Go West, Young Crab...

We're off to Portland for a few days so I'll be taking a well-deserved break from posting. I mean, three posts in a year is an inSANE pace to keep up. I'm sure I'll have all sorts of crazy hijinx to post about upon our return -- tales of run-ins with patchouli-soaked, earlobe-plugged Oregonads, episodes of gastric pandemonium resulting from one too many hemploaf paninis and I'm pretty sure at least one of us will shart on the plane.

In the meantime, chew on this: I took Mr. Z to his cross-country physical yesterday and the doc filled us in on his growth stats since his last physical, two years ago. In 24 months the boy has grown eight (8) inches and gained 50 pounds. So you can better visualize this, here are a couple of equivalents...

He's this much heavier...

... and this much taller...

I don't know just what that means but now I'm hungry, so I'm gonna go make a muskie sub.

Pucker Up!

So, I'm finishing up my morning swim this AM and I'm wheeze-staggering toward the locker room. I've got Rush's "2112" coursing through my head because I decided to rock a Best-o'-Rush mix during my workout. Why? Because I hate all music at this point and I'm starting over -- I'm rewinding to age 12 and declaring a do-over.

As I fling open the locker room door, I'm greeted by a dude, naked as a plucked Butterball mind you, his ass jutted out, pointed at the mirror and his extended forefinger wiping some fucking unguent on his puckered bunghole. (I didn't see that his bunghole was puckered... I just ass-umed.) And I shit you not, this line from Rush was going through my head...

"What can this strange device be? When I touch it... it gives forth a sound..."

The dude didn't fucking flinch when he saw me. He just continued applying, like some kind of rectally agitated downhill skier who was "in the zone":

He did glance over at me for a second, long enough to see me half-grin as I thought "And there's my blog post for today!" But then he turned his attention to the mirror and back to the task at hand... er, finger.

My question is, what sort of person does this? Who moistens one's dumper in the middle of a bustling lockerroom? And, if one decides to do this, why does one need to look in the goddamn mirror? It's not like he was applying lipstick and didn't want to color outside his lip-line. The concentration and attention to detail -- it was like he was painting some sort of masterpiece on his taint. He's a regular Pablo Picasshole.

Dudes, man. They never cease to surprise and disgust me.

Radon O'Really?

I'm pretty sure I'm dying of Radon poisoning. It's a slow kinda dying and really only involves minor discomfort so far, so I suppose if you've gotta go, Radon poisoning is really not that bad of an option.


So I'm down here in the basement all day, freezing my nardules off because it's about 20 degrees colder down here than in the rest of the house. And since the Old Lady likes to set the air conditioner to about 1, that makes it about -19 down here. It's 99 degrees outside, my test-cicles have retreated up around my neck in this ice dungeon and I'm sportin' a fleece jacket and wool socks. (I have other things on, too, like pants, shirt and my unmentionables but they don't illustrate the coldness factor that well, so I didn't mention them.)

How does the Radon fit in, you ask? How the fuck should I know -- the Radon has probably already eaten away the part of my brain that would understand how it fits in. All I do know is that, all of a sudden, I've got issues with asthma that I've never had before, have to use this goddamn inhaler two times a day, my stomach is bloated all the time and I'm always tired as shit. If that's not Radon poisoning then, honey, I don't know what is. (Actually, it's more likely attributed to the fact that I'm 47 years old and that's what happens when you run your flesh suit full-throttle for 47 fucking years straight without changing the oil or emptying your spit valve.)

Anywhich, I bought one of those home Radon Test Kits from the creeps over at Ace Hardware. Actually, they're not all creepy... mostly just the older woman who seems completely normal until she turns away from you to go find your compact fluorescent light bulbs and you see the kiwi fruit-sized flesh orb sticking out the back of her head, coyly peeking out of her curly, gray tresses. I swear I could see the thing breathing. I shouldn't poke fun at it, of course -- mostly because it might pop and because that's probably what my fucking skin tag's gonna look like in a couple of months. To her credit, her flesh nubbin did have quite a nice shine to it, though. Maybe I could get some nubbin-buffin' tips out of her.

What was I talking about? Right, the Radon test kit. Bought it about three months ago and stuck it to the top of my computer monitor -- right in the thick o' the noxious death cloud I suck in throughout the day. I just shipped it off to the testing company on Monday and they say I'll get the results in about two weeks. I can't wait -- it's like waiting for a college acceptance letter! "Dear Crabbydad, We are pleased to inform you that your basement is chock full o' radioactive outgasses and that you have, at best, months to live. Congratulations!"

I've started pricing iron lungs and I think I found the perfect one:

I used to be such an iron-lung-half-empty kinda guy but I really feel like I'm more of an iron-lung-half-full kinda guy now. Things are looking up!

How Do You Work This Thing?

Where was I? Oh, right, the skin tag. Well, that fucking meat-ball withstood the dental floss noose and, if anything, has grown even stronger and fleshier. I've temporarily given up trying to remove myself from it, basically out of respect. Not only do I think that rubbery nub is sentient, I'm getting the feeling that it's way more intelligent than I am. Another couple of weeks and I'm not going to even be able to rest my arm at my side -- it'll just be perched atop the beanbag chair-sized nevus jutting out of my armpit. Frankly, I'm not that bothered by it anymore. It's kind of like having a new friend... or A friend. It's pretty lonely here toiling away in the basement. Now at least I have a co-worker. (Unfortunately, he smokes.)

So, yeah, I haven't written anything in a while. I think I started feeling like I had nothing left to say. I mean, how many times can you bitch about your kids or their schools or your health or having an itchy asshole... or poop?

Hopefully a lot more, because that's all I fucking know. So, I'm going to try to fire this mofo back up and see what happens. Do people even blog today, though? Is Blogger even a thing anymore? Aren't people now just Tumblring their Pinterest onto their BleepBlorp? I should probably just attend to my neglected Twitter account but encapsulating a thought into two sentences is way the fuck harder for me than blathering on for 10 paragraphs about how long my last shit was (like a fucking didgeridoo...doo).

So, yeah, we'll see if I can tear my skinny ass off the Tee-Vee watchin' couch at the end of the day, stumble back down here to this radon-soaked tomb and shit out some drivel about my meaningless existence.

Sounds fun!