All he ended up getting was $10 worth of diarrhea.

Never too early to get the freak show started!

Yes you are, Miss O. Like it or not, every member of the Crabbyfamily is cold lunch.

Wednesday, June 04, 2008

Narc, Narc... Who's There?

Today I had to drag my buttock on over to the spawnages' school, during my lunch hour, to watch Mr. Z graduate from the D.A.R.E. program that they've apparently been indoctrinating him into all year. See, the end of the year is chock-full-o this kinda shit, day after day -- D.A.R.E. graduation, end-of-year parties, some outdoor classroom thing Miss O's doing, Mr. Z's actual graduation from 5th grade, ice-cream socials, rummage sales, talent shows, music programs, donate a kidney week, stool-collection day -- you know, myriad events that I have all the time in the goddamn world for because it's not like I have a fucking job to do, or anything.

So, I truck on over, video camera in hand, and watch the cops hand out their certificates and goodie-bags, as they remind all in attendance that one sip of Schlitz or a puff off an errant "marijuana-cigarette" will ruin their lives FOREVER and cause their blossoming bodies to break out in weeping chancres and fistulas, and then the terrorists will have won, so don't even fucking think about it, got it?!!!

And Mr. Z is still in his total law-and-order phase, so he's lapping this shit right up. He told the Old Lady and I that he's never going to have sex because then he'd catch AIDS and HIV (which he pronounced "hihv"). He also wants us to put the D.A.R.E. bumper sticker on our car -- you know, it's kinda difficult to explain to your child why you don't want an anti-drug sticker plastered on your bumper. We ended up just saying, "Uh, we're just not bumper sticker people." We told him he could put it on his car, when he gets one -- right next to the NORML and the "Gas, Grass or Ass: No One Rides for Free" bumper stickers he'll be sportin' by then.

It's strange, though. Of course I don't want him to go nuts with the drugs (and certainly not until he's old enough to buy his own bong), but at the same time, there's something that creeped me out about that D.A.R.E. graduation thing. It just seemed kinda brown-shirt-y to me. Then again, I first started smoking pot when I was 13, and that's only a little over three years away for Mr. Z. So, you know, maybe striking a little fear into the lad at this point is a good thing. I dunno. Wish I had a fattie to light up so I could ponder all this shit a little deeper.

Anywhich, the boy made this incredible poster for the event and I thought I'd share a bit of it with you. He didn't win the poster contest -- the four that won were bullshit do-gooder numbers with fancy lettering, pretty colors and lots of trite "stay off drugs" messaging. Buncha fucking amateurs. Mr. Z did things his own, twisted way. Check its look:

The Smokes!

The Hooch!

The Doobage!

The Peer Pressure!

And finally, his analysis of the rampant deception found in today's cigarette advertising:

And he's coming up with that shit without smokin' a blunt. I guess the boy's on some kind of natural high. Though he may be copping a contact buzz from inadvertently huffin' his magic markers.

Hm. Where's that Sharpie?

Monday, June 02, 2008

My Big Mouthful of Fart Wayne...

I survived gearfest and all I got was this shitty blog post.

So, as expected, Gearfest 08 sucked duck balls. It was basically Sweetwater Sound trying to unload the same shit they sell online for, like, 8 dollars cheaper, and then there were a buncha lame-ass presentations and booths and shit. And the fucking decibel level of this fiasco basically turned my withered peanut-brain into withered peanut bread-pudding. Mmm... pudding.

Everywhere you looked, there'd be some wanker wanking away on a guitar. I'd think, "Hey, I hear a band," and then look up to see some balding longhair dickwad standing in front of 20 amps playing Joe Satriani solos over some pre-recorded backup band. Basically, this:

Here's the riveting, packed to the rafters presentation I went to about the newest version of Digital Performer:

That is not to say, however, that the weekend sucked shitballs. Quite the contrary. I had a fucking incredible 24 hours in Fart Wayne and I owe it all to my tripmates, whom I will call "Craig," "Brain," "Fill," and "Nyason." I literally have not laughed as hard or as long as I laughed this weekend in many, many years. My spleen still hurts. As do my nipples, for some reason. Strange.

I won't get into everything because a) most of it won't translate and 2) I don't feel like it. I will attempt to convey a few highlights.

Let's see, after Gearfest, we went to the hotel and had some drinks in the restaurant. It felt like one of those round tables in some New York deli, where wrinkly old comics sit around and try to crack each other up. I was already wheezy from my chest congestion, but after an hour at that table trying to make each other blow nachos out of our collective nostril, I pretty much needed a fucking oxygen tent.

See, I'm trying to 'splain it, but it's not funny. You had to be there.

After that, we went to a Fart Wayne Wizards minor league baseball game, which was a blast. "Fill" was blowing shit at the Dayton Dickwads' first baseman for the whole game and I was convinced I was going to take a line-drive to the face. We drank beer, watched fireworks and then picked up some hooch at a liquor store called "Cap'n Corks."

Oh, okay this might be a great story. As we were unloading the libations in the hotel parking lot, this drunk, bald, body-builder-looking dude with no shirt and a tumbler in his hand walked by us and said something like, "You guysh don't appreeshiate yer freedom!" We kinda looked down at our feet and nervously mumbled, "No, no, we do, we do," as he shuffled over to his pickup. We tried to high-tail it the fuck outta there, but he came walking back toward us, and this time we noticed that he had what looked like the handle of a BIG knife sticking out of his waistband.

Oh fuck.

So, the dude comes up to the car and, after asking us if we had any spare Oxycontin, launches into this half hour rambling monologue chronicling everything from his recent discharge from Iraq, his broken back that he got from paratrooping into a log, the $350 bottle of Merlot that he was drinking (in a tumbler filled with ice), his father's recent suicide that was actually a murder, the reason he was carrying a giant fucking knife in his pants (which was the fact that he's been working as a bounty hunter and just missed catching a guy last night who would've netted him $10,000 in bounty money), his beautiful daughter whose whereabouts he is constantly monitoring on his laptop that has 16 different Google maps windows open at all times, and the fact that he's been home from the war for two days but he hasn't called his family yet because he doesn't want them to see him in the shape he was in. Oh, and the fact that he hadn't slept since he got home. And that he wanted us to got to Cap'n Cork to check out "the dark-haired lady behind the counter with the giant cans."

Later that night, I sketched a picture of the dude:

Sheesh, even that crappily drawn likeness is giving me the fucking willies. Five bucks the dude has this blog open on a 17th browser window on his daughter-monitoring laptop. Please don't hunt me down, bounty-hunter-marine-dude. I'll get you some Oxycontin if you just leave me and my family alone. Oh well, at least I have a good reason never to go back to Fart Wayne.

I know this is a rambling pig-fuck of a post... actually, it pretty accurately reflects the rambling pig-fuck of a night we had there. The rest of the evening is somewhat of a blur. I remember eating a wretch-worthy abortion of a meal at a place called the Cork 'n' Cleaver -- it was supposed to be seared tuna, but it tasted more like cold, chewy turd-jerky, heavy on the ass sauce. I also remember trying to choke down some of the Absinthe back in the hotel room, but having a bit of trouble because the glowing green liquid burned my uvula off and melted my neck. And I remember waking up on Sunday morning feeling as if someone had snuck into the room overnight and shoved a fucking burlap sack filled with sand and cotton up each nostril and wiped the inside of my mouth with urinal cake.

But most of all, I remember having the best time I've had in, like, forever, and just laughing my skinny ass way the fuck off. Those dudes are the greatest, funniest fuckers in the world and we have to find a way to do something like that more often. Thank you Craig, Brain, Fill and Nyason for reminding me that I'm not just "Dad" or "the Old Man" or "the weird, pixelated guy on the tv," but that I can also still be, I don't fucking know, just one of the guys, I guess.

Here's to Gearfest '09!