Crappy New Year...

Let's see if I can fire this ol' bad boy back up for 2010. I'll get things off with a rousing start with Mr. Z's doodle of a urinating hermaphrodite turd.

Have a great year, everybody!

What to Do...

I want to return to this thing in 2010... I just don't know what to do to make it less, how you say, shitty. Should I do audio? Video? Write using only wingdings?

I'm open to suggestions. Ready go.

Better Than Ghosts!

Found this in Miss O's backpack...



Me? I would've gone with "B: Brains!" but that's what makes Miss O special. (By the way, she won a gold medal in board-breaking at the Tae Kwon Do tourney last Saturday. Methinks she'll ever be hassled by zombies with the chop/kick combo that she wields.)

Taking a Pill... The Hard Way...

My question, "But what if I only have the one?"

Crabbydoc I'm Not...

The one thing I really hate about being a parent is the uncertainty of it all. Especially when the spawnage are sick. Colds I can handle pretty well but this flu shit leaves me a tightly-packed shitball of neuroses.

Example 1: Miss O wakes up this morning with a nastyish sounding cough. Other than that, though, she seems fine -- no fever, the cough is dry, spunkiness intact. Thing is, yesterday, Mr. Z had a little cough and he ended up coming home with a fever and the flu. So, do I send her to school and take the chance that she's going to take a turn for the worse, or do I keep her at home to stew in the viral hell-cloud being spewed willy-nilly by Mr. Z and the Old Lady?

Solution? I sent her to school. And I've been sitting here waiting for the call from school all fucking day. It's killing me.

Example B: Mr. Z has the full-on plague. 103 fever, hacking cough, flushed complexion, sleeping in the middle of the day -- the whole sack-o-shit. Last night, he woke up burning hot, and this after giving him two Advil. No effect. Now, I know it's a virus and fevers are part of that, but usually they respond to Advil. So I'm sitting there at three in the morning trying to decide whether or not to wake the fucking doctor up and ask him what the shit to do. I didn't call.

He was still alive this morning, so that's a plus. I called the doc this morning and they said to just keep monitoring him and make sure his temp doesn't hit 105 and to keep him well-hydrated. Okay, fine. He crashes on the couch for about an hour, out cold, then wakes up kinda babbling. Half coherent, half Nutty Professor. I walked him upstairs to his bed and he said...

MR. Z: Can you put the crush on the bed?

ME: The what?

MR. Z: The crush! (points to a fuzzy orange pillow of his... that he has NEVER called "the crush.")

ME: Oh, the pillow. Sure.

MR. Z: And can you pull up the Oprah?

ME: Huh?

MR. Z: The Oprah! What, are you deaf?

ME: [no idea what the fuck he's talking about] Uh... the comforter?

MR. Z: Duh!

So, clearly, his brain is melting and I'm sitting here with my thumb up my ass doing nothing about it. Holy shitfuck, this kinda shit kills me. And it doesn't help that the Old Lady is sick, too, so I have no reality check to turn to. She usually yangs my yin (though, sadly, not in a while...) so I don't freak the shit out when they're sick.

So here I sit, waiting for them to either get better or expire. Frankly, in my mind, it could go either way. The only sure thing is that if this stomach acid continues squirting into my colon at the rate it's currently a-squirtin', I'm going to be able to feed myself through gaping open hole where my belly button used to be.

The Score, Thus Far...

Old Lady: flu

Mr. Z: flu

Miss O: beginnings of a cough

Grover: licking his balls

Me: looking for ass that this week has ripped clean out

On Second Thought, DON'T Pass the Rolls....

Tonight, during dinner, Mr. Z was explaining how he successfully guessed the passwords of two of his friends (the passwords were "bobthebuilder" and "callofduty4").

I then chimed in with the nightly crabbydad nugget-o-trivia, asking if anyone knew what the most common password was. No one did, so I explained that it's "password."

Everyone busted a gut but Mr. Z laughed so hard that he literally blew a nickel-sized snot ball out of his nose that just happened to land, appropriately enough, on the green Incredible Hulk Popsicle he was eating. Miss O and I thought that that was fucking hilarious but the Old Lady, not being a champion of nosely excreta, went into a sort of convulsion-of-revulsion and nearly ralphed on the proceedings.

Grover, in turn, started barking his no-longer-functioning balls off and it turned into some sort of rip-snortin' snotenanny.

We finished dinner by coining some Sniglets that best describe the act of laughing so hard that you hork snot outta your schnoz...

We came up with "snocket," "blowger," "blowjectile" and "snart."

Feel free to add your own.

Some Pig(s)...

Well, I've tried to defend and advocate for as long as I could but after this morning, I've realized I must relent and admit that, indeed, men are fucking pigs. I throw up the fucking white flag. You were right, women, we're disgusting. It only took three dudes in the locker room, this morning, to finally convince me.

Dude #1: Johnny Ballsack. Not a new character to the locker room, mind you. Johnny struts around naked as a fucking jaybird, airin' out his mandibles for all to see. It's like he's a retiring hacky-sack salesman who's desperately trying to unload the last of his wares. Yes, Johnny, I see your nuts... they're super. And thanks for putting one leg up on the bench while you towel off your hair so I can see them dangle there, weighted down like a Hobbit's weathered coin pouch filled with magical elfen nuggets.

Dude #2: Danny Diarrhea. Every fucking day the dude walks into the locker room, drops his back on a bench, enters a stall, shuts the door and then blasts a fucking shitstorm into the defenseless bowl that sounds like Ernest Borgnine explopding in a sensory deprivation tank. I mean, what the fuck does this guy's diet consist of, Beanie Weenie casserole, poured over raw scrapple, smothered in nitro-glycerin gravy... stuffed inside a polska kielbasa? Seriously, his asshole must look like fucking Chernobyl. Ring of Fire?! This dude's probably got a goddamn Necklace of Fire.

Dude #3: Clippy McToenails. Okay, picture a portly 70-ish Pakistani man in a maroon tracksuit, sitting in the middle of the lockerroom clipping his motherfucking toenails... with no regard for hither and/or thither they might be landing. And the dude must have like 40 toes 'cuz he was a-clippin' when I got in the shower and was still a-clippin' after I was fully dressed and leaving the locker room. "Tink... tink... tink...." 70 year old toenail shards shooting all over the goddamn place like a fucking cartilaginous meteor shower. Fucking disgusting.

And who knows what the shit these fuckers are doing in the goddamn pool. Where's my Speedo haz-mat suit when I need it?

Bark-in' up the Family Tree

So, the vet offered to give the Grovernator a DNA test to see what the fuck kind of mongrel he is and we, being insufferable yuppie-fucks, said, "Bring it, Doc!"

Well, one crisp hundy and two weeks later, the results are in:



Just as we expected... he's a fucking mutt.

Thank you, science!

Puppy Got Back...

I haven't had the energy to post lately but I did want to jot down Mr. Z's new name for Grover...

Sir Licks-a-Lot

Carry on.

I Know That Bitch!

The Old Lady thinks she may have stumbled upon Grover's sister:

Sis?

She's also from Toledo and she looks pretty much exactly like the Grovester. Of course the first thing I said was, "We're not adopting another fucking dog!" But deep down, I thought it would be pretty fucking awesome if a) it actually is his sister and 2) they could hang out together.

But no fucking way.

So, I call upon one of you to adopt Sage and then swing on by for the big family reunion. If she's anything like her brother, she's energetic, fun-loving, loyal and loves to lick her balls. Ready... adopt.

Knock it Off!

Mr. Z got me in trouble at camp, today. He came home with this note:



Lessons learned?

1. When busted, Mr. Z will sell me out in a fucking heartbeat and lie about not knowing what a "peter" is to save his skinny ass.

B. Camp is a fuck of a lot wimpier nowadays than when I was a kid. Shit, in my day you'd be hard-pressed to find a camp song that DIDN'T mention a dick in it.

3. I guess I should postpone my plans to teach the "Diarrhea Song" to Miss O this weekend.

Better Call Encyclopedia Brown...

The Grovester shits about three times a day -- one or two "on the road," during his walks, and then another couple in the backyard. Until recently, it's been pretty easy to find the ones in the yard and bag 'em up. Usually, I'll see him all hunched over into that I'm-pinchin'-a-big'n, doggy question mark stance but sometimes I miss it and have to go a-huntin'.

In the past week, though, an assload of leaves have started falling into the yard -- brown, curly leaves. I think there must be a B.M. tree nearby 'cuz now everything looks like a fucking turd. Tonight, the Old Lady and I couldn't find his late-night leavings and we were trying to sniff the lil' smokies out.



That's when I came up with my idea for a dogshit-locating detective show. Each week, the private dick would show up at a different yard and try to hunt down the missing dumps.

Okay, it's a shitty idea, but it gave me an opportunity to come up with some half-assed, dogshit-related detective show puns, so indulge me.

Here are the potential show names, so far...

Turder She Wrote
The Rockford Piles (or as Mr. Z amended, The Rockfart Piles)
Barna-B.M. Jones
Poo-lice Story
Hill Street Poos
Homicide: Turd on the Street
Nancy Poo (Miss O came up with that one)

and my favorite, Magnum P.U., starring Tom Smellit.

Holy shit, I think the fumes have gotten to me. I need to wash my hands and get some sleep.

Just Call Me Hairy Howldini...

I think I know what my next job is gonna be... Dog Magician!



====UPDATE====

Alas, my delusions of animal magician stardom have already been coopted by the Japanese...

http://www.boingboing.net/2009/08/27/chimp-enjoys-magic-s.html

One Dog, No Cup...

I hit some sort of dog-owner milestone today.

I pulled a clump of shit-caked, long grass strands outta the dog's asshole after he hunched and strained all over the backyard for about five minutes trying to pinch the motherfucker off.

From this day forth, please greet me by shaking my left hand.

Right Back at Ya...

I've gotten my second comment from 家出, in as many days...

"最近様々なメディアで紹介されている家出掲示板では、全国各地のネットカフェ等を泊り歩いている家出少女のメッセージが多数書き込みされています。彼女たちはお金がないので掲示板で知り合った男性とすぐに遊びに行くようです。あなたも書き込みに返事を返してみませんか"

I ran it through an online Kanji translator and this is what I got...

"Net cafe in nationwide various places etc. stay and are written a lot of messages of the walking runaway girl in the leaving home bulletin board introduced with various media recently. It seems to go to play at once with the man who got acquainted on the bulletin board because they do not have money. Will you also return writing the answer?"

All I have to say is, Walking Runaway Girl -- do NOT got to play at once with the man who got acquainted on the bulletin board! Not only do he not have money, but I'm guessing he got acquainted on bulletin board with many walking runaway girls in nationwide various places. Please, do not return writing the answer... him. Stay away from leaving home bulletin board and various media.

Trust me, you'll thank me later.

Non-Dog post...

Conversation this morning, as I dropped Miss O off at camp:

ME: [after spraying her with bug spray] Okay, don't forget to put more on in the afternoon.

MISS O: Who are you calling a moron?!




My work is complete.

The Ghost Chicken and Mr. Grover...

The Grovernator hasn't been drinking as much water, lately, as we think he should -- especially since it has been so fucking hot and humid that my fucking Balzac has been hanging to the ground like a leatherette kilt. He seems to dig ice cubes but he's not lappin' up the agua fria very much.

So, the Old Lady found some dog forum on the ingernachts that suggested:

You can get your dog to drink more water by adding low sodium chicken broth to it to enhance the flavor.

Not a bad idea, actually. So we poured a little chicken water in there and this is what happened:




We're guessing he smelled the chicken and was just searching around for the goddamn hunka meat. It went on for about 10 minutes... until all the chicken squeezins were splashed all over the kitchen floor. The whole house smells like a fucking poultry bathhouse now.

The dude's either brilliant or he's a fucking dumbass... I can't tell. We'll see what happens tomorrow when I dip the end of his tail in some Clamato.

Bathtime at the Crabbshack...

Losing My Dognity...

5 Things I never thought I'd do before owning getting a dog:

A. Put a dog turd in the refrigerator.

2. Lather up a doggy dick.

3. Pay over $700 in two days for 2 pet hospital visits.

C. Pull a dingleberry off of a canine bung-hole.

5. Walk around the neighborhood with a purple bag of shit in my hand.

[Okay, I had done three of those before owning a dog, but they were done recreationally, not out of obligation.]

I Almost Stepped in a Poodle...

So, whatta you do when you have to take your dog out to shit and there's a fucking thunderstorm raging outside?

Fuck if I know, I'm asking you.

Well, I didn't want the Grovester to drop a steaming deuce in the house, so I grabbed the umbrella and out we went. There's was actually a momentary break in the downpour, so I figured we could get in a quick trot around the block, he could pinch off a dugan, and we could get back home without getting drenched.

Yeah, right.

We got about halfway around the block and the fucking sky opened up like god's sphincter and just doused us with his holy ass water. The umbrella was fucking worthless. I figured if I could just get the dog to the little strip of grass in front of the big fancy house where I always get him to dump, we'd be able to book home and not be completely douched.

So, just as we get there and Grover is squatting down to lay some puppy pipe, a fucking elephant-sized ball of white-hot, blinding lightning exploded, literally, like a sac hair away from my face. I swear to shit, I thought I was dead. I not only pissed my pants, I pissed Grover's pants, too.

The dog's asshole slammed shut like a snapping turtle on a pinkie toe and he fucking bolted down the street, dragging me behind him. We started racing toward home like the two of the Three Stooges being chased by a gorilla (I was Moe and Grover was... let's say Shemp). We got about halfway down the block and I had to stop -- I had a fucking cramp and I didn't care if I was gonna get zapped. I couldn't run anymore.

(And by the way, thanks for nothin', swimming. I think I'm in shape from all these fucking laps I do and then I run half a block and almost pass out. Stupid water.)

Anywhich, we finally made it home without getting kilted and we went inside. Of course, now Grover was soaked and he smelled like a pile of inside-out rectums wrapped in asparagus-pee-soaked wool,army-surplus blankets. But he wasn't dead, so that was a bonus.

And there you go -- we made it a whole week and the dog's still alive. Pretty excellent. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a dog to clean.

They can go in the washing machine, right?

What the Shit? Gland...

Here's something I learned today from the dogs.lovetoknow.com (I added a few of my thoughts while reading)...

_____________________________
For Die-Hard Do-It-Yourself Types

Many breeders and owners feel capable of expressing their dog's anal glands themselves. They're dicks. However, one should be prepared for the anal gland secretions to appear and smell quite disgusting. Seriously?! That surprises me. If you feel this is a task you are willing to perform, here are some basic directions. Please be advised, that you should only perform this procedure on your own dogs and never someone else's. Because the bible says, "Thou shalt not express thy neighbors' dog's ass sacs."

1. Prepare a warm moist washcloth.
1b. Shove moist washcloth up dog's "bung."
2. Locate your dog's anal glands by raising his tail and using your other hand to feel for two lumps at approximately five and seven o'clock on either side of his anal opening. Whatever you do, don't feel at "midnight." This is known as a "rusty dogbone."
3. Holding the cloth over his anal opening to prevent an unpleasant squirt (You mean like that Jonathan Lipnicki kid?), begin applying firm but gentle pressure to the sacs (which is what he said). This should cause some of the fluid to be expelled through the rectal opening, thereby emptying the glands. Some people call this "shitting." Wipe your dog's behind clean, and the job should be finished. As should be any shred of self-respect you had left.

If you notice blood or pus in your dog's anal gland secretions you should probably get yourself a hobby. It is likely a sign of infection, and you should contact your vet for an appointment and treatment. But it's a good idea to wash your hands before making the call.

_____________________________

A) Who knew dogs had fucking "anal glands."

2) Who knew said fucking anal glands might some day need "expressing."

iii) I ain't expressing no fucking anal glands.


We couldn't have just gotten some fish...

Dog Day of Summer Deux...

Actual conversations I had with Grover today...

ME: [grating Parmigiano Reggiano] This is CHEESE Grover. CHEEEEESE.

GROVER: ...

ME: Tell you what. If you can say "Cheese," you can have a hunk.

GROVER:...

ME: Nope. No cheese for you.

___________

ME: [6 AM, standing outside in my robe, waiting for Grover to pee...] Are you gonna go potty?

GROVER: [not going potty]

ME: C'mon! You wake me up at 6 AM and you're not gonna pee?! Just piss, okay?

GROVER: [pees about a thimble-ful of whizz]

ME: You win this round, my scruffy friend. But don't come running to me when you have a dried turd affixed to your ass hair.

GROVER: [sneeze]

____________

ME: [throwing frisbee in backyard] GO GET THE FRISBEE, GROVER!

GROVER: ... fuck off.

Dog Day of Summer...

Apparently, I was just not crabby enough. Apparently, I needed less sleep, less money, less time to myself and assloads more frustration.

Apparently, I needed a dog.

So, we drove down to the Toledo area yesterday and came home with Grover, rescued mutt extraordinaire.



His full name, according to his genealogist, Mr. Z, is Sir H. Grosvner Scruffington of the Barkshires. His given name is "Gordon." I actually thought that name was fucking hilarious for a dog. I love human names on dogs. Like Chuck. Or Kevin.

But I was the only one in the crabbshack who liked Gordon, so we had to find something we all agreed on. Stupid democracy. The Old Lady went with the nerdily obvious "Albus."

Fuck no. Like we're not already big enough nerdarinos.

We eventually decided on another "G" name, so as not to confuse the pup. Or course, Mr. Z and Miss O came up with the unusable "Goopula." Then I thought, "Why not just switch the letters around a bit. No use wasting some perfectly good letters."

ME: What about "Grodon"?

MISS O: [laughing, secretly]

MR. Z: What's so funny?

MISS O: Nothing.

ME: No, really. Why is Grodon funny?

MISS O: Isn't that the 'thing' on boys?

MR. Z: [laughing hysterically] NO! That's "scrotum"!

So, he's Grover.

This is gonna be ruff...

Dinnertime at The Crabshack...

MR. Z (reading a magazine): What's vee-aggra?

ME: It's "viagra." And what are you reading?!

OLD LADY: It's a pill for men who can't get an erection.

MISS O: What's an erection?

MR. Z: It's so weird! It's when your thing gets hard and sticks out. I get one when I have to pee or when I see a cute girl.

MISS O: Hm.

ME: Hey, who needs more milk?!

Fowl Play...

I'm pretty sure a dove tried to kill me tonight.

This morning, I went into the garage to get the paper and as I got ready to hit the door opener, I bird darted outta some invisible space/time continuum rip and started flapping in my stupid face. I got the door opened and it eventually flew the fuck out of there but not before infarcting my goddamn infarcter.

I figured the thing must've built a nest in there somewhere, so I looked around until I saw a bunch of twiggy looking shit on top of the garage door opener mechanism box thingy. I climbed up a ladder and not only did I find the nest, but I also found a lone egg perched atop it. So, I did the only humane thing to do and scooped up the nest/egg combo, walked to a tree in front of the house and wedged it amongst the twiggery.

Now I know you're not supposed to move a nest or touch an egg 'cuz then you'll give it human cooties and the bird will never touch it again, but what the shit -- I wasn't gonna leave it in there and risk getting my eyeballs pecked out by an overprotective mother hen... er, dove. Besides, I'm still so fucking pissed at those goddamn woodpeckers that ALL BIRDS are on my shit-list, so fuck them. Did I mention that our car was pancaked with dovey ass-batter? Well it was, so it's ON.

Cut to tonight, as I'm out back grilling up some veggies for dinner, when I hear a giant fucking crash echo through the crabby'hood. I thought someone's basketball backboard crashed to the ground or maybe Miss O found a live grenade in the street, so I walked around front and saw that the garage door had crashed down onto one of the plastic sleds that Mr. Z was fucking around with this afternoon, and the Old Lady was trying to extricate what was left of the sled from the door's death jaws. The cables from the pulley things on either side of the door had completely snapped and the door smashed down, hermetically sealing our garage in a Tutankhamenian sarCARphagus.

We tried to pull the door up but that fucking door weighs like a fuckillion pounds and we barely got it lifted a half-millimeter before my hyena popped out. Motherfucker! And, of course, both cars are IN the garage so we're basically fucked until we get the thing fixed.

So yeah, the dove did it, I'm convinced. I touched its stupid egg so it sabotaged our garage. Garagotaged! I'm giving the woodpecker the day off tomorrow and I'm going after that fucker. And if all goes as planned, the crabbyfamily's gonna be having some squab and eggs for dinner tomorrow night.

Song Fu 3: Electric Booga... lee?

It's that time again... time for me to beg you to vote for my song at the never-ending Song Fu contest:

Blah, blah, VOTE, blah, CRABBYDAD, blah, TURDS

Have I mentioned that I'm SO ready for this thing to be over. I've actually wanted to start posting here on a more regular basis, but this contest has sapped any stink of extra late-night energy right outta me.

Obviously, a lot has happened over the last month or three. Here are some of the highlights:

1. Tae Kwon Do + Miss O = medal

2. Spelling Bee + Mr. Z = trophy

3. tooth + looseness = Miss O losing first tooth ever

4. Me + wet burrito from The International Traveler's Club and Tuba Museum = cramps and explosive 'rrhea

5. basement + workers + all of our money = new basement

6. woodpecker's return + dad's bb gun = we'll see?

Let me know which one you want to hear about first and I'll get to it just as soon as I lose the Song Fu contest.

Z-mail

This letter mysteriously appeared in the mailbox yesterday...



I knew something was fishy, as today is the day that my parents spawned me, but I played along with it.

MR. Z: Hmm... who's that letter from, Dad?

ME: I have NO idea. Someone named "Rich Dethlefsen" from Mason?! I'll bet it's just some sort of real estate thing or maybe a coupon to some cruddy store in Mason.

MR. Z: Yeah... are you gonna open it?!

ME: You know... I think I'll wait until tomorrow when I open my other birthday cards. That way it'll seem like I got more stuff.

I could tell that he was dying for me to open it but I managed to drag it out until this morning. Sure enough, upon opening the mysterious letter, I found this inside:



And of course an original Mr. Z poem:



Apparently, he told the Old Lady a couple of days ago that he wanted to "trick" me on my birthday by hiding his card in a "bill." A classic Mr. Z idea, by the way. He got the dude's name and address from the phone book. The funny thing is, yesterday after school he told me he wanted to run next door to see if his friend P could play. I told him that P wasn't back from school yet and he replied that he wanted to go ask the nanny if P could play once he did get home. I told him to just chill and wait a while. Now I realize that he wanted to stick his faux bill in the mailbox so it would be mixed in with the mail when I went to get it. Apparently, I was being inadvertently dickish. I'm good at that.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go write Rich Dethlefsen a thank-you note.

Pecker Trouble Redux... Again...

The woodpecker is back.

It's been waking our asses up at around 7:30 a.m., which isn't bad during the week but on the fucking weekend, I'm worthless unless I get to sleep in until at least 7:40. So I've been bolting outta bed, grabbing my wrist-rocket and a handful of BBs and running outside to try and pierce the tiny pecker's tiny pecker with my eagle-eye wristrocketmanship. The problem is, my eagle-eye is kinda like the dead, cloudy eyeball of that old Master dude from Kung Fu, so, needless to say, the bird has survived my "onslaught."

Today, I decided to at least cover up the largest of the pecker-holes (on the house, mind you) with some aluminum flashing that I keep around for just such an occasion. I did some fancy metal bending too, so it would kinda zig-zag over the lip of the siding and blend in a little better. I set up the ladder, grabbed some screws and a drill and prepared to climb up to seal my pecker-hole.

With the Old Lady holding the ladder, I climbed up to the top and then... I fucking froze there like a goddamn deer in headlights... that's been dipped in liquid nitrogen. Apparently, when one is on the verge of 44, one gets this crippling fear of heights and today, for some reason, my brain said, "Fuck it. I'm done. You better drill that fucker in with your honkin' schnoz, 'cuz I ain't letting your hands offa this goddamn ladder." Complete and utter High Anxiety.

So I finished piddling in my nappy, shuffled back down the ladder, threw the drill on the ground and told the Old Lady that if she wanted the hole plugged, she'd have to drill it in herself. (Which is, surprisingly, the first time I've ever had to tell her that in the 23 years that I've known her. Go figure.)

She climbed up four rungs of the ladder, paused, and then climbed back down. At least there was one person more chickenshit than I. So I did the only thing left to do. I walked inside, grabbed my old Xanax prescription that I still had from last year when I thought I was dying, popped 1/2 of one in my pill-hole and then waited for it to kick in.

Half an hour later, I bounded up the ladder, drilled five screws the fuck in, and slid down into a perfect 10 point landing. Have I mentioned how much I fucking love Xanax? I should have a hollow tooth with a pill in it at all times and then all I'd have to do is just bite down on it in times of stress. Note to self: call dentist in the morning... oh, and then drive to Canada to get shitloads more Xanax.

This would, of course, be a great story if it ended right there but, unfortunately, an hour later I was in my upstairs study droppin' a deuce when I heard that familiar tap-tap-ratatatatatafuckintappin' on the same wall, about a foot to the left. Motherfucker!

So I went outside and sprayed that bird-dick with the hose.

It's gonna be a long fucking spring.

There's no "U" in Wii....

So the Old Lady's gotten herself hooked on "Animal Crossing," one of the game we have for the Wii. It started during her Spring Break and now, almost every night after we put the spawnage to bed, she scurries downstairs and ties off, heats her Wii-mote over a lighter and shoots a little AC junk into her veins. Which is great for her -- she usually hates video games... I think the last one she played was... I don't know, Frogger?

The thing is, I'm usually the one who bolts downstairs after tuckin' in the spawnage. I've got my little routine -- stop off at the kitchen, grab a sleeve or two of Thin Mints and a glass of water, poke my bony ass points into my perma-indents in the couch and either play Animal Crossing myself, or play a rousing game of Bobby Buttons with the fucking remote. But now that the Old Lady's gone all Amy Wii-nehouse on me, she's fucked it all up.

So, I'll usually just sit there next to her, while she goes fishing or plants some fucking flowers, and make comments that, apparently, really piss her off. Things like, "You know, it'd be easier if you'd just go upstream a little and let it float down toward the fish," or "Are you almost done because watching you play this game is about to make my head fucking explode." Seriously... watching someone else fish in Animal Crossing is akin to watching water boil... which then proceeds to bubble the fuck over and splatters all over your face until strips of said face peel off like fruit rollups and you look like that dude in the bathroom in Poltergeist.

But we worked it all out... she's still playing and I stomped upstairs to complain about it in the blog I don't update anymore. See? Everybody's happy.

Farty Arty...

I know I haven't posted in a while -- I've got no fucking time, goddammit. Someone's gotta invent some new kind of blog thing where A) I don't have to type, 2) I don't have to think, and C) I can do it while taking a shatner. Invent that and I'll post more often... deal?

Anywhich, I've got a coupla great drawings by the spawnages that I thought I'd share. The first one, by Miss O, is presented to you as a public service, really. She's apparently learning about ears in school, of late, and she has a couple of illustrated pointers for proper ear maintenance.



That's right -- always wash your ears until they sweat and don't put bass drum mallets all the way in your ear. You heard it here first. Get it?

And Mr. Z and I have finally added another episode to our ongoing graphic novella, "The Adventures of Cheez Man." This episode finds our fromage-y hero once again in the evil clutches of Angry Pickle, the kingly kosher dill-etante. Again, for those unfamiliar with this wildly successful series, Mr. Z and I alternate drawing panels until they're all filled in. There is no consultation between us while drawing... which is why it makes no fucking sense whatsoever. Enjoy...



Thought I'd make it all the way through without drawing a turd, huh? You don't know me very well at all, do you?

And speaking of turds -- there's your post. Another one pinched off, for your pleasure. Don't forget to flush when you're done reading.

Who Effed?!

[conversation in kitchen last night]

OLD LADY: So, I dropped an F-bomb in a meeting today.

MR. Z: YOU FARTED IN A MEETING?!?!

ME: [spraying hot tea outta my nostrils] No, while "dropping an f-bomb" sounds like it should be about farts, it actually means something else.

MR. Z: What is it?

OLD LADY: I said "fuck."

MR. Z: Whoa! Your students must think you're mean.

OLD LADY: No, I said "fuck" in a meeting with other professors.

ME: But you're right, Mr. Z, Mom's students do think she's mean.

I swear, every day our conversations become more and more like some sort of dysfunctional Bazooka Joe comic.



VOTE HERE FOR CRABBYDAD

Challenge 2: Electric Fu-galoo

The voting has begun for Round Two of the Song Fu challenge:

VOTE HERE FOR CRABBYDAD

I'd implore you to vote for my song "Machine," but it seems pretty fucking futile at this point. Not to sound bitter or anything but... oh, wait, bitter is my thing. Okay, bitterly, I say that it's pretty fucking impossible to compete against people with 12,000 YouTube subscribers and/or websites shared by best-selling author siblings. I mean, maybe it's fair but at this point, regardless of whether my song is "the best" or whether it sucks shitballs, there's virtually no way for me to break into the number one or two spots because I don't have a virtual army of cyber-sheep hungrily devouring every musical turd I blast outta my fanny.

But hey, it's not about the winning, is it? It's about... no... I'm pretty sure it's about the winning. Oh well. If you like my song, maybe you could vote for it. Multiple times. From multiple different IP addresses.

See, this is why I don't like to compete in things. If this contest were a checker board, I'd have flipped it off the table weeks ago.

My name is crabbydad, and I am a spoil-sport.

Let's Take an Okay-tion...

I used to think the Old Lady and I were lazy, neglectful parents because we never really take the spawnage on fancy family vacations -- you know, Disneyworld, China, Frankenmuth... shit like that. I've come to realize, however, that we're actually geniuses. See, the spawnages' vacation expectations, their 'expacations', if you will, or maybe their vacexpections, if you won't, are now set SO FUCKING LOW, that anywhere we decide to take them is a goddamn travel extravaganzeleh.

Case in point -- for the five-day President's Day weekend (and feel free to re-acquaint yourself with my feelings about that) we're jetting off to beautiful Ann Arbor for one and one-half days and one (1) craptacular night at the Hawthorne Suites, sandwiched between frantic shelf-clearing visits to Whole Foods, Trader Joe's and H&M.

The spawnage, literally, could not be more excited. Mainly because "the Hawthorne" has a pool and a little area off the front desk that sells candy, where they're allowed to pick out ONE of WHATEVER THEY WANT!!!! Seriously, the thought of being able to ingest a "regular-sized" Butterfinger in one sitting completely blows Space Mountain or The Great Wall or the America's Only Nazi Village Theme Park, outta the fucking water.

Geniuses, I tell ya.

We're leaving bright and early tomorrow so we'll have plenty of time to properly peruse the seasoned nut aisle at Trader Joe's, load up on bottles of wildly over-priced vino at Whole Foods and, maybe if we're feeling generous, stop off at the Natural History Museum so the spawnage can look at a coupla shitty dioramas and pick up some local superviruses from pushing all the buttons.

Who knows... maybe if this trip goes well, we'll really push the envelope next time. Two and a half days and TWO nights in Flint!


Oh, and don't forget to vote for our song in the Masters of Song Fu #3:

Click here and vote for crabbydad or else you'll make Miss O cry!

Toodles!

New Post... BUT KEEP VOTING!

STICKY: Please vote for my (and Miss O's) song here:

Click this sentence with your mouse-y clicker!

As of 11:21 PM tonight, we're in second place. Not first, mind you, because I don't "do" first place. Or it doesn't "do" me. Nope... me and Bobby Brady... losers. Just like the goddamn ice cream eating contest -- Bobby was fucking chowing down on that bowl and then ol' Porky McSnarferson ends up getting the golden scoop.

Why can't I ever get that golden scoop.

It's the kids today with their loud ukulele music, that's why. No one has time for old men and their calypso songs. Oh well... maybe the crabbyfamily will have a trophy for me at breakfast tomorrow morning: "Honorable Mention Parent."

An old man can dream, can't he?

[a single tear drips from cheek, splashing on a nearby box of adult diapers]

End scene.

VOTE EARLY, VOTE OFTEN!

Please vote for Crabbydad's song at Quickstop Entertainment's Song Fu contest:

Vote for Crabbydad

I've gotta make it to Round 2 -- it's the only thing that's gonna get me through this shitball of a winter alive. Seriously.

VOTE!

Oh, and if you can tell 900 or so friends to do the same, that would be most helpful. Thanks.

Hangin' in the Showers...

Mr. Z and I had the following conversation regarding his post-swimming gym class, yesterday:

MR. Z: So, I was toweling off after taking a shower and all these guys started yelling at me to cover myself up.

ME: What do you mean? Weren't they taking showers, too?

MR. Z: Yeah, but they weren't taking off their bathing suits.

ME: And what... you were naked? What's the big deal?

MR. Z: I don't know. They kept their suits on and they were yelling, "Gross, Z, cover that up!"

ME: So what did you say to them?

MR. Z: I said, "What, you guys've never seen a WANG before?! Get used to it!!!"

ME: You know what? You couldn't have had a better comeback if you tried. That's awesome!

MR. Z: Those guys are so weird.

ME: Hey, maybe next time you can say, "Don't worry fellas, I've got a license to sell hotdogs."

THE OLD LADY: (from the other room) NO!! Don't say that!

ME: Yeah, your mom's right. Stick with the "never seen a wang" thing. That's probably your safer bet.

MR. Z: (laughing) Heh... hotdogs...

What the Fu?

Okay, I'm back... kinda. I entered this song contest thing here:

song contest thing

... and I've gotta write a fucking "happy" song by next Tuesday. The irony is not lost on me, thank you.

So yeah, I'm thinking of starting to post more... maybe. Plenty of shitballs have foisted themselves upon me since we last spoke, so I shouldn't have too much trouble coming up with topics. We'll see how it goes.

In the meantime, please enjoy this poem by Mr. Z that he wrote the other night while atop the crapper. He's a regular "Smell Silverstein."

Cellar?! I Hardly Knew... the cellar...

Okay, so I haven't really started the new year with a blog-writin' bangeroo, have I? Well, what the fuck do you want from me, goddammit -- I'm a slow ramper-upper. Plus, I've been emptying out the goddamn hellmouth of a basement we have because, yes, the builder fellas start work on the ol' basement redo THIS MONDAY. This mofo is going to be the Taj Mahal of basement rehabs... the Taj Mahellmouth. It's even gonna have walls and a floor and lights and outlets and fancy shit like that. Plus, it'll no longer be so fucking cold that when I descend into it's murky, radon-spore infested nether-regions my nipples'll no longer snap off like a coupla liquid-nitrogen dipped pencil erasers.

I'll be Mister Fancy Basement, I will. With intact nipples! Warm, intact nipples. Mmmmm... intact nipples.

Anywhich, that's also the reason my song-a-week idea has been kiboshed upon 'cuz I had to move all my recording wizardry into my temporary office in the soon-to-be-guestroom. I suppose I could try to record them up here but it'd definitely have some serious pigfuck potential. And I think it's way too early in the year for a pigfuck, don't you?

Oh, and did I mention that the Old Lady leaves tomorrow for a four day jaunt in New Orleans for a "conference," while I'm stuck here in fucking Antfartica with the spawnage? Nothing like a long weekend with a coupla cooped-up spawnages and temperatures so fucking frigid outside that it could freeze a... a... something that's really hot that normally wouldn't freeze very readily.

AND the Old Lady's taking the "good car" to the airport, so we're stuck with the car with the treadless tires that are balder than... I dunno, balder than Howie Mandel's ball-sack. (I'll tell ya, not blogging for awhile has definitely taken a toll on my simile production capabilities. Gotta work on that.)

So, we'll see... maybe this weekend will produce the second song-a-week offering. Or maybe the spawnage will upload a recording of themselves beating me to death with their Dino-Tubulars. Hard to tell.

Stay tuned...

Song #1... 51 more to go...

All right, there's no fucking way I'm gonna crank out a song a week, but I did get the first one done over the weekend, so... one. I think it's a pretty fucking awesome tune with which to kick off the new year, I might add.

It's called "Dino Tubular" and it's a song the spawnage wrote about a mysterious gift they each received over the holidays. The lyrics are pretty self-explanatory, so I'll let them explain it. Oh, and if you like the song, please forward it to five friends. If I'm gonna be recording this shit, I want people to fucking hear it, ya know?

Ready, go.



Dino Tubular
by Mr. Z & Miss O

We got a package that felt like clothes
But what it was, nobody knows

We opened it up and what could it be?
Was it a toy, it was cylindar-y

Then we unrolled it and it had some writing
It said "Dino Tubular," was this for fighting?

Dino Tubular

We couldn't figure out what this thing was for
It had silhouettes of dinosaurs

We called our Gramma and then she shared
How to fill it up with lots and lots of air

And the we blew it up, and up, and up
Until it was the size of a Great Dane pup, yeah!

Dino Tubular

Then we whacked it, smacked, didn't treat it with care
We were bonking each other like two fightin' bears

It's like a light saber that's made of plastic
We hit each other till we got sorta spastic

From that day on Dino Tubular was fun
For mom and dad, zeke, olive and willa, everyone, yeah!

Dino Tubular