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.