Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Crabby New Year...

That note marked the START of our trip to Chicago, so you can imagine how it fucking went from there. Here's the rest of the hell-voyage:

  • Icy fucking roads in western Michigan added a good two hours onto an already rectum-ripping drive. Came close to dying in Paw Paw.
  • Miss O had the flu the entire trip -- fever, hacking cough, didn't eat anything, non-stop whine-a-palooza. Which was EXCELLENT.
  • The Old Lady and I had to sleep on a futon that was apparently hewn from living rock. That's okay, though... didn't need my pelvis anyway.
  • Left a day early to avoid hellish weather but managed to be permanently inscribed in my mom's shitlist for missing the "family" reunion. Thing is, everyone at the reunion was like a fifth cousin many times removed so what the shit was the big fucking deal?! But I'm pretty sure I'm now out of the will forever.
And that was it. Merry fucking Xmas. Oh, and because Miss O was sick, the Old Lady and I couldn't spend a night in the city at the goddamn Sofitel, like we had planned, 'cuz we had to be around to talk her down from the constant NIGHT TERRORS she was having. (And for those who haven't experienced their spawn having a night terror -- holy shitballs, that's some freaky fucking shit. Like Exorcist kinda shit. Scarred me for life, that girl did.)

Oh, and I've been thinking about what to do with this blog for the new year. I think I've come up with the ultimate Bowflex-of-a-resolution idea that, in true Bowflexian style, I'll stick to for about a month and then start hanging my clothes on it. The idea?


Simple, right? Record and complete one song a week with the spawnage and post it here. I may not even make it through week one. I dunno. But it's something. I mean, if I can stick to this fucker, I'll have 52 songs by 2010. That's like a quadruple album. Makes "Double Live Gonzo" look like a fucking EP. Full Bluntal Nugity, my ass.

So, yeah, I'll give it a shot.

It'll never work.

See ya next year.

Thursday, December 11, 2008


A word of advice for all those parentals out there loading up your Netflix queue with nostalgic films from your childhood that you're convinced your spawn will love because movies were fucking awesome back then and the shit they put out today can't hold a fucking candle to the masterpieces of your youth:

If you've got "Benji" in that queue, blast that fucker outta there, immediately.

Holy fuckstain, that is a steaming, worm-studded dog-turd of a film. And I use the word "film" only because watching it left a silty, shit-flavored film on my goddamn teeth. And no amount of brushing can scrub the B.M.-y aftertaste outta my kibble hole.

Here's the actual minute-by-minute breakdown of the movie:

For the first 19 hours, Benji trots down the sidewalk, stopping to see some moron kids, eat shit out of a trash can, visit with a cop in the park and get a bone from Uncle Joe from "Petticoat Junction." (No, Uncle Joe doesn't actually "bone" Benji, but that would've at least spiced this fucker up a bit.)

Then Benji does THE SAME EXACT SHIT AGAIN. Same. Exact. Thing. Kids, shit, cop, bone. It's like that fucking Teletubbies show. Lather, rinse, repeat. Enough to make me wanna cave my skull in with the remote.

Then, the guy who played Eb, from "Green Acres", and this guy who was on four episodes of "Fantasy Island" talk about goddamn PUDDING CUPS for four fucking hours. I shit you not. Pudding!


Oh, and in what seemed like the last 30 seconds of the movie, some kids get kidnapped, Benji saves them and they get to keep him.

And after that, I kicked in the TV screen.

The End.

I sure as fuck hope that writer/director Joe Camp was spayed and/or neutered after the first screening of this shitball. God DAMN what a piece of turd.

Can't wait to see the next movie in our queue: "Benji the Hunted."

Monday, December 01, 2008

Road Drip!

Spent Tanksgibbon with the spawnage at my folks' house in suburban Chicago. You'll notice no mention the Old Lady in that sentence -- no, she decided to stay home to "get some work done." Something about "making sure she gets tenure" so she doesn't "lose her job" and force us to "live in my parents' basement" and "only eat Ramen."

So, I'm not gonna go over all the myriad ways in which the trip was a pain in the fucking shitterhole, and how I didn't get any sleep and how the spawnage argued constantly and how my parents keep their house so fucking hot and dry that my skin turned all Slim Jimmy and my lips are so fucking chapped that they resemble what I would imagine William Hickey's anus used to look like.

I will, however, tell you about how I almost pissed my pants. See, I drink a lot of coffee in the morning. I don't necessarily LIKE to... I have to. This, combined with the fact that my bladder can apparently hold only one fluid ounce of liquid at any given time, makes close proximity to a bathroom pretty fucking crucial. So four hour car trips kinda blow donkey balls.

So, I peed before we left, and then I peed again at the BP station about five minutes later, just to make sure I was gonna be golden for at least an hour or so. Ha, golden. Get it? We hit the highway and things were pretty good... that is, until we hit the first toll on the Skyway that was backed up for about a mile. As we sat there, parked, I could feel my ureters filling up like a coupla giant, taut balloon animals, if balloon animals were filled with steaming, water buffalo piss. The spawnage were going nuts in the back seat, asking me for snacks and telling me to change the DVD and I really started to feel like I was gonna piss my fucking nappies.

Traffic finally got moving after the toll booth, but there's really nowhere to exit on the Skyway and I started thinking about pulling over onto the shoulder and draining it right then and there. But it was starting to snow pretty fucking hard and it was getting pretty slick and, frankly, sliding into a ditch is bad enough without pee-soaked trousers, so that was a no-go.

I decided to tough it out and get to the 94. I floored it and we started hydroplaning eastward. While the pain in my schvantz-sphincter was becoming unbearable, I was fairly confident it would remain pinched-shut for at least another 20 minutes, or so. And, to make things even more exciting, Miss O was now screaming that she had to pee, too. I plowed forward, the tinkle practically gurgling in the back of my throat by now.

Finally, just as a fine, misty pre-pee was starting to dribble outta my dingus, I spied the first exit with a gas station sign. It was in a town called Chesterton, and we were barely gonna make it. Now remember, the Old Lady wasn't with us, so I had to take Mr. Z and Miss O into the men's room with me, which is always a fucking joy. We skidded off the highway, slammed into the parking space, ran into Speedway, threw open the men's room door and there we stood, face to face, with the nastiest fucking shit-sprayed, hellmouth I've ever seen. Seriously, it was spattered with so much shit and random effluvia that is looked like a giant, 3-D Jackson Poo-llock painting. And the smell? Well, I'm imagining it's what walking into Dom DeLuise's transverse colon might smell like. But worse.

But it didn't matter, 'cuz we had work to do. I yelled to Mr. Z, "Go pee but DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!!!!" Then I ran Miss O into the single stall that HAD NO DOOR ON IT, and stared into the hellmouth portal. It was truly a work o' fart. The outside of the bowl was caked in B.M. and the seat had about 3 gallons of piss puddled upon it. Miss O shouted, "I'M NOT SITTING ON THAT!!!!" I agreed. So I pulled out an entire roll's worth of toilet paper, wrapped it around my hand like a fucking boxing glove and wiped that fucker down. Then I piled another entire roll's worth on top of the seat and had her sit upon it. She ended up sitting about two feet above the rim with all the padding underneath her.

Now, if you've been following closely, you'll realize that I still haven't peed yet. My eyes were bulging outta my urine-filled head at this point and I danced around, waiting for Miss O to finish. She finally did, I told her to run to the middle of the room and stand next to her brother and to "NOT TOUCH A FUCKING THING!!!!" as I bolted to the urinal and unleashed a raging torrent of steaming bladder juice that would've had a fucking elephant cowering in fear. Steam poured outta that urinal like a fucking bathhouse.

Twenty minutes later, I was done.

After we scrubbed every nook and/or cranny of our bodies with paint thinner, shaved our heads and burned our clothing, we were ready to get back in the car and continue the trip home.

So, despite your crap-spackled nastiness, Chesterton, the crabbyfamily thanks you from the bottom of our farts.

Or, as Mr. Z likes to call you, "Ches-turd-ton."

[SFX: toilet flush]