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.