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.

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.

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...

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.