Well, Miss O decided today that she wanted to fire up the old Dog Treats Cafe, once again, and hey, it was either that or watch the Bears suck their own asses, so it was a no-brainer. So here you have it, Episode Eight, where she spoons right into a re-hydrated bowl of The Honest Kitchen's "Force" dog food.* Enjoy!
*According to their site, "The Honest Kitchen is the only pet food company with FDA approval to label its pet foods human grade." Frankly, that's more than I can say for the Pringles she wants me to put in her lunches everyday.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Thursday, October 07, 2010
Lo, I Have Smelled The Face of Death...
Have I mentioned lately how fucking disgusting men are. Wait, let me clarify -- not all men... just all men besides me.
Example 4937:
So, I'm at the gym, drying off after a shower in the seemingly non-disgusting shower area which is, in fact, probably exponentially more disgusting than I can possibly imagine, and I see this dude, unclad, walk into the crapper stall. Okay, fine, people need to shit. I get it. Unfortunately, said stall is a mere five feet from my locker and I KNOW this dude's gonna be causing some serious heinousness.
I walk over to my locker, flip-flops glued to my feet because who knows what sort of primordial, fecal-pee-jizz excreta soups is puddling on the tiles, and proceed to get dressed as quickly as possible before the onslaught begins. Well, no sooner do I open the locker door than the dude unleashes an ass-fury of biblical proportions. It was truly horrific -- ripping, tearing, splattering -- it was like the dude was stabbing a white-water raft filled with pressurized pudding. I had my head turned away and my eyes clamped shut because I was convinced that if I looked toward the horror, my face would've done the Indiana Jones nazi face-melt.
And, mind you, I'm no shit-prude -- if you'll recall, I put funny fart sound effects into video games for a living so I can appreciate the humor in a good colonic assplosion. But, no, there was nothing funny about this atrocity.
And let me just step aside here and say that this is the main reason I don't eat red meat anymore. It's really not about not eating mammals. It's not about saving the environment or my arteries. It's because I know that, yesterday, this dude probably snarfed down two sausage McMuffins for breakfast, probably had some sort of meat sandwich for lunch and inhaled some fucking ribs for dinner and THAT'S why his ass is detonating. Non meat-eaters just do NOT shit like that, lemme tell ya. I haven't made noises like that since the early 90s, when I used to suck down four McDonald's cheese burgers at a sitting. Beans, noodles and tempeh simply cannot cause that sort of destruction.
Anywhich, at this point I was just trying to get my clothes on as fast as possible so I could escape this rectal hell-mouth without all of my body hair getting completely seared off. That's when I heard it. The sound of the toilet paper roll being unfurled. I figured this dude was gonna have to use at least three full rolls, double-ply, to even put a dent in the chaos he had created in there but all I heard was one squeak of the roll, a tear and then... flush.
Are you shitting me?! A one wiper?! There's no fucking way. This dude had to have looked like Augustus Gloop AFTER he got stuck in the chocolate river tube in there and he's pulling off a one-wiper?! At the very least, he was going to need a hazmat team with pressurized hoses and industrial-strength detergents working around the clock for days to rectify his situation. But then the lock turned and the stall door began to open. I turned away because I knew I my stomach couldn't handle the fecal greaseball that was about to exit the crime scene...
And out he strutted. Out of the stall, past the lockers, past my horrified grimace and... into the goddamn showers.
I swear, I'm buying myself a pair of hip-waders.
Example 4937:
So, I'm at the gym, drying off after a shower in the seemingly non-disgusting shower area which is, in fact, probably exponentially more disgusting than I can possibly imagine, and I see this dude, unclad, walk into the crapper stall. Okay, fine, people need to shit. I get it. Unfortunately, said stall is a mere five feet from my locker and I KNOW this dude's gonna be causing some serious heinousness.
I walk over to my locker, flip-flops glued to my feet because who knows what sort of primordial, fecal-pee-jizz excreta soups is puddling on the tiles, and proceed to get dressed as quickly as possible before the onslaught begins. Well, no sooner do I open the locker door than the dude unleashes an ass-fury of biblical proportions. It was truly horrific -- ripping, tearing, splattering -- it was like the dude was stabbing a white-water raft filled with pressurized pudding. I had my head turned away and my eyes clamped shut because I was convinced that if I looked toward the horror, my face would've done the Indiana Jones nazi face-melt.
And, mind you, I'm no shit-prude -- if you'll recall, I put funny fart sound effects into video games for a living so I can appreciate the humor in a good colonic assplosion. But, no, there was nothing funny about this atrocity.
And let me just step aside here and say that this is the main reason I don't eat red meat anymore. It's really not about not eating mammals. It's not about saving the environment or my arteries. It's because I know that, yesterday, this dude probably snarfed down two sausage McMuffins for breakfast, probably had some sort of meat sandwich for lunch and inhaled some fucking ribs for dinner and THAT'S why his ass is detonating. Non meat-eaters just do NOT shit like that, lemme tell ya. I haven't made noises like that since the early 90s, when I used to suck down four McDonald's cheese burgers at a sitting. Beans, noodles and tempeh simply cannot cause that sort of destruction.
Anywhich, at this point I was just trying to get my clothes on as fast as possible so I could escape this rectal hell-mouth without all of my body hair getting completely seared off. That's when I heard it. The sound of the toilet paper roll being unfurled. I figured this dude was gonna have to use at least three full rolls, double-ply, to even put a dent in the chaos he had created in there but all I heard was one squeak of the roll, a tear and then... flush.
Are you shitting me?! A one wiper?! There's no fucking way. This dude had to have looked like Augustus Gloop AFTER he got stuck in the chocolate river tube in there and he's pulling off a one-wiper?! At the very least, he was going to need a hazmat team with pressurized hoses and industrial-strength detergents working around the clock for days to rectify his situation. But then the lock turned and the stall door began to open. I turned away because I knew I my stomach couldn't handle the fecal greaseball that was about to exit the crime scene...
And out he strutted. Out of the stall, past the lockers, past my horrified grimace and... into the goddamn showers.
I swear, I'm buying myself a pair of hip-waders.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
I Guess I've Hit Crabberty...
How the fuck old do I have to be before all of the oil and grease-spewing holes dry up on my 45 year old face so I won't get anymore goddamn zits? I mean, what the shit?!
Friday afternoon, I notice a tiny little red dot on my cheek and I say to myself, "Hm... a little pimple. Bummer. Oh well... I haven't shaved in a while. Probably just an ingrown hair." Nasty but... fine. Saturday morning, I wake up and I'm growing a fucking elbow out of my face and the right side of my chin is swollen up like some granny's gout-y ankle. I looked like the fucking love-child of Jay Leno and Maria Shriver.
Now, I would've just ignored it but the fact that there was this major swelling along my jaw and the way that it felt kinda hot reminded me of the time I had cellulitis in my elbow, which was a fucking nightmare. And the fact that it was happening on my face this time, just inches from my already enfeebled brain... well, I thought I needed a second opinion. It was Saturday but, luckily, there's an urgent care place literally 3 blocks from the house, so I booked over there.
When I pushed open the H1N1-encrusted door, I was greeted with a sputum symphony of horks and hocks and instantly regretted stepping into what was basically ground zero for the next pandemic. Whatever I didn't have attacking my face before I got there, definitely mutated my genetic code by the time I left.
While I endured the 90 or so minutes it took them to call me back, I was able to diagnose the walking, er, seated dead with whom I was sharing this hell-mouth of a waiting room. There was Johnny Back-Strain, Connie Conjunctivitis, Rhea Diarrhea, Bobby Black-Lung and The Dead Lady. Oh, and there was the Boogersnot family.
Why I left my clean suit at home, I'll never know.
Eventually, I was called back and the nurse seemed somewhat relieved that, while I kinda looked Elephant Man-esque, I didn't seem like I was going to be spraying broncho-snot in her face. She took my info and then bolted, leaving me to wait for another 60 or so minutes for the "doctor" to show up. The doctor eventually did show up and, after I showed her my face-nodule and told her my story, she basically said, "Yeah... sure... could be cellulitis." Then she proceeded to give me a shot in my ass and wrote two prescriptions for two different kinds of penicillin. I don't think they would've given me that much penicillin if I had walked into that place with gonorrhea that I had caught from a tubercular leper but, hey, what the shit do I know?
So, I went home with all of my meds, ready to both combat my face-hump and begin to cultivate a penicillin-resistant super-virus in my colon. And here I sit, almost a week later -- the swelling is long gone but I still have a Milk Dud sized face-nugget lurking 'neath my week-and-a-half's worth of face-nugget-camouflaging beard. I figured the beard was the least I could do -- I was tired of my family projectile vomiting every time I turned my right cheek in their general direction. I think if I can get it to a nice, bushy Galifianikisian length, there's a good chance the beast will be sufficiently cloaked.
And now I must sleep, as the growth has made me weary.
Friday afternoon, I notice a tiny little red dot on my cheek and I say to myself, "Hm... a little pimple. Bummer. Oh well... I haven't shaved in a while. Probably just an ingrown hair." Nasty but... fine. Saturday morning, I wake up and I'm growing a fucking elbow out of my face and the right side of my chin is swollen up like some granny's gout-y ankle. I looked like the fucking love-child of Jay Leno and Maria Shriver.
Now, I would've just ignored it but the fact that there was this major swelling along my jaw and the way that it felt kinda hot reminded me of the time I had cellulitis in my elbow, which was a fucking nightmare. And the fact that it was happening on my face this time, just inches from my already enfeebled brain... well, I thought I needed a second opinion. It was Saturday but, luckily, there's an urgent care place literally 3 blocks from the house, so I booked over there.
When I pushed open the H1N1-encrusted door, I was greeted with a sputum symphony of horks and hocks and instantly regretted stepping into what was basically ground zero for the next pandemic. Whatever I didn't have attacking my face before I got there, definitely mutated my genetic code by the time I left.
While I endured the 90 or so minutes it took them to call me back, I was able to diagnose the walking, er, seated dead with whom I was sharing this hell-mouth of a waiting room. There was Johnny Back-Strain, Connie Conjunctivitis, Rhea Diarrhea, Bobby Black-Lung and The Dead Lady. Oh, and there was the Boogersnot family.
Why I left my clean suit at home, I'll never know.
Eventually, I was called back and the nurse seemed somewhat relieved that, while I kinda looked Elephant Man-esque, I didn't seem like I was going to be spraying broncho-snot in her face. She took my info and then bolted, leaving me to wait for another 60 or so minutes for the "doctor" to show up. The doctor eventually did show up and, after I showed her my face-nodule and told her my story, she basically said, "Yeah... sure... could be cellulitis." Then she proceeded to give me a shot in my ass and wrote two prescriptions for two different kinds of penicillin. I don't think they would've given me that much penicillin if I had walked into that place with gonorrhea that I had caught from a tubercular leper but, hey, what the shit do I know?
So, I went home with all of my meds, ready to both combat my face-hump and begin to cultivate a penicillin-resistant super-virus in my colon. And here I sit, almost a week later -- the swelling is long gone but I still have a Milk Dud sized face-nugget lurking 'neath my week-and-a-half's worth of face-nugget-camouflaging beard. I figured the beard was the least I could do -- I was tired of my family projectile vomiting every time I turned my right cheek in their general direction. I think if I can get it to a nice, bushy Galifianikisian length, there's a good chance the beast will be sufficiently cloaked.
And now I must sleep, as the growth has made me weary.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Kickin' It, Miss O Style...
I know this is wrong and, as an adult, I should exhibit more self-control but I can't help myself when Miss O kicks some little kid ass.
I was seated in one of the cruel chairs at Miss O's Tae Kwon Do dojang (Korean for "run-down strip mall taekwondo* school"), reading the latest Franzen novel that I'm not sure if I like yet, when they announced that it was time for sparring. I used to get all anxious during sparring because I was afraid one of the goon-y spazmo fucks was gonna kick Miss O in the face and break her nose... and her $400 glasses.
But sometime over the summer, she became badass. I think it was after a pep talk I gave where I reminded her that she's wearing well over $100 worth of sparring gear for a reason -- so she can kick and punch and hard as she fucking wants without hurting anyone. Something clicked that day and she proceeded to kick the snot out of some innocent, pony-tailed brown belt. And she never looked back.
Anywhich, today, when they announced sparring, she seemed a little tired and distracted, so I strapped her into her little padded suit and planted a light punch on the big red dot on her chest protector, just to snap her out of it a bit. She gave me a "what the shit?!" look and then socked me in the forehead.
She was ready.
When I saw that she was being paired with a crew-cutted shit who appeared to be a year or two older than she, I wasn't exactly thrilled. He had about an inch or two on her in height and reach and just seemed like he was waiting to take out his daily parental whupppins on someone else. But I should've never doubted her.
Master S. gave them the "Go!" sign and, in the blink of an eye, Miss O unleashed a flurry of brutal kicks and punches that had the kid flailing backward until he slammed into the big padded pole in the middle of the room and then bit it... hard. The ref helped him up, made sure he wasn't too severely brain-damaged, and then gave him a few pointers about keeping his guard up. But words cannot stop the force that is Tae Kwon O!
She waited for him to regain what little composure he had left and then she unleashed her fury, once again. Left kick/right kick/right kick/fist/fist/FIST and BOOM! Back down he went, slapping the mat like a wet yak liver being whacked against Christina Ricci's forehead.
Of course, throughout the carnage, I kept catching myself smiling like a mofo, and I had to keep lifting my giant Franzen tome in front of my face to hide my giddiness. I couldn't figure which of the other adults were this poor punching bag's parents, so I tried my best to disguise my glee but it wasn't easy. This was better than the Thrilla in Manila. It was the De-pantsing in Lansing.
And then it was over. They bowed at each other, shook hands and took their seats against the wall. But not before Miss O glanced over at me, peeking out through her headgear with a look that said, "THAT'S what little girls are made of." I gave her a big thumbs up and then she ran over to the wall and took a seat, smiling.
Sugar and spice, my ass.
I was seated in one of the cruel chairs at Miss O's Tae Kwon Do dojang (Korean for "run-down strip mall taekwondo* school"), reading the latest Franzen novel that I'm not sure if I like yet, when they announced that it was time for sparring. I used to get all anxious during sparring because I was afraid one of the goon-y spazmo fucks was gonna kick Miss O in the face and break her nose... and her $400 glasses.
But sometime over the summer, she became badass. I think it was after a pep talk I gave where I reminded her that she's wearing well over $100 worth of sparring gear for a reason -- so she can kick and punch and hard as she fucking wants without hurting anyone. Something clicked that day and she proceeded to kick the snot out of some innocent, pony-tailed brown belt. And she never looked back.
Anywhich, today, when they announced sparring, she seemed a little tired and distracted, so I strapped her into her little padded suit and planted a light punch on the big red dot on her chest protector, just to snap her out of it a bit. She gave me a "what the shit?!" look and then socked me in the forehead.
She was ready.
When I saw that she was being paired with a crew-cutted shit who appeared to be a year or two older than she, I wasn't exactly thrilled. He had about an inch or two on her in height and reach and just seemed like he was waiting to take out his daily parental whupppins on someone else. But I should've never doubted her.
Master S. gave them the "Go!" sign and, in the blink of an eye, Miss O unleashed a flurry of brutal kicks and punches that had the kid flailing backward until he slammed into the big padded pole in the middle of the room and then bit it... hard. The ref helped him up, made sure he wasn't too severely brain-damaged, and then gave him a few pointers about keeping his guard up. But words cannot stop the force that is Tae Kwon O!
She waited for him to regain what little composure he had left and then she unleashed her fury, once again. Left kick/right kick/right kick/fist/fist/FIST and BOOM! Back down he went, slapping the mat like a wet yak liver being whacked against Christina Ricci's forehead.
Of course, throughout the carnage, I kept catching myself smiling like a mofo, and I had to keep lifting my giant Franzen tome in front of my face to hide my giddiness. I couldn't figure which of the other adults were this poor punching bag's parents, so I tried my best to disguise my glee but it wasn't easy. This was better than the Thrilla in Manila. It was the De-pantsing in Lansing.
And then it was over. They bowed at each other, shook hands and took their seats against the wall. But not before Miss O glanced over at me, peeking out through her headgear with a look that said, "THAT'S what little girls are made of." I gave her a big thumbs up and then she ran over to the wall and took a seat, smiling.
Sugar and spice, my ass.
Monday, September 20, 2010
How to Raise a Stooge...
ME: Why don't you eat over your bowl?! You're eating that ice cream like a total slob...
MISS O: Hey, I resemble that remark!
And I can check that one off the list. My work here is almost done...
MISS O: Hey, I resemble that remark!
And I can check that one off the list. My work here is almost done...
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Is This Thing Still on?
MR. Z: You know what? I really like getting hugged by girls.
ME: Oh yeah?
MR. Z: Definitely. I got hugged by like five girls today.
ME: Five?! Wow. Wait... they hugged you, not the other way around, right?
MR. Z: Totally. I'm not "that guy."
ME: That's my boy.
ME: Oh yeah?
MR. Z: Definitely. I got hugged by like five girls today.
ME: Five?! Wow. Wait... they hugged you, not the other way around, right?
MR. Z: Totally. I'm not "that guy."
ME: That's my boy.
Friday, April 02, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Another Thing I Have No Time for...
I have a new favorite thing. It's called "Xtranormal" and it's this online animation/movie making app that pretty much has endless possibilities for hee-larity. Here's my first attempt (not necessarily hee-larious, yet):
Oh, the possibilities...
Oh, the possibilities...
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Missed Episode 5? Schnauzer chance!!!
What goes best with a snifter full of Shamrock Shake? I mean, besides a dry heave? Why Mr. Pugsley's Peanut Butter dog treats, that's what. It's Episode 5 of Miss O's "Dog Treats Cafe" and it's a wiener... dog. Will she enjoy this week's treat? The suspense is killing me... it's sheer terrier!
Okay, I'll stop. Enjoy...
Okay, I'll stop. Enjoy...
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Tastes Like Mechanically-Separated Chicken!
Just got Episode 4 of The Dog Treats Cafe in under the wire. I was going to shoot it yesterday, but I had to get an upper endoscopy (save that fucker for another post) and afterward, instead of filming the spawnage, I thought it wiser to wallow in my Propofol-induced narco-coma for a an hour or five. Probably the best sleep I've had in 11 years. May get another next week just to make up for the pending time change.
Anywhich, here ya go...
Anywhich, here ya go...
Thursday, March 04, 2010
There's More Than One Way to Skin a Fish...
Time for the third installment of Miss O's "The Dog Treats Cafe." She wasn't too thrilled about filming this episode, frankly. First, she was in a shitty mood and B, she had to down some Catch of the Day Pollock Snackers. She's braver than I, that girl is. But she soldiered on for the sake of art, as only Miss O can, and the result... well you decide. Enjoy.
Oh, and the giant underpants sponsor was Mr. Z's idea. (Credit where credit is due.)
Oh, and the giant underpants sponsor was Mr. Z's idea. (Credit where credit is due.)
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Another Treat from Miss Owooooooo!
The second episode of "The Dog Treats Cafe" with Miss O is now available! This time, Miss O chokes down a Natural Balance Sweet Potato and Fish Formula Treat. She and Mr. Z have been really stoked about this project, so I'm doing my best not to let my crabbiness put the kibosh on it. Miss O already asked if we could go to the grand opening of the new Pet Supplies Plus this weekend to see what kinds of goodies they're sportin'.
The upside of all this is that I think she's actually starting to gain a little weight with her new canine cuisine. Those biscuits'll bulk ya right up. The downside, of course, is that her gums have turned black and now her paws smell like Fritos, but, hey, you take the good with the bad. Enjoy.
The upside of all this is that I think she's actually starting to gain a little weight with her new canine cuisine. Those biscuits'll bulk ya right up. The downside, of course, is that her gums have turned black and now her paws smell like Fritos, but, hey, you take the good with the bad. Enjoy.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Miss O Has a Shiny Coat...
Miss O is a picky eater. Kind of a reverse William "The Refrigerator" Perry. She's more like William "The I'll Only Eat about a Quarter of My Sandwich at Lunch and Won't Touch the Chips, Milk or Even the Dessert" Perry. The bizarre thing is, she seems to really enjoy eating the dog's food. Whenever we get a new box of chow for Grover, she has to dig right in. Dry treats? Yep. Dehydrated fish chews? Why not. Salmon dog food pellets? Bring 'em on.
Now, most parents would probably try to discourage this kind of behavior. I, however, smelled the stink of opportunity. Mr. Z and Miss O came up with the idea, storyboarded it and all I did was video it and put it together. Personally, I think it's genius but remember, I also have a folder of about 75 fart sound effects that I also think are genius.
So, without further dog-doo, I give you Episode 1 of "The Dog Treats Cafe."
Now, most parents would probably try to discourage this kind of behavior. I, however, smelled the stink of opportunity. Mr. Z and Miss O came up with the idea, storyboarded it and all I did was video it and put it together. Personally, I think it's genius but remember, I also have a folder of about 75 fart sound effects that I also think are genius.
So, without further dog-doo, I give you Episode 1 of "The Dog Treats Cafe."
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Upstairs, Brownstairs...
Day five of the President's Day Week All Children Left Behind-a-palooza today -- we've all pretty much had it with each other by now. I was in the basement, in a pretty important meeting with work (via the TeeVee), Mr. Z was mainlining some Wii on the first floor and Miss O was upstairs, in her room, doing whatever the shit is she does in her room.
SOMEONE AT WORK: ... And so, we should do this very important thing as soon as---
MISS O (barely audible): DAD!
SOMEONE AT WORK: ... really crucial thing you need to pay attention to--
MISS O (a little less barely audible): DAAAAAAD!!!!
I mute my camera and yell...
ME: WHAT?!
MISS O: (inaudible)
ME: I CAN'T HEAR YOU!! WHAAAAT?!!!
MISS O: (top of her lungs) I THINK I JUST SHARTED!!!!!
ME: YOU SHARTED?!?!?!!
MISS O: YES, I THINK SO!!!!
ME: GO CLEAN YOUR BUTT AND CHANGE YOUR UNDERWEAR!!!!!
MISS O: WHERE SHOULD I PUT THE UNDERWEAR?
ME: JUST THROW IT IN THE TUB AND I'LL GET IT LATER!!!
MISS O: THE TUB?!
ME: YES! THE TUB!!!
MISS O: OKAY!!!!!
Apparently, she sharted and was wondering what to do with her underwear.
After my meeting ended, I ran upstairs to ask her what the shit was going on. She told me that as she was reaching up to a high shelf to retrieve some Polly Pocket clothes, she did "three farts that felt kinda wet." She then told me that she "got a little shart on her finger" when she checked to see if, indeed, 'twas a shart.
I asked her if she washed her hands. She said "yes." I asked her if she washed her hands REALLY well. She said, "yes." I asked if she used soap. She said, "duh!" Then I told her not to fart for the rest of the day. She said, "I'll try."
Please don't let tomorrow be a snow day.
SOMEONE AT WORK: ... And so, we should do this very important thing as soon as---
MISS O (barely audible): DAD!
SOMEONE AT WORK: ... really crucial thing you need to pay attention to--
MISS O (a little less barely audible): DAAAAAAD!!!!
I mute my camera and yell...
ME: WHAT?!
MISS O: (inaudible)
ME: I CAN'T HEAR YOU!! WHAAAAT?!!!
MISS O: (top of her lungs) I THINK I JUST SHARTED!!!!!
ME: YOU SHARTED?!?!?!!
MISS O: YES, I THINK SO!!!!
ME: GO CLEAN YOUR BUTT AND CHANGE YOUR UNDERWEAR!!!!!
MISS O: WHERE SHOULD I PUT THE UNDERWEAR?
ME: JUST THROW IT IN THE TUB AND I'LL GET IT LATER!!!
MISS O: THE TUB?!
ME: YES! THE TUB!!!
MISS O: OKAY!!!!!
Apparently, she sharted and was wondering what to do with her underwear.
After my meeting ended, I ran upstairs to ask her what the shit was going on. She told me that as she was reaching up to a high shelf to retrieve some Polly Pocket clothes, she did "three farts that felt kinda wet." She then told me that she "got a little shart on her finger" when she checked to see if, indeed, 'twas a shart.
I asked her if she washed her hands. She said "yes." I asked her if she washed her hands REALLY well. She said, "yes." I asked if she used soap. She said, "duh!" Then I told her not to fart for the rest of the day. She said, "I'll try."
Please don't let tomorrow be a snow day.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Airin' out the New 'Do...
I managed to make it through the showers today at the gym without anyone ridiculing my new pubic 'Moe-hawk.' I just made sure I was fully lathered at all times. Probably looked like I was trying to smuggle an albino gorilla into the pool. I managed to take a quick snap in the mirror...
And while I'm on the subject of shower nekkidness, what is it with these wee dudes with the giant wangdangdoodles? There's a guy there, no taller than 5'6", who I could've sworn rode into the showers atop a giant anteater. I thought he was a plumber who had come to snake out the clogged shower drain. I asked if I could borrow his loofah and he said, "What loofah?" I thought I had walked in on some sort of nude bassoon concert. The dude's participle wasn't dangling, it was lying on the floor. Am I making it clear that he was packing a ponderous pud?
I guess it just struck me as out of proportion with his stature. It didn't literally strike me... it's not like he was doing pirouettes in there or anything. That thing would've left a serious welt.
Okay, I've said enough. See, this is what happens when I have nothing to type about. Well, at least I went a day without talking about my b.m.'s. Wait, do I use an apostrophe with b.m.? I'm not talking about something that belongs to my b.m. But b.m.s seems odd -- it sounds like some sort of investment firm. Eh, I'll just stick with 'turds.'
That's it, I'm done.
And while I'm on the subject of shower nekkidness, what is it with these wee dudes with the giant wangdangdoodles? There's a guy there, no taller than 5'6", who I could've sworn rode into the showers atop a giant anteater. I thought he was a plumber who had come to snake out the clogged shower drain. I asked if I could borrow his loofah and he said, "What loofah?" I thought I had walked in on some sort of nude bassoon concert. The dude's participle wasn't dangling, it was lying on the floor. Am I making it clear that he was packing a ponderous pud?
I guess it just struck me as out of proportion with his stature. It didn't literally strike me... it's not like he was doing pirouettes in there or anything. That thing would've left a serious welt.
Okay, I've said enough. See, this is what happens when I have nothing to type about. Well, at least I went a day without talking about my b.m.'s. Wait, do I use an apostrophe with b.m.? I'm not talking about something that belongs to my b.m. But b.m.s seems odd -- it sounds like some sort of investment firm. Eh, I'll just stick with 'turds.'
That's it, I'm done.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
The Cut of Your Gib... lets...
So, I rarely shave because, well, because I work in my basement and never see people... and because shaving is just what the MAN would want me to do. Stupid man. Anywhich, on the rare occasion that I do decide to de-beard, I've found that the electric razor is the way to go -- I don't have to buy new blades or shaving cream and it only trims it down to a nice five-o-clock shadow so I can get that Fred Flintstone look that's such a hit with the ladies.
Now, up until a few weeks ago, I would just shave at the bathroom sink and watch as the blizzard of facial pubery rained down about me. When finished, I'd attempt to clean up all the whiskerettes but I'd inevitably miss a few thousand, usually the ones stuck to the soap and those resting peacefully atop the Old Lady's toothbrush. Needless to say, my shaving routine ended up as another tick mark in the Old Lady's "Things That Repulse Me about Crabbydad" ledger.
Then I had the brilliant idea of shaving in the shower. Not with the water on, mind you -- I'm not that dim... yet. But every week or so, before my morning hosing off, I'll stand in the shower with a mirror in hand and shear away. It's a perfect solution -- all the whiskerinos drop down into the little mesh sombrero in the drain and the Old Lady can brush her teeth without tasting my face.
Usually, I'll wear my boxers during this procedure, mainly because it's kinda chilly in the shower and it offers me a bit of ass warmth. But today I strode in undraped for some reason. I'm impulsive that way, I guess. Now, the problem with being nekkid while you're shaving your face is that, once you're done, you're just standing there, razor a-buzzin' in hand, looking for something else to trim up. And believe me, as a flocculant fellow, I've got a lot of potential trimmables.
I think we all know where this is going, don't we. I thought I'd do a little manscaping, as the kids call it nowadays. Clip the ol' thicket, if you will. To be honest, a rototiller would have been more appropriate than a clipper, but I digress. Now, the razor I have comes with an attachment that can raise or lower the clipping level -- kind of a safety feature so you don't trim too close to anything you don't want to lop off.
I, of course, didn't use said attachment. No, I just dove right in, blades a-slicin', ready to do some serious topiary action in my hedgerow. A little off the sides here, a bit off the top, maybe a few clips "under the hood." Frankly, I got a little carried away.
When the fur finally stopped a-flying, I realized what I had done. Without getting into too much detail, I basically gave my junk a "Betty Page." Actually, it looked more like the bastard love child of Betty Page and Jimmy Durante. My first thought was, "The fellas at the gym are sure in for a surprise when this 'pin-up' enters the showers." I don't know how I could've made "that area" any more ridiculous than it already looked, but I sure found a way.
And then, as I was checking out the rest of my handiwork, I noticed a little raw patch in the undercarriage area. Was that... was that blood?! Yes, apparently as I was pruning the "belly of the beast" I got a little too close and gave myself a second circumcision, of sorts. Excellent! Nothing like a cut on the ol' Chancellor to brighten one's day! So, not only do I get to enjoy the itch of the regrowth of my buzz-cut ground cover, I also get to enjoy the sensation of my schmekel scabbing over.
I'm gonna grow a beard.
Now, up until a few weeks ago, I would just shave at the bathroom sink and watch as the blizzard of facial pubery rained down about me. When finished, I'd attempt to clean up all the whiskerettes but I'd inevitably miss a few thousand, usually the ones stuck to the soap and those resting peacefully atop the Old Lady's toothbrush. Needless to say, my shaving routine ended up as another tick mark in the Old Lady's "Things That Repulse Me about Crabbydad" ledger.
Then I had the brilliant idea of shaving in the shower. Not with the water on, mind you -- I'm not that dim... yet. But every week or so, before my morning hosing off, I'll stand in the shower with a mirror in hand and shear away. It's a perfect solution -- all the whiskerinos drop down into the little mesh sombrero in the drain and the Old Lady can brush her teeth without tasting my face.
Usually, I'll wear my boxers during this procedure, mainly because it's kinda chilly in the shower and it offers me a bit of ass warmth. But today I strode in undraped for some reason. I'm impulsive that way, I guess. Now, the problem with being nekkid while you're shaving your face is that, once you're done, you're just standing there, razor a-buzzin' in hand, looking for something else to trim up. And believe me, as a flocculant fellow, I've got a lot of potential trimmables.
I think we all know where this is going, don't we. I thought I'd do a little manscaping, as the kids call it nowadays. Clip the ol' thicket, if you will. To be honest, a rototiller would have been more appropriate than a clipper, but I digress. Now, the razor I have comes with an attachment that can raise or lower the clipping level -- kind of a safety feature so you don't trim too close to anything you don't want to lop off.
I, of course, didn't use said attachment. No, I just dove right in, blades a-slicin', ready to do some serious topiary action in my hedgerow. A little off the sides here, a bit off the top, maybe a few clips "under the hood." Frankly, I got a little carried away.
When the fur finally stopped a-flying, I realized what I had done. Without getting into too much detail, I basically gave my junk a "Betty Page." Actually, it looked more like the bastard love child of Betty Page and Jimmy Durante. My first thought was, "The fellas at the gym are sure in for a surprise when this 'pin-up' enters the showers." I don't know how I could've made "that area" any more ridiculous than it already looked, but I sure found a way.
And then, as I was checking out the rest of my handiwork, I noticed a little raw patch in the undercarriage area. Was that... was that blood?! Yes, apparently as I was pruning the "belly of the beast" I got a little too close and gave myself a second circumcision, of sorts. Excellent! Nothing like a cut on the ol' Chancellor to brighten one's day! So, not only do I get to enjoy the itch of the regrowth of my buzz-cut ground cover, I also get to enjoy the sensation of my schmekel scabbing over.
I'm gonna grow a beard.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Washington, Lincoln, Snow Miser -- All on My Shit-List....
I smell a snow day shitstorm a-blowin'. And not just any snow day, mind you. It's a snow day that just happens to be preceding the annual five day Presi-motherfucking-dent's Day No-School-a-Poolooza. That's right. Here in mid-Michigan, we celebrate the births of our forefathers by CLOSING THE GODDAMN SCHOOLS! Why? Because the founders of our country would most certainly NOT want any education taking place on the arbitrarily assigned date of their births! Why? 'Cuz they were dicks, that's why.
So what's another day piled on top of the other five, right? Shit, let's just skip Thursday too and go for a whole fucking week! Because there's nothing I like more than trying to actually get "work" done for my "job" so we can "eat" while running up the fucking stairs every 10 minutes to break up an argument, make some lunches, find out what the shit just broke, make some snacks, walk the dog, find out why the fuck it's so goddamned quiet and then make dinner.
Oh, and the Spawnage both have dentist appointments tomorrow, too, which will be GREAT! Driving to Mason in 10 feet of drifting snow. Think I'll have to break the Taun-Tauns out of the corral for that one. Well, maybe the Old Lady can pitch and help in so I can--What's that?! She has meetings all day and she's teaching a night class? FLAARRGNNBBLLLAAAARRGGGGGHHH!
My only hope is that my plaque-ridden brain will be impaled by the giant icicle hanging down in front of the house. In fact, I'm going to go stand below it now. Where's that broom handle...
So what's another day piled on top of the other five, right? Shit, let's just skip Thursday too and go for a whole fucking week! Because there's nothing I like more than trying to actually get "work" done for my "job" so we can "eat" while running up the fucking stairs every 10 minutes to break up an argument, make some lunches, find out what the shit just broke, make some snacks, walk the dog, find out why the fuck it's so goddamned quiet and then make dinner.
Oh, and the Spawnage both have dentist appointments tomorrow, too, which will be GREAT! Driving to Mason in 10 feet of drifting snow. Think I'll have to break the Taun-Tauns out of the corral for that one. Well, maybe the Old Lady can pitch and help in so I can--What's that?! She has meetings all day and she's teaching a night class? FLAARRGNNBBLLLAAAARRGGGGGHHH!
My only hope is that my plaque-ridden brain will be impaled by the giant icicle hanging down in front of the house. In fact, I'm going to go stand below it now. Where's that broom handle...
Monday, February 08, 2010
Nocturnal Admissions...
MR Z: I think I had a wet dream the other night.
ME: What?!
MR. Z: Yeah, I was having this awesome dream and when I woke up the bed was kinda wet.
OLD LADY: Well... that may have just been sweat.
ME: And actually, it wouldn't really be "wet"... sticky is more like it--
MISS O: What's a wet dream?
MR. Z: I read about it in my "It's Perfectly Normal" book. It's when--
ME: HEY! Who needs dessert?!!!
ME: What?!
MR. Z: Yeah, I was having this awesome dream and when I woke up the bed was kinda wet.
OLD LADY: Well... that may have just been sweat.
ME: And actually, it wouldn't really be "wet"... sticky is more like it--
MISS O: What's a wet dream?
MR. Z: I read about it in my "It's Perfectly Normal" book. It's when--
ME: HEY! Who needs dessert?!!!
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Mid-Michiganean Homesick Blues...
Earlier today, I got a call from Mr. Z, who's on a four day trip with his middle school class to some retreat thingy in northern Michigan. Today is day two and, from the sound of his voice, methinks he might not make it to day three, let alone four. He had that Laura Petrie warble going on. Poor dude... I so know what he's going through. I told him to try to stick it out and that Friday would be here before he knows it... don't know if he bought what I was sellin', though.
I think he's fine during the day, when he's doing stuff -- it's the whole bedtime thing that's bumming his shit out. He's normally in bed by 9:00 and out by, say, 9:02. Up there, it sounds like they're staying up until 10:45 and, at that point, he's kinda missed his chill window. If he's up too late he goes into What the shit?! mode and gets all worked up into a lathery lather.
Of course now I feel guilty as fuck and feel like I should've told him I'd come pick him up. If you'll remember, and even if you won't, my parents first sent me off to camp, for four weeks, when I was a wee lad of 10. I cried for about the first two weeks and then quickly transformed into the emotionless husk I remain today. Granted, four days is NOT four weeks so I guess I'm not as heartless as my parents were. (And it's official... I will never get over that episode in my life.)
The key is that he can't lose his shit in front of the other kids or he's fucked. Seventh grade is a bizznitch and those fucking zit-bedazzled hormonauts are ruthless. I did have him take an empty notebook on the trip and told him to keep a journal about all the goings on throughout the week. Should be an interesting read. (Maybe I'll at least get a coupla good posts out of it.)
I'm telling ya, the Old Lady and I are just too fucking nice to the spawnage. I think we've gotta work on being bigger shitheads so they don't have such a hard time getting the hell outta here. Note to self: be a worse parent. Got it.
I think he's fine during the day, when he's doing stuff -- it's the whole bedtime thing that's bumming his shit out. He's normally in bed by 9:00 and out by, say, 9:02. Up there, it sounds like they're staying up until 10:45 and, at that point, he's kinda missed his chill window. If he's up too late he goes into What the shit?! mode and gets all worked up into a lathery lather.
Of course now I feel guilty as fuck and feel like I should've told him I'd come pick him up. If you'll remember, and even if you won't, my parents first sent me off to camp, for four weeks, when I was a wee lad of 10. I cried for about the first two weeks and then quickly transformed into the emotionless husk I remain today. Granted, four days is NOT four weeks so I guess I'm not as heartless as my parents were. (And it's official... I will never get over that episode in my life.)
The key is that he can't lose his shit in front of the other kids or he's fucked. Seventh grade is a bizznitch and those fucking zit-bedazzled hormonauts are ruthless. I did have him take an empty notebook on the trip and told him to keep a journal about all the goings on throughout the week. Should be an interesting read. (Maybe I'll at least get a coupla good posts out of it.)
I'm telling ya, the Old Lady and I are just too fucking nice to the spawnage. I think we've gotta work on being bigger shitheads so they don't have such a hard time getting the hell outta here. Note to self: be a worse parent. Got it.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
Brow-Beaten....
In my never-ending quest to humiliate myself in a public forum (my pope-like self-flagellation by blog) and in the interest of full disclosure, I reveal to you my latest indignity...
I got my eyebrows did.
You read that right. Dye. On my fucking eyebrows. To make them look darker. See, at an age when most dudes' brows start sprouting like those of, say, a James Whitmore or a Sean Connery, mine are looking more and more like those of a Whoopi Goldberg or a Mike Nichols before putting on his body merkins. They're fading to nothingness -- my family can't even tell when I'm surprised anymore.
So I went to my haircutterlady, with whom I already have issues, and kindly asked her to give me a nice, gentle B.J. -- a Brow Job.
So, she slapped some jizz on my invisibrows, cut my hair and then wiped said jizz off my head just before what little browage I had left burst into flames. I'm telling ya, if getting one's brows burns like that then the anal bleaching I was planning on in the spring is definitely OUT!
She did mention that the skin under my brows would be stained for a day or so, which explains why people have been stopping me on the street to ask if I'm Brooke Shields' special brother.
But today they're looking pretty fucking sweet. The area between my eyeballs and my forehead feels 15 years younger! I don't know... you be the judge:
I got my eyebrows did.
You read that right. Dye. On my fucking eyebrows. To make them look darker. See, at an age when most dudes' brows start sprouting like those of, say, a James Whitmore or a Sean Connery, mine are looking more and more like those of a Whoopi Goldberg or a Mike Nichols before putting on his body merkins. They're fading to nothingness -- my family can't even tell when I'm surprised anymore.
So I went to my haircutterlady, with whom I already have issues, and kindly asked her to give me a nice, gentle B.J. -- a Brow Job.
So, she slapped some jizz on my invisibrows, cut my hair and then wiped said jizz off my head just before what little browage I had left burst into flames. I'm telling ya, if getting one's brows burns like that then the anal bleaching I was planning on in the spring is definitely OUT!
She did mention that the skin under my brows would be stained for a day or so, which explains why people have been stopping me on the street to ask if I'm Brooke Shields' special brother.
But today they're looking pretty fucking sweet. The area between my eyeballs and my forehead feels 15 years younger! I don't know... you be the judge:
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
A Boy & His Dog...
Mr. Z and Grover have been practicing, this winter...
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Tuesday, January 19, 2010
The Wedge of Night...
"I haven't had a single night of acid reflux since buying the wedge pillow. Definitely worth every penny!" -- Signed, Stew McAcid
My reflux situation was getting so hein-ass that I was becoming desperate. I had resorted to trolling heartburn message boards to find an elusive magic bullet and noticed that a lot of threads discussed these wedge pillows that elevate one's head so the stomach acid doesn't bubble up into one's esophagus while sleeping.
What the shit... why not?! The heartburn relief tea I got was total fuckshit and the dickfers who got me to drink pickle juice had pretty much succeeded in burning another hole or two in my already hole-ridden digestive system. Fucking pickle juice. Assholes!
So I drove on over to Bed, Bath & Bewildered and picked up the "Bed Wedge Pillow" for $29.99:
Looks harmless enough, right? The Old Lady guffawed in my face when I lugged that thing into the house. I told her, "Laugh it up, sister! You're lucky this is only reflux I'm dealing with. It won't be long before I'm coming home with support hose and one of them toilet-chair contraptions!"
Cut to midnight and I'm lying down on my new wedge, ready for an acid-free, cozy journey into slumberland.
How did it go? Well, here's a photo of me getting out of bed this morning:
FUCK THE WEDGE PILLOW! Holy crapstain that thing ripped me multiple new ones. I would've been better off sleeping in a wheelbarrow... filled with anvils... and snakes. I swear to shit I can barely stand up straight now. I tried to take a piss today and I literally could not look down to see if I was even getting it anywhere near the bowl. I think both of my clavicles are broken. And if you ever had a desire to sneak up on me, do it now, 'cuz I couldn't turn my fucking neck if my life depended on it.
But you know what... my reflux wasn't as bad today...
My reflux situation was getting so hein-ass that I was becoming desperate. I had resorted to trolling heartburn message boards to find an elusive magic bullet and noticed that a lot of threads discussed these wedge pillows that elevate one's head so the stomach acid doesn't bubble up into one's esophagus while sleeping.
What the shit... why not?! The heartburn relief tea I got was total fuckshit and the dickfers who got me to drink pickle juice had pretty much succeeded in burning another hole or two in my already hole-ridden digestive system. Fucking pickle juice. Assholes!
So I drove on over to Bed, Bath & Bewildered and picked up the "Bed Wedge Pillow" for $29.99:
Looks harmless enough, right? The Old Lady guffawed in my face when I lugged that thing into the house. I told her, "Laugh it up, sister! You're lucky this is only reflux I'm dealing with. It won't be long before I'm coming home with support hose and one of them toilet-chair contraptions!"
Cut to midnight and I'm lying down on my new wedge, ready for an acid-free, cozy journey into slumberland.
How did it go? Well, here's a photo of me getting out of bed this morning:
FUCK THE WEDGE PILLOW! Holy crapstain that thing ripped me multiple new ones. I would've been better off sleeping in a wheelbarrow... filled with anvils... and snakes. I swear to shit I can barely stand up straight now. I tried to take a piss today and I literally could not look down to see if I was even getting it anywhere near the bowl. I think both of my clavicles are broken. And if you ever had a desire to sneak up on me, do it now, 'cuz I couldn't turn my fucking neck if my life depended on it.
But you know what... my reflux wasn't as bad today...
Thursday, January 14, 2010
GERD Dammit!
The Old Lady's out of town 'til Sunday night, so it's me, the Spawnage and Cujo for the entire weekend. I can already taste the stomach acid bubbling up into the back of my throat.
Literally.
A couple of months before we moved to the Mitten, back in "aught four," I started getting some really heinous reflux. I'd wake up in the middle of the night feeling like Fred G. Sanford having "the biggie," which freaked me the shit out until I finally went to a gastro doc who said it was most likely reflux. Just to be sure, he knocked me out, snaked a tube down my esophagus and, when I woke up, I was pregnant. No, wait... wrong story.
When I woke up, he said I had GERD, or Gastro-Esophogeal Reflux Disease. Better known as heartburn. And it didn't take no highfalutin' poo-poo doctor to tell me that I was getting it because I was stressed out. Then again, I get stressed out if my morning bowel movement arrives a few minutes late, so...
The doc prescribed me some Zegerid, the magic anti-reflux pill, and I've been GERD-free (as free as the wind blows...) ever since. That is, until it kicked back into high gear last week. I started waking up with the burn-y, scratchy throat, and my teeth hurt and it felt like someone was cranking a car jack on my sternum, from the inside. You know, the usual.
So now I'm stalking around like fucking Columbo, trying to figure out what the shit is causing it. Is it from the all the wine we've been drinking with dinner, lately? Maybe. Was it all the rich foodstuffs I crammed into my facepipe over Xmas break? Perhaps. Did the dog shit in my mouth while I was sleeping? Probably.
Whatever the reason, I'm doing all this fucked up shit to try to fix it. I'm sleeping on a bunch of pillows so my head is higher than my stomach. Does it help? Well, if fucking up my lower back beyond repair is helping, then yes. I'm downing handfuls of Gaviscon at bed which is supposed to form some foamy barrier in front of one of my many faulty sphincters to keep the acid from a-backin' on up. I don't know if that's helping but, between all the aluminum and sodium it has in it, I'll be too worried about my early-onset Alzheimer's and my gigantic goiter to care about some goddamn reflux.
I'm also analyzing every fucking thing I put in my mouth. Can I eat a grape? Hmm... I don't know. Grapes could be the culprit. Better not! How about an apple? That could either fix it or burn a hole in my esophagus. Tough call. I think I'll just play it safe and eat three sleeves of saltines and drink a jar of pickle juice... from now until I die.
Which may just be sometime between now and Sunday night.
Literally.
A couple of months before we moved to the Mitten, back in "aught four," I started getting some really heinous reflux. I'd wake up in the middle of the night feeling like Fred G. Sanford having "the biggie," which freaked me the shit out until I finally went to a gastro doc who said it was most likely reflux. Just to be sure, he knocked me out, snaked a tube down my esophagus and, when I woke up, I was pregnant. No, wait... wrong story.
When I woke up, he said I had GERD, or Gastro-Esophogeal Reflux Disease. Better known as heartburn. And it didn't take no highfalutin' poo-poo doctor to tell me that I was getting it because I was stressed out. Then again, I get stressed out if my morning bowel movement arrives a few minutes late, so...
The doc prescribed me some Zegerid, the magic anti-reflux pill, and I've been GERD-free (as free as the wind blows...) ever since. That is, until it kicked back into high gear last week. I started waking up with the burn-y, scratchy throat, and my teeth hurt and it felt like someone was cranking a car jack on my sternum, from the inside. You know, the usual.
So now I'm stalking around like fucking Columbo, trying to figure out what the shit is causing it. Is it from the all the wine we've been drinking with dinner, lately? Maybe. Was it all the rich foodstuffs I crammed into my facepipe over Xmas break? Perhaps. Did the dog shit in my mouth while I was sleeping? Probably.
Whatever the reason, I'm doing all this fucked up shit to try to fix it. I'm sleeping on a bunch of pillows so my head is higher than my stomach. Does it help? Well, if fucking up my lower back beyond repair is helping, then yes. I'm downing handfuls of Gaviscon at bed which is supposed to form some foamy barrier in front of one of my many faulty sphincters to keep the acid from a-backin' on up. I don't know if that's helping but, between all the aluminum and sodium it has in it, I'll be too worried about my early-onset Alzheimer's and my gigantic goiter to care about some goddamn reflux.
I'm also analyzing every fucking thing I put in my mouth. Can I eat a grape? Hmm... I don't know. Grapes could be the culprit. Better not! How about an apple? That could either fix it or burn a hole in my esophagus. Tough call. I think I'll just play it safe and eat three sleeves of saltines and drink a jar of pickle juice... from now until I die.
Which may just be sometime between now and Sunday night.
Monday, January 11, 2010
IM-barrassed...
Mr. Z got home from school today and wanted to do some noodling on the computer, so he turned on my laptop upstairs while I was toiling away in the basement. Apparently, the laptop was still logged in to my Google account because a friend, we'll call her Ms. M, tried to IM me. I was working on my Mac, though, and, thus, she was IM'ing Mr. Z, instead. Here's their conversation:
MS. M: How's your anus?
MR. Z: I'm not Andy.
MS. M: sorry...
MR. Z: It's OK.
It was at about this time that I switched back over to my other computer and saw their conversation. I almost launched a brain lobe outta my right nostril, I laughed so hard. I typed:
ME: you there?
MS. M: yep... horrified!
ME: Why did you ask Mr. Z how his anus was?
MS. M: I'm so sorry!
ME: I'm laughing so hard right now.
MS. M: me too... i have tears
ME: I wish he would've answered, "Fine, how's yours?" That would've been more polite.
MS. M: I like "I'm not Andy."
ME: Morning! How's your anus? [I'm not Andy.]
MS. M: I'm not Andy's Anus.
ME: Hi, this is Andy's anus. I'm not home right now...
MS. M: Leave your message after the brap! By the way, my vagina won't take my brain's phone calls after the stunt she pulled.
ME: Mr. Z, are you still there?
MS. M: wait...is Mr. Z listening?
ME: Uh, I better make sure he's off the computer!
I ran upstairs and he wasn't. He was working on some Mario game he's making. He said he wasn't watching the conversation. Hm. Maybe he wasn't, maybe he was. If he was, he now knows that something was up with my anus. Even more interestingly, though, is that he's now aware that Ms. M's vagina can apparently pull stunts.
I wonder what we'll be talking about at Mr. Z's bedtime tonight.
MS. M: How's your anus?
MR. Z: I'm not Andy.
MS. M: sorry...
MR. Z: It's OK.
It was at about this time that I switched back over to my other computer and saw their conversation. I almost launched a brain lobe outta my right nostril, I laughed so hard. I typed:
ME: you there?
MS. M: yep... horrified!
ME: Why did you ask Mr. Z how his anus was?
MS. M: I'm so sorry!
ME: I'm laughing so hard right now.
MS. M: me too... i have tears
ME: I wish he would've answered, "Fine, how's yours?" That would've been more polite.
MS. M: I like "I'm not Andy."
ME: Morning! How's your anus? [I'm not Andy.]
MS. M: I'm not Andy's Anus.
ME: Hi, this is Andy's anus. I'm not home right now...
MS. M: Leave your message after the brap! By the way, my vagina won't take my brain's phone calls after the stunt she pulled.
ME: Mr. Z, are you still there?
MS. M: wait...is Mr. Z listening?
ME: Uh, I better make sure he's off the computer!
I ran upstairs and he wasn't. He was working on some Mario game he's making. He said he wasn't watching the conversation. Hm. Maybe he wasn't, maybe he was. If he was, he now knows that something was up with my anus. Even more interestingly, though, is that he's now aware that Ms. M's vagina can apparently pull stunts.
I wonder what we'll be talking about at Mr. Z's bedtime tonight.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
The O-Ring of Fire (Fin?)...
… And the itch raged on. This thing was like some sort of rectal Godzilla… Godzillass. Nothing could stop it – not mineral baths, not mini butt-bullets, not even Mothra carrying a giant tube of Preparation H. I was all ready to have my entire ass surgically removed when I stopped for a moment to reflect. What had changed in my life since the itch started? Hmm… well, we had gotten the dog. Could I have contracted some bizarre dog-bung malady? The doctor said that there was no evidence of pinworms and I had long ago stopped eating dog turds on my daily walks, so that was out.
What else? Well, I WAS walking the dog a couple of miles every day. And I DID get kinda sweaty in the assy area during said walks. And the boxers I’d been wearing WERE a cotton-poly blend. And after said walks, I DID go back down to the basement and sit on my vinyl chair for up to 10 uninterrupted hours at a time, creating the perfect environment for a rectal terrarium to thrive.
Hm.
I turned to the very last resource at my disposal. Meijer, or in Michiganderin: The Meijers. If the solution to my derriere dilemma couldn’t be solved at the Meijer, I would be itchin’ my ass to the grave. I high-tailed it on over there, the front doors wooshed open and I marched straight for the Men’s Delicates department. I dug through all the tightie-whities and silky 80s undies until I got a hold of a 3-pack of Fruit of the Loom 100% cotton boxers. They glowed in my shaking hands like… well, like I’d imagine the boxers of someone who lived in Chernobyl might. I almost dropped trou right then and there to pull them on but I restrained myself and waited until I got back home. Besides, I figured I should wash them first – didn’t want to get anyone else’s fruit juice all up in my loom.
But while I was still at Meijer, I thought I’d take a stroll down the toilet paper aisle, as I am wont to do, and I came across a different brand of “Moist Wipes.” Charmin’s Freshmates. Wha-huh?! A different brand of flushable moist wipes?! I wasn’t informed of this!!! It was a sign. Why not try out the new cottony undies AND rotate in a new brand of moist wipe?! OF COURSE! It all seemed so clear now!!!
So my asshole and I zipped home to try out the new goodies. While my new skivvies were a-tumblin’ in the laundry, I decided to see how my new Freshmate and I got along. Besides, it was just about time for my mid-day Operation Dumbo Drop. I pulled out the first ‘mate, applied it to its intended target and… the heavens opened up, the angels sang and I’m pretty sure a flock of white doves sprang from my fanny.
As moist and wipeable as the Cottonelle Fresh Flushable Moist Wipes had been, these new Charmin Freshmates were a-moister and a-wipeable-er! It was like mashing a melange of ambrosia, gossamer and bunny tears into my crackhole. I think I actually felt my anus smile, if that’s possible. And it was at this very moment that I knew my itching problems had been solved.
And that’s pretty much it. No disease. No bugs. No unborn twin. Just sub-par boxers and moist wipe-sensitivity. Not very romantic an ending, I know, but, hey, that’s reality. Reality is… irritating. And we look for big, clear-cut solutions to our problems but sometimes the solutions are as simple as changing your underwear.
I think Lennon and McCartney said it best on their song "The End" from Crabby Road: “And in the end, the shit you take is equal to the shit you make.”
Although I probably should've quoted something from "The Wipe Album."
What else? Well, I WAS walking the dog a couple of miles every day. And I DID get kinda sweaty in the assy area during said walks. And the boxers I’d been wearing WERE a cotton-poly blend. And after said walks, I DID go back down to the basement and sit on my vinyl chair for up to 10 uninterrupted hours at a time, creating the perfect environment for a rectal terrarium to thrive.
Hm.
I turned to the very last resource at my disposal. Meijer, or in Michiganderin: The Meijers. If the solution to my derriere dilemma couldn’t be solved at the Meijer, I would be itchin’ my ass to the grave. I high-tailed it on over there, the front doors wooshed open and I marched straight for the Men’s Delicates department. I dug through all the tightie-whities and silky 80s undies until I got a hold of a 3-pack of Fruit of the Loom 100% cotton boxers. They glowed in my shaking hands like… well, like I’d imagine the boxers of someone who lived in Chernobyl might. I almost dropped trou right then and there to pull them on but I restrained myself and waited until I got back home. Besides, I figured I should wash them first – didn’t want to get anyone else’s fruit juice all up in my loom.
But while I was still at Meijer, I thought I’d take a stroll down the toilet paper aisle, as I am wont to do, and I came across a different brand of “Moist Wipes.” Charmin’s Freshmates. Wha-huh?! A different brand of flushable moist wipes?! I wasn’t informed of this!!! It was a sign. Why not try out the new cottony undies AND rotate in a new brand of moist wipe?! OF COURSE! It all seemed so clear now!!!
So my asshole and I zipped home to try out the new goodies. While my new skivvies were a-tumblin’ in the laundry, I decided to see how my new Freshmate and I got along. Besides, it was just about time for my mid-day Operation Dumbo Drop. I pulled out the first ‘mate, applied it to its intended target and… the heavens opened up, the angels sang and I’m pretty sure a flock of white doves sprang from my fanny.
As moist and wipeable as the Cottonelle Fresh Flushable Moist Wipes had been, these new Charmin Freshmates were a-moister and a-wipeable-er! It was like mashing a melange of ambrosia, gossamer and bunny tears into my crackhole. I think I actually felt my anus smile, if that’s possible. And it was at this very moment that I knew my itching problems had been solved.
And that’s pretty much it. No disease. No bugs. No unborn twin. Just sub-par boxers and moist wipe-sensitivity. Not very romantic an ending, I know, but, hey, that’s reality. Reality is… irritating. And we look for big, clear-cut solutions to our problems but sometimes the solutions are as simple as changing your underwear.
I think Lennon and McCartney said it best on their song "The End" from Crabby Road: “And in the end, the shit you take is equal to the shit you make.”
Although I probably should've quoted something from "The Wipe Album."
Thursday, January 07, 2010
The O-Ring of Fire (7)...
... Now, if you’ve never attempted to insert a suppository into your blowhole, well then, my friend, you are fucking MISSING OUT! I’ve been trying to find the words to describe the process and I have to say I’m at a loss. The best metaphor I can muster up is that it’s akin to trying to put an extra Pez candy into a completely filled Pez container. That is, if the Pez candy is 50 times bigger than the container’s opening. And if the container’s opening is actually my anus.
And then, if and when you get the fucking thing in there, it’s gonna just pop right back out in a second… as it rightly should! “Sorry folks, asshole’s closed! Moose out front shoulda told ya.” But fuck it, I needed to fix the goddamn itching problem, so I sucked it up… so to speak. And I’m lying there, on the bathroom floor, trying to poke this fucking glorified Mike & Ike up my patoot. In it goes, I stand up, POIT! Out it pops. Lie down, push in, stand up, POIT! I felt like a goddamn broken vending machine. “INCORRECT CHANGE! TRY AGAIN!” And I had to perform this little butt dance without the Old Lady walking in and, thus, immediately nullifying our marriage. I had officially, and literally, sunk as low as I could go.
I will admit that, a couple of times, I actually managed to poke the thing in there, stand up, clamp my hand over my clenched ass cheeks and dive into bed, without blasting that fucker outta my ass like an errant mortar round. But after a coupla days of this mostly fruitless barrel-loading, I gave up. You know, I’d rather have an itchy bung than continue with this humiliating game of rectal Whack-a-Mole any longer. What to do… what… to… do…?
Up Next: Could This Be the End???
And then, if and when you get the fucking thing in there, it’s gonna just pop right back out in a second… as it rightly should! “Sorry folks, asshole’s closed! Moose out front shoulda told ya.” But fuck it, I needed to fix the goddamn itching problem, so I sucked it up… so to speak. And I’m lying there, on the bathroom floor, trying to poke this fucking glorified Mike & Ike up my patoot. In it goes, I stand up, POIT! Out it pops. Lie down, push in, stand up, POIT! I felt like a goddamn broken vending machine. “INCORRECT CHANGE! TRY AGAIN!” And I had to perform this little butt dance without the Old Lady walking in and, thus, immediately nullifying our marriage. I had officially, and literally, sunk as low as I could go.
I will admit that, a couple of times, I actually managed to poke the thing in there, stand up, clamp my hand over my clenched ass cheeks and dive into bed, without blasting that fucker outta my ass like an errant mortar round. But after a coupla days of this mostly fruitless barrel-loading, I gave up. You know, I’d rather have an itchy bung than continue with this humiliating game of rectal Whack-a-Mole any longer. What to do… what… to… do…?
Up Next: Could This Be the End???
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
The O-Ring of Fire (6)...
... The verdict? Fuck if he knew. He said there might be a mild internal ‘roid in there and he gave me two prescriptions: one for a cream and one for… suppositories. [SFX: tuba blat] Can I get a what the shit?! Someone just shoot me now.
So I drive on over to Kroger to pick up my magazine of bum-bullets. Now one of the myriad shitty things about living in a small town is that the pharmacist knows every goddamn pain, rash, infection, psychological disorder and zit going on in your miserable existence. And they know your name. It’s nothing like Cheers, where you go in for a beer and everyone yells, “NORM!” It’s more like, you walk up to the counter and everyone yells, “HEY CRABBY! HOW’S YOUR SORE BALL SACK?”
Anywhich, I dropped off the scripts and skulked on over to the magazine rack to wait until it’s my turn to be publicly humiliated. And I didn’t have to wait long. They called me over and said, and I shit you not:
PHARMACIST: Uh, Mr. Crabby? Yeah, we have that Nupercainal ANAL OINTMENT here for you but the RECTAL SUPPOSITORIES? We don’t have the exact brand that your doctor ordered so we’re going to call him to see if we can substitute the RECTAL SUPPOSITORIES we have here, okay? It’ll just be a few more minutes…
ME: Oh, okay.
ME, IN MY HEAD: One, thank you for announcing my ASSHOLE DISORDER to the entire goddamn store and B, why didn’t you call the fucking doctor FIRST and see if it was okay before calling me over here and embarrassing my ass in front of every goddamn senior citizen in town to TELL me that you were about to call my doctor to ask him. And three, thanks tons for hitting the word “rectal” so fucking hard?! I sure can’t wait until I get ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION. Ya fuck!
And then, about 15 minutes later (when the line was nice and long) they called me back up:
PHARMACIST: Yes, Mr. Crabby? We talked to your doctor’s office and they said the RECTAL SUPPOSITORIES we have here will be fine for YOU. So, if you’ll look here, it’s one suppository, IN YOUR RECTUM, two times a day. Mmmmkay? Do you have any questions?
ME: Just one. Why do you hate me so?
I grabbed the bag, weaved in and out of the line of the elderly and infirm circling me, pointing and laughing, and exited the store in a cold ass-sweat. I realized at this moment that it would have been much easier to have just gotten my asshole removed. Maybe next time.
Up Next: When the Bullet Hits the Bum…
So I drive on over to Kroger to pick up my magazine of bum-bullets. Now one of the myriad shitty things about living in a small town is that the pharmacist knows every goddamn pain, rash, infection, psychological disorder and zit going on in your miserable existence. And they know your name. It’s nothing like Cheers, where you go in for a beer and everyone yells, “NORM!” It’s more like, you walk up to the counter and everyone yells, “HEY CRABBY! HOW’S YOUR SORE BALL SACK?”
Anywhich, I dropped off the scripts and skulked on over to the magazine rack to wait until it’s my turn to be publicly humiliated. And I didn’t have to wait long. They called me over and said, and I shit you not:
PHARMACIST: Uh, Mr. Crabby? Yeah, we have that Nupercainal ANAL OINTMENT here for you but the RECTAL SUPPOSITORIES? We don’t have the exact brand that your doctor ordered so we’re going to call him to see if we can substitute the RECTAL SUPPOSITORIES we have here, okay? It’ll just be a few more minutes…
ME: Oh, okay.
ME, IN MY HEAD: One, thank you for announcing my ASSHOLE DISORDER to the entire goddamn store and B, why didn’t you call the fucking doctor FIRST and see if it was okay before calling me over here and embarrassing my ass in front of every goddamn senior citizen in town to TELL me that you were about to call my doctor to ask him. And three, thanks tons for hitting the word “rectal” so fucking hard?! I sure can’t wait until I get ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION. Ya fuck!
And then, about 15 minutes later (when the line was nice and long) they called me back up:
PHARMACIST: Yes, Mr. Crabby? We talked to your doctor’s office and they said the RECTAL SUPPOSITORIES we have here will be fine for YOU. So, if you’ll look here, it’s one suppository, IN YOUR RECTUM, two times a day. Mmmmkay? Do you have any questions?
ME: Just one. Why do you hate me so?
I grabbed the bag, weaved in and out of the line of the elderly and infirm circling me, pointing and laughing, and exited the store in a cold ass-sweat. I realized at this moment that it would have been much easier to have just gotten my asshole removed. Maybe next time.
Up Next: When the Bullet Hits the Bum…
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
The O-Ring of Fire (5)...
... Okay, so fast-forward a coupla weeks and I finally decide it’s time to air my ass woes out to (at) my doctor. Poor guy. So I head over there under the guise of getting a prescription refilled and then at the last minute, after some good-natured chit-chat, I spring on him, “Oh… and I’ve been having some itching going on in the rear-end area [circular hand gesture] that I thought I should maybe mention.” His smile fades and he gets that look that you get when you realize you’ve just stepped in some dog shit and you’re going to have to spend the next 20 minutes sitting on the front porch, picking it out of your waffle soles with a stick.
So he reluctantly gloves up, lubes his finger and tells me to roll on my side and grab my ankles. At least that’s what I think he said. It all happened so fast. Luckily, he’s a wee man and, thankfully, sports a wee forefinger, to boot. He pokes his mini-digit in there, twists it around, says everything “feels normal” and then, like Little Jack Horner, withdraws said digit… sans plum, thank god. Just as I was about to roll back over and retrieve my pants (and my dignity), he inserts something that felt like… well, I’m pretty sure he rammed an inverted orange traffic cone up my fanny. Apparently, he needed to “open the aperture” a bit to take a little lookie-loo. Holy fuckstain, the dude could’ve walked in there at that point! It’s a good thing I didn’t blow one while that thing was in there ‘cuz the whole town would’ve high-tailed it to their basements, thinking the air raid sirens were going off. Eventually he withdrew the cone and my poor sphincter slammed shut like snapping turtle’s jaws on an unsuspecting wader’s pinkie toe. My poor, poor sphincter.
Next up: The Verdict...
So he reluctantly gloves up, lubes his finger and tells me to roll on my side and grab my ankles. At least that’s what I think he said. It all happened so fast. Luckily, he’s a wee man and, thankfully, sports a wee forefinger, to boot. He pokes his mini-digit in there, twists it around, says everything “feels normal” and then, like Little Jack Horner, withdraws said digit… sans plum, thank god. Just as I was about to roll back over and retrieve my pants (and my dignity), he inserts something that felt like… well, I’m pretty sure he rammed an inverted orange traffic cone up my fanny. Apparently, he needed to “open the aperture” a bit to take a little lookie-loo. Holy fuckstain, the dude could’ve walked in there at that point! It’s a good thing I didn’t blow one while that thing was in there ‘cuz the whole town would’ve high-tailed it to their basements, thinking the air raid sirens were going off. Eventually he withdrew the cone and my poor sphincter slammed shut like snapping turtle’s jaws on an unsuspecting wader’s pinkie toe. My poor, poor sphincter.
Next up: The Verdict...
Monday, January 04, 2010
The O-Ring of Fire (4)...
... Now, while my third theory is the most ridiculous and improbable, it is, of course, the one that freaks me out the most. What if I have some sort of killer anus disease. It could happen. Farrah Fawcett Majors had anus cancer and I’m sure her asshole was WAY cleaner than mine could ever dream of being. That would seriously suck. The high point of my pitiful day is my 9:37 AM daily dumpage. And the late afternoon dumpage. And the occasional late-night dumpage. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I had to have my asshole removed. And I can’t imagine that filling up one of those colostomy bags could ever be as satisfying as pinching one’s loaf the old-fashioned way. Frankly, having one of those bags has always been my worst fucking nightmare. Although… it would pretty much cut the bathroom trips out of my schedule -- that’s a good couple of hours I’d get back per day. The things I could do with two extra hours a day. Maybe I won’t write off anus-disease quite yet...
Up Next: What's Up (There), Doc?
Up Next: What's Up (There), Doc?
Sunday, January 03, 2010
The O-Ring of Fire (3)....
... My second theory is that my oh-so-delicate "escape hatch" has become sensitized to the Cottonelle Moist Wipes I use on a daily basis. As you may or may not know, a couple of years ago, I pretty much ditched traditional toilet paper for the miracle that is the “moist wipe.” (And you're welcome for that news flush.) Cleaning up with those babies is akin to having the tongue of god lick your ass clean… I'd imagine. But lately, it’s been starting to sting a little when I swipe one of those fuckers down there and I’m beginning to think that maybe my anal immune system is rebelling agin’ the perfumes, chemicals and unguents infused in said wipes. (My ass has always been a bit of a rebel.)
Of course, installing a bidet would probably remedy the situation but that would cost a butt-load and there is really no extra space for a French ass sink in our tiny bathroom. No, the quickest solution to this problem would be to sit in a vat of peanut butter and have the dog lick my ass clean. I mean, he already loves licking his own ass and he fucking loves the taste of peanut butter... and shit. Frankly, it would be a win-win-win for him. But there is that slim chance that I’d be caught. Hmm... that’d be a tough one to explain away…
Of course, installing a bidet would probably remedy the situation but that would cost a butt-load and there is really no extra space for a French ass sink in our tiny bathroom. No, the quickest solution to this problem would be to sit in a vat of peanut butter and have the dog lick my ass clean. I mean, he already loves licking his own ass and he fucking loves the taste of peanut butter... and shit. Frankly, it would be a win-win-win for him. But there is that slim chance that I’d be caught. Hmm... that’d be a tough one to explain away…
Saturday, January 02, 2010
The O-Ring of Fire (2)....
... I did have my theories, of course. My first theory was the most logical – my bung-o-flames was being caused by the piece-o-carp, leatherette office chair I plop my skinny ass in for ten hours every goddamn day. As the day wears on, the ol’ crackerino transforms into an Arizona sweat lodge. It’s like a wood-burning pizza oven down there – I swear, if I jammed a pinch of sourdough starter up my shitter each morning, I’d have a steamy loaf by lunchtime… San Francisco style. And the rubbery/silicone-y seat cushion thing I bought to better distribute the pressure on my bony-ass assbones probably isn’t helping matters, either. I might as well be sporting rubber baby pants all day. I'm surprised I don't have lichen growing on my taint. What I really need is one of those Aeron chairs with the mesh seat so I can properly “Aeron” my crackhole out. Damn, if only I hadn’t spent that last thousand dollars on food, clothes for the spawnage, the mortgage and that Take 5 bar...
Friday, January 01, 2010
The O-Ring of Fire...
It was the itch that woke me up. That relentless, sweaty, crawling-with-panko-caked-baby-spiders itch that made me wish I could just rip my skin off and jump into a vat of Greek yogurt. For two weeks I had been awakened this way. Where the itching came from, why it was happening now, how the fuck I could get rid of it… I had no answers. All I could do was lie there, wondering if anyone had ever gone clinically insane from an itchy asshole...
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