crabbydad

And Now We Wait...

2011-09-28T10:05:00.005-04:00

The deed is done. I have successfully tied the dental floss noose round my armpitty intruder. Mind you, it wasn't fucking easy. You try lassoing a meaty nubbin' with one hand. It was like like attempting to extract a greased Vienna sausage from a tub of tapioca with your toes. Which I have tried, and it's not as easy, or delicious, as it sounds.

Anywhich, now the waiting game is on. I'm kind of afraid to look at it -- I kept catching a glimpse of it when I was getting dressed this morning and it kinda looked furious... like this:

If you don't hear from me in a few days, call the authorities... and a good exterminator.

The Hangman's Noose

2011-09-23T09:59:00.005-04:00

So, today is supposed to be the day... the day I tie off my unborn twin. I was ready to do it this morning, actually -- I showered, making sure to lather the ol' skin tag up and loofah-ing it to a high shine. But I haven't been able to pull the trigger yet. Why? Maybe I've grown too attached to it. [beat] I don't know... maybe I'm starting to feel sorry for it. All the good times we've had together. Murder's not as easy as you'd think. Here's the "conversation" I had with "Ol' Flappy" while toweling off...

ME: So, here we are...
SKIN TAG: Yep. Here we--hey, what are you doing with that floss in your hand?
ME: Oh this? Uh... nothing. You just go back to what you were doing...
SKIN TAG: You weren't going to fashion a mini noose out of that and try to tighten it around my meaty stalk, were you?
ME: What?! A noose?! That's crazy! Why would I do that?
SKIN TAG: Oh, I don't know. You sure have been paying a lot of attention to me, lately. Flicking me, prodding me with pencil erasers, measuring me...
ME: Oh, don't mind that. You're just fun to play with.
SKIN TAG: Good. 'Cuz you don't wanna fuck with a skin tag. You fuck with me and, next thing you know, I'm getting all dark-colored and my borders are getting all irregular and shit. You hear what I'm saying?
ME: [silence]
SKIN TAG: PUT DOWN THAT NAIL CLIPPER, MOTHERFUCKER!!!

I'm thinking tonight's the night. I'll attack while it's sleeping.

Unless it attacks first...

Tag! You're It!

2011-09-22T13:49:00.008-04:00

So, when you reach your mid-40s, there's a lotta shit going on in, on and around your body that just disgusts the fuck out of you. I try not to look in the mirror too often but when I do, I'm usually greeted with some new bodily atrocity that causes my sphincter to clamp shut and produces an air-barf or two.

The latest heinousness was unearthed recently while innocently applying some deodorant. I lifted my right arm for a couple of swipes of the old pit-stick when I spied a little bit more flesh than I was used to. There, just to the side of my pit-muff, was a pendulous nubbin' of revolting meat-growth: a SKIN-TAG!! And this was not your run-of-the-mill skin-tag, either. It was like an albino raisin hanging by slimmest of skin-threads -- just flapping side-to-side like some horrific, mini beached armpit sea cow.

If I could've ripped my arm off then and there and stuffed it down the kitchen garbage disposal, believe me, it would have been done. But this thing was stuck to me... a hammy hanger-on adhered to me like a flesh-lamprey clinging to its oblivious, meaty host. Just thinking about it now, nestled comfortably within my cozy, hair-lined arm-crotch is making bile spray up my food-hole like some sort of doo-doo geyser.

But I wasn't going to simply sit idly by and let this thing absorb me, Invasion of the Body Snatchers-style. No, I needed a plan. So, while back in Chicago recently visiting the 'rents, I posed a dinner-table question to my doctor brother...

ME: Hey, so skin tags...
DR. BROTHER: Yeah?
ME: Is there a way of getting rid of them without going to a doctor?
DR. BROTHER: Uh, sure. You can come into the office tomorrow, though and--
ME: No, I've gotta do this myself.
DR. BROTHER: Well, you can tie some dental floss or thin thread around its stalk, which will cut off the blood supply. Then it'll eventually turn black and fall off.
ME: Thanks!

First of all... let me acknowledge the utter ghastliness of the fact that this thing has a fucking "stalk." Holy fuck is that gnarly. And B, this might appear to the average reader to be sound doctorly advice if it weren't for the fact that I recall, years ago, my brother telling me about a time when he tried to snip a skin tag off of his neck with a toenail clipper and it proceeded to "bleed for, like, four days." Probably a good idea to get a second opinion but, fuck it, I need this Siamese twin gone, like, yesterday.

So, that brings us up to today. I'm reviving this long dead-and-buried blog to document the exorcism of my nubbin-y nemesis, my plumped-up parasite, my flappy flesh-knob. I'd post pictures but A, no one should have to see such evil and 2, I'm pretty sure the photos would end up on some alt.binaries.nubbinlovers site and I just couldn't live with that. Instead, I'll try to post artist renderings of each step in the process.

I'll start with a rendering of "the culprit" pre-strangulation. Warning: not for the faint-hearted.

UP NEXT: The Hangman's Noose

The Comeback Kid...

2011-03-02T10:15:00.011-05:00

Fucking middle school.

So, apparently, there are a coupla jock douche-nozzles who are giving Mr. Z a hard time in one of his classes -- just run-of-the-mill jock harassment, the occasional name-calling and general douche-nozzlery. He seems somewhat annoyed by it but the dude is just way too nice to do anything about it. Although, as crabby-progeny, he is obligated to return their fire. It is the crabby way.

I don't remember how old I was when I realized that being a fucking smart-ass was the antidote to any and all of the turds that life chucked my way. I think I was kind of an easy target for awhile there, too. I blame my parents, of course. They were never cynical enough -- always telling me I could be anything I wanted to be and how much other people had to offer. Liars!

Anywhich, I started to realize that it's nearly impossible to force cynicism on a kid who's not ready for it yet. It's like trying to affix a fake mustache to a dog's muzzle -- ultimately, it's just not gonna stick (no matter how much duct tape you use). So, I'd futilely run through role-playing scenarios where I'd say things like, "All you have to do is say, 'Eat my balls, dickcheese.'" and he's say, "No way! I'm not gonna say that!" Other plans involved attaching a spy camera/microphone to his head, teaching him the Three Stooges eye poke and me going to school dressed in a Mr. Z costume for a week. Needless to say, he indulged none of my scenarios.

Cut to yesterday morning when I had a revelation in the shower. But this revelation didn't involve Dr. Bronner's peppermint soap and a warm washcloth. See, I just had to find a solution that Mr. Z would think was hilarious enough that he'd take ownership of the idea and embrace it. So here's what I proposed at the dinner table last night...

ME: Okay, I think I've got a solution. Here's what you do -- next time this butt-nugget says something to you, say, "Whatever, dipes." Then turn away. Then, when he asks you what "dipes" means, say, "Eh, you kinda smell like diapers."

OLD LADY: [laughs hysterically for about three minutes]

MR. Z: Dipes?! Why dipes?

ME: Why not?! It's perfect. And once the name sticks, you're golden.

MR. Z: What if he says, "Did your dad tell you to call me that?"

ME: A) He'd never say that. 2) Then you say, "No, actually your mom told me to call you that last night, as she was crawling out my bedroom window."

OLD LADY: [instantly stops laughing]

MR. Z: Now that's funny. So how do you spell it? Is it d-i-p-e-s or is it d-i-a-p--

ME: NOT IMPORTANT! Spell it however you want! Look, it's a fool-proof plan! DIPES! It can't lose!

MR. Z: That's pretty good. If he says anything tomorrow, I might try it out. [beat] And maybe later I can start calling him "Dick van Dipes!"

ME: YES! That's my boy!

God, I hope he doesn't get his ass kicked.

=====UPDATE=======

Apparently, today the fuckstain who has been bothering Mr. Z was picking on a special ed kid in class, so Mr. Z said, "Leave him alone, Dipes." The kid asked him why he called him Dipes and Mr. Z said "because you kinda smell like diapers." I guess it got to him because he called Mr. Z a "f*ggot," (stay classy, fuckstain), to which Mr. Z flawlessly replied, "Whatever, Dipes."

And the kicker is, Mr. Z heard around school that the kid has been asking people if he smells like diapers. Yeesssss... it's all going according to plan! I told Mr. Z "Now, all you have to do is call him Dipes whenever your see him and by the end of the year, people won't even remember his real name."

Man, what I'd give for one of those freak electrical storms that turns me into a 12 year old kid again and unleashes me on an unsuspecting middle school! There is that Zoltar machine at the mall...

A Dear Gym Letter...

2011-02-04T16:25:00.012-05:00

Dear Mr. Z's 8th grade gym teacher,

Dodge ball? Really? It's 20-fucking-11, some 30 plus years since I used to get an over-inflated red rubber ball catapulted at my 10 year old nutsack by a freakishly overdeveloped Orlando Mazzolini at Kipling elementary school, and the best you can muster "physical education-wise" is fucking dodge ball?!

Your douchebaggery is breathtaking.

I don't know... maybe you were flash-frozen in a 1970s block of ice, only to be thawed out almost half a century later, two states eastward, and then forced to immediately come up with a forty minute activity the very second you were reanimated. Maybe you think that the best way to prepare the next generation of humanity for the inevitable globally-warmed armageddon is to build up their throwin' arms and toughen up their supervirus-vulnerable skin with repeated pummelings. Or maybe you're a fucking clueless shitfuck who is somehow oblivious to the fact that dodge-fucking-ball has become forever linked to lazy, drunken, sadistic, dipshit gym teachers, as illustrated in such classics as "Freaks and Geeks," "The Wonder Years," "Mr. Woodcock," and, oh I don't know, maybe the movie "Dodgeball"?!

What, is your last functioning creatine-fried synapse too fucking overworked to come up with a plan other than "whipping shit at the weak"? Are your polyester sans-a-belt shorts choking off all the oxygen meant to supply your tiny ass-brain? Or are you just pissed that after the University of Moron red-shirted your ass freshman year, you then pulled a hammy doing a kegstand at the Theta Chi house, and killed any future you might have had as a rich and famous fat-ass pro lineman, celebrated for being able to eat big hunks of meats and for growing a giant beard and then dropping dead at age 47 when your over-concussed brain melts into a lumpy custard?

How do you have a fucking job, you pointless nugget of turd? Do you know how many unemployed physical education teachers there are in this bankrupt state who would literally rip your mouth-breathing face off of your flat skull for a chance to actually teach and physically educate? The fact that my tax money (which I gladly hand over, by the way -- you shortsighted, treasonous anti-tax fart-nozzles are next on my list) lines the polyester pockets of a ham-headed, cretinous neanderfuck like you makes me want to punch you in the neck, which would, of course, be impossible because I saw you on parent/teacher conference night and your ham-head rests squarely on your ham-shoulders. You, sir, are neckless.

Why I'm wasting type on you, I know not. I mean, you're forcing middle-schoolers to play dodge ball, for shit's sake -- it's like trying to reason with a goat. And at least goats can yield cheese. I don't know what one could make from your milk. Failure curds? Half and half-wit? Simpleton-gurt?

May a gym class' worth of errant, over-inflated red rubber balls rocket their way to your dessicated, steroid-shrunken prune-bag, you worthless ass spray.

Sincerely,
Crabbydad

UPDATE:
Mr. Z informed me that today was the last day of dodge ball. Of course, he also informed me that he got hit in the face "really hard" as a farewell. Hopefully, that's the last time he'll ever have unwelcomed balls smacking into his face.

Turning over a New Leash...

2010-10-17T21:56:00.005-04:00

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.

Lo, I Have Smelled The Face of Death...

2010-10-07T09:23:00.003-04:00

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.

I Guess I've Hit Crabberty...

2010-09-28T21:49:00.013-04:00

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...

2010-09-22T20:33:00.008-04:00

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...

2010-09-20T21:46:00.002-04:00

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?

2010-09-15T20:40:00.002-04:00

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.

The Pit...

2010-04-02T11:00:00.000-04:00

The Saga Continues...

2010-03-30T22:39:00.001-04:00

Another Thing I Have No Time for...

2010-03-29T18:52:00.004-04:00

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...

Missed Episode 5? Schnauzer chance!!!

2010-03-18T21:31:00.003-04:00

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...

Tastes Like Mechanically-Separated Chicken!

2010-03-11T21:31:00.004-05:00

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...

There's More Than One Way to Skin a Fish...

2010-03-04T23:04:00.002-05:00

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.)

Another Treat from Miss Owooooooo!

2010-02-25T20:40:00.003-05:00

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.

Miss O Has a Shiny Coat...

2010-02-20T18:50:00.003-05:00

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."

Upstairs, Brownstairs...

2010-02-16T14:48:00.002-05:00

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.

Airin' out the New 'Do...

2010-02-15T19:17:00.007-05:00

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.

The Cut of Your Gib... lets...

2010-02-13T11:02:00.006-05:00

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.

Washington, Lincoln, Snow Miser -- All on My Shit-List....

2010-02-09T18:01:00.004-05:00

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...

Nocturnal Admissions...

2010-02-08T20:24:00.004-05:00

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?!!!

Mid-Michiganean Homesick Blues...

2010-02-03T20:43:00.001-05:00

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.

Miss O Math...

2010-02-02T20:05:00.002-05:00

Brow-Beaten....

2010-01-29T13:01:00.005-05:00

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:

A Boy & His Dog...

2010-01-27T15:13:00.001-05:00

Mr. Z and Grover have been practicing, this winter...

Personalize funny videos and birthday eCards at JibJab!

The Wedge of Night...

2010-01-19T20:46:00.006-05:00

"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...

GERD Dammit!

2010-01-14T20:33:00.004-05:00

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.

IM-barrassed...

2010-01-11T20:00:00.001-05:00

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.

The O-Ring of Fire (Fin?)...

2010-01-10T21:06:00.002-05:00

… 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."

The O-Ring of Fire (7)...

2010-01-07T20:00:00.001-05:00

... 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???

The O-Ring of Fire (6)...

2010-01-06T20:00:00.001-05:00

... 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…

The O-Ring of Fire (5)...

2010-01-05T20:00:00.001-05:00

... 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...

The O-Ring of Fire (4)...

2010-01-04T20:00:00.002-05:00

... 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?

The O-Ring of Fire (3)....

2010-01-03T20:00:00.002-05:00

... 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…

The O-Ring of Fire (2)....

2010-01-02T20:00:00.000-05:00

... 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...

The O-Ring of Fire...

2010-01-01T23:00:00.000-05:00

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...

Crappy New Year...

2009-12-31T23:43:00.003-05:00

Let's see if I can fire this ol' bad boy back up for 2010. I'll get things off with a rousing start with Mr. Z's doodle of a urinating hermaphrodite turd.

Have a great year, everybody!

What to Do...

2009-12-29T12:28:00.003-05:00

I want to return to this thing in 2010... I just don't know what to do to make it less, how you say, shitty. Should I do audio? Video? Write using only wingdings?

I'm open to suggestions. Ready go.

Better Than Ghosts!

2009-11-24T13:58:00.003-05:00

Found this in Miss O's backpack...

Me? I would've gone with "B: Brains!" but that's what makes Miss O special. (By the way, she won a gold medal in board-breaking at the Tae Kwon Do tourney last Saturday. Methinks she'll ever be hassled by zombies with the chop/kick combo that she wields.)

Taking a Pill... The Hard Way...

2009-11-05T21:12:00.003-05:00

My question, "But what if I only have the one?"

Crabbydoc I'm Not...

2009-10-02T14:09:00.003-04:00

The one thing I really hate about being a parent is the uncertainty of it all. Especially when the spawnage are sick. Colds I can handle pretty well but this flu shit leaves me a tightly-packed shitball of neuroses.

Example 1: Miss O wakes up this morning with a nastyish sounding cough. Other than that, though, she seems fine -- no fever, the cough is dry, spunkiness intact. Thing is, yesterday, Mr. Z had a little cough and he ended up coming home with a fever and the flu. So, do I send her to school and take the chance that she's going to take a turn for the worse, or do I keep her at home to stew in the viral hell-cloud being spewed willy-nilly by Mr. Z and the Old Lady?

Solution? I sent her to school. And I've been sitting here waiting for the call from school all fucking day. It's killing me.

Example B: Mr. Z has the full-on plague. 103 fever, hacking cough, flushed complexion, sleeping in the middle of the day -- the whole sack-o-shit. Last night, he woke up burning hot, and this after giving him two Advil. No effect. Now, I know it's a virus and fevers are part of that, but usually they respond to Advil. So I'm sitting there at three in the morning trying to decide whether or not to wake the fucking doctor up and ask him what the shit to do. I didn't call.

He was still alive this morning, so that's a plus. I called the doc this morning and they said to just keep monitoring him and make sure his temp doesn't hit 105 and to keep him well-hydrated. Okay, fine. He crashes on the couch for about an hour, out cold, then wakes up kinda babbling. Half coherent, half Nutty Professor. I walked him upstairs to his bed and he said...

MR. Z: Can you put the crush on the bed?

ME: The what?

MR. Z: The crush! (points to a fuzzy orange pillow of his... that he has NEVER called "the crush.")

ME: Oh, the pillow. Sure.

MR. Z: And can you pull up the Oprah?

ME: Huh?

MR. Z: The Oprah! What, are you deaf?

ME: [no idea what the fuck he's talking about] Uh... the comforter?

MR. Z: Duh!

So, clearly, his brain is melting and I'm sitting here with my thumb up my ass doing nothing about it. Holy shitfuck, this kinda shit kills me. And it doesn't help that the Old Lady is sick, too, so I have no reality check to turn to. She usually yangs my yin (though, sadly, not in a while...) so I don't freak the shit out when they're sick.

So here I sit, waiting for them to either get better or expire. Frankly, in my mind, it could go either way. The only sure thing is that if this stomach acid continues squirting into my colon at the rate it's currently a-squirtin', I'm going to be able to feed myself through gaping open hole where my belly button used to be.

The Score, Thus Far...

2009-10-01T20:18:00.002-04:00

Old Lady: flu

Mr. Z: flu

Miss O: beginnings of a cough

Grover: licking his balls

Me: looking for ass that this week has ripped clean out

On Second Thought, DON'T Pass the Rolls....

2009-09-22T17:20:00.003-04:00

Tonight, during dinner, Mr. Z was explaining how he successfully guessed the passwords of two of his friends (the passwords were "bobthebuilder" and "callofduty4").

I then chimed in with the nightly crabbydad nugget-o-trivia, asking if anyone knew what the most common password was. No one did, so I explained that it's "password."

Everyone busted a gut but Mr. Z laughed so hard that he literally blew a nickel-sized snot ball out of his nose that just happened to land, appropriately enough, on the green Incredible Hulk Popsicle he was eating. Miss O and I thought that that was fucking hilarious but the Old Lady, not being a champion of nosely excreta, went into a sort of convulsion-of-revulsion and nearly ralphed on the proceedings.

Grover, in turn, started barking his no-longer-functioning balls off and it turned into some sort of rip-snortin' snotenanny.

We finished dinner by coining some Sniglets that best describe the act of laughing so hard that you hork snot outta your schnoz...

We came up with "snocket," "blowger," "blowjectile" and "snart."

Feel free to add your own.

Some Pig(s)...

2009-09-18T11:42:00.008-04:00

Well, I've tried to defend and advocate for as long as I could but after this morning, I've realized I must relent and admit that, indeed, men are fucking pigs. I throw up the fucking white flag. You were right, women, we're disgusting. It only took three dudes in the locker room, this morning, to finally convince me.

Dude #1: Johnny Ballsack. Not a new character to the locker room, mind you. Johnny struts around naked as a fucking jaybird, airin' out his mandibles for all to see. It's like he's a retiring hacky-sack salesman who's desperately trying to unload the last of his wares. Yes, Johnny, I see your nuts... they're super. And thanks for putting one leg up on the bench while you towel off your hair so I can see them dangle there, weighted down like a Hobbit's weathered coin pouch filled with magical elfen nuggets.

Dude #2: Danny Diarrhea. Every fucking day the dude walks into the locker room, drops his back on a bench, enters a stall, shuts the door and then blasts a fucking shitstorm into the defenseless bowl that sounds like Ernest Borgnine explopding in a sensory deprivation tank. I mean, what the fuck does this guy's diet consist of, Beanie Weenie casserole, poured over raw scrapple, smothered in nitro-glycerin gravy... stuffed inside a polska kielbasa? Seriously, his asshole must look like fucking Chernobyl. Ring of Fire?! This dude's probably got a goddamn Necklace of Fire.

Dude #3: Clippy McToenails. Okay, picture a portly 70-ish Pakistani man in a maroon tracksuit, sitting in the middle of the lockerroom clipping his motherfucking toenails... with no regard for hither and/or thither they might be landing. And the dude must have like 40 toes 'cuz he was a-clippin' when I got in the shower and was still a-clippin' after I was fully dressed and leaving the locker room. "Tink... tink... tink...." 70 year old toenail shards shooting all over the goddamn place like a fucking cartilaginous meteor shower. Fucking disgusting.

And who knows what the shit these fuckers are doing in the goddamn pool. Where's my Speedo haz-mat suit when I need it?

Bark-in' up the Family Tree

2009-09-17T21:10:00.003-04:00

So, the vet offered to give the Grovernator a DNA test to see what the fuck kind of mongrel he is and we, being insufferable yuppie-fucks, said, "Bring it, Doc!"

Well, one crisp hundy and two weeks later, the results are in:

Just as we expected... he's a fucking mutt.

Thank you, science!

Puppy Got Back...

2009-09-16T21:17:00.001-04:00

I haven't had the energy to post lately but I did want to jot down Mr. Z's new name for Grover...

Sir Licks-a-Lot

Carry on.

I Know That Bitch!

2009-09-08T09:58:00.002-04:00

The Old Lady thinks she may have stumbled upon Grover's sister:

Sis?

She's also from Toledo and she looks pretty much exactly like the Grovester. Of course the first thing I said was, "We're not adopting another fucking dog!" But deep down, I thought it would be pretty fucking awesome if a) it actually is his sister and 2) they could hang out together.

But no fucking way.

So, I call upon one of you to adopt Sage and then swing on by for the big family reunion. If she's anything like her brother, she's energetic, fun-loving, loyal and loves to lick her balls. Ready... adopt.

Knock it Off!

2009-09-02T21:03:00.003-04:00

Mr. Z got me in trouble at camp, today. He came home with this note:

Lessons learned?

1. When busted, Mr. Z will sell me out in a fucking heartbeat and lie about not knowing what a "peter" is to save his skinny ass.

B. Camp is a fuck of a lot wimpier nowadays than when I was a kid. Shit, in my day you'd be hard-pressed to find a camp song that DIDN'T mention a dick in it.

3. I guess I should postpone my plans to teach the "Diarrhea Song" to Miss O this weekend.

Better Call Encyclopedia Brown...

2009-08-27T21:35:00.006-04:00

The Grovester shits about three times a day -- one or two "on the road," during his walks, and then another couple in the backyard. Until recently, it's been pretty easy to find the ones in the yard and bag 'em up. Usually, I'll see him all hunched over into that I'm-pinchin'-a-big'n, doggy question mark stance but sometimes I miss it and have to go a-huntin'.

In the past week, though, an assload of leaves have started falling into the yard -- brown, curly leaves. I think there must be a B.M. tree nearby 'cuz now everything looks like a fucking turd. Tonight, the Old Lady and I couldn't find his late-night leavings and we were trying to sniff the lil' smokies out.

That's when I came up with my idea for a dogshit-locating detective show. Each week, the private dick would show up at a different yard and try to hunt down the missing dumps.

Okay, it's a shitty idea, but it gave me an opportunity to come up with some half-assed, dogshit-related detective show puns, so indulge me.

Here are the potential show names, so far...

Turder She Wrote
The Rockford Piles (or as Mr. Z amended, The Rockfart Piles)
Barna-B.M. Jones
Poo-lice Story
Hill Street Poos
Homicide: Turd on the Street
Nancy Poo (Miss O came up with that one)

and my favorite, Magnum P.U., starring Tom Smellit.

Holy shit, I think the fumes have gotten to me. I need to wash my hands and get some sleep.

Just Call Me Hairy Howldini...

2009-08-25T20:47:00.003-04:00

I think I know what my next job is gonna be... Dog Magician!

====UPDATE====

Alas, my delusions of animal magician stardom have already been coopted by the Japanese...

http://www.boingboing.net/2009/08/27/chimp-enjoys-magic-s.html

One Dog, No Cup...

2009-08-25T16:13:00.003-04:00

I hit some sort of dog-owner milestone today.

I pulled a clump of shit-caked, long grass strands outta the dog's asshole after he hunched and strained all over the backyard for about five minutes trying to pinch the motherfucker off.

From this day forth, please greet me by shaking my left hand.

Right Back at Ya...

2009-08-23T11:59:00.002-04:00

I've gotten my second comment from 家出, in as many days...

"最近様々なメディアで紹介されている家出掲示板では、全国各地のネットカフェ等を泊り歩いている家出少女のメッセージが多数書き込みされています。彼女たちはお金がないので掲示板で知り合った男性とすぐに遊びに行くようです。あなたも書き込みに返事を返してみませんか"

I ran it through an online Kanji translator and this is what I got...

"Net cafe in nationwide various places etc. stay and are written a lot of messages of the walking runaway girl in the leaving home bulletin board introduced with various media recently. It seems to go to play at once with the man who got acquainted on the bulletin board because they do not have money. Will you also return writing the answer?"

All I have to say is, Walking Runaway Girl -- do NOT got to play at once with the man who got acquainted on the bulletin board! Not only do he not have money, but I'm guessing he got acquainted on bulletin board with many walking runaway girls in nationwide various places. Please, do not return writing the answer... him. Stay away from leaving home bulletin board and various media.

Trust me, you'll thank me later.

Non-Dog post...

2009-08-20T14:09:00.002-04:00

Conversation this morning, as I dropped Miss O off at camp:

ME: [after spraying her with bug spray] Okay, don't forget to put more on in the afternoon.

MISS O: Who are you calling a moron?!

My work is complete.

The Ghost Chicken and Mr. Grover...

2009-08-17T21:14:00.003-04:00

The Grovernator hasn't been drinking as much water, lately, as we think he should -- especially since it has been so fucking hot and humid that my fucking Balzac has been hanging to the ground like a leatherette kilt. He seems to dig ice cubes but he's not lappin' up the agua fria very much.

So, the Old Lady found some dog forum on the ingernachts that suggested:

You can get your dog to drink more water by adding low sodium chicken broth to it to enhance the flavor.

Not a bad idea, actually. So we poured a little chicken water in there and this is what happened:

We're guessing he smelled the chicken and was just searching around for the goddamn hunka meat. It went on for about 10 minutes... until all the chicken squeezins were splashed all over the kitchen floor. The whole house smells like a fucking poultry bathhouse now.

The dude's either brilliant or he's a fucking dumbass... I can't tell. We'll see what happens tomorrow when I dip the end of his tail in some Clamato.

Bathtime at the Crabbshack...

2009-08-15T18:36:00.002-04:00

Losing My Dognity...

2009-08-12T23:04:00.005-04:00

5 Things I never thought I'd do before ~~owning~~ getting a dog:

A. Put a dog turd in the refrigerator.

2. Lather up a doggy dick.

3. Pay over $700 in two days for 2 pet hospital visits.

C. Pull a dingleberry off of a canine bung-hole.

5. Walk around the neighborhood with a purple bag of shit in my hand.

[Okay, I had done three of those before owning a dog, but they were done recreationally, not out of obligation.]

I Almost Stepped in a Poodle...

2009-08-08T10:59:00.003-04:00

So, whatta you do when you have to take your dog out to shit and there's a fucking thunderstorm raging outside?

Fuck if I know, I'm asking you.

Well, I didn't want the Grovester to drop a steaming deuce in the house, so I grabbed the umbrella and out we went. There's was actually a momentary break in the downpour, so I figured we could get in a quick trot around the block, he could pinch off a dugan, and we could get back home without getting drenched.

Yeah, right.

We got about halfway around the block and the fucking sky opened up like god's sphincter and just doused us with his holy ass water. The umbrella was fucking worthless. I figured if I could just get the dog to the little strip of grass in front of the big fancy house where I always get him to dump, we'd be able to book home and not be completely douched.

So, just as we get there and Grover is squatting down to lay some puppy pipe, a fucking elephant-sized ball of white-hot, blinding lightning exploded, literally, like a sac hair away from my face. I swear to shit, I thought I was dead. I not only pissed my pants, I pissed Grover's pants, too.

The dog's asshole slammed shut like a snapping turtle on a pinkie toe and he fucking bolted down the street, dragging me behind him. We started racing toward home like the two of the Three Stooges being chased by a gorilla (I was Moe and Grover was... let's say Shemp). We got about halfway down the block and I had to stop -- I had a fucking cramp and I didn't care if I was gonna get zapped. I couldn't run anymore.

(And by the way, thanks for nothin', swimming. I think I'm in shape from all these fucking laps I do and then I run half a block and almost pass out. Stupid water.)

Anywhich, we finally made it home without getting kilted and we went inside. Of course, now Grover was soaked and he smelled like a pile of inside-out rectums wrapped in asparagus-pee-soaked wool,army-surplus blankets. But he wasn't dead, so that was a bonus.

And there you go -- we made it a whole week and the dog's still alive. Pretty excellent. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a dog to clean.

They can go in the washing machine, right?

What the Shit? Gland...

2009-08-05T21:19:00.003-04:00

Here's something I learned today from the dogs.lovetoknow.com (I added a few of my thoughts while reading)...

_____________________________
For Die-Hard Do-It-Yourself Types

Many breeders and owners feel capable of expressing their dog's anal glands themselves. They're dicks. However, one should be prepared for the anal gland secretions to appear and smell quite disgusting. Seriously?! That surprises me. If you feel this is a task you are willing to perform, here are some basic directions. Please be advised, that you should only perform this procedure on your own dogs and never someone else's. Because the bible says, "Thou shalt not express thy neighbors' dog's ass sacs."

1. Prepare a warm moist washcloth.
1b. Shove moist washcloth up dog's "bung."
2. Locate your dog's anal glands by raising his tail and using your other hand to feel for two lumps at approximately five and seven o'clock on either side of his anal opening. Whatever you do, don't feel at "midnight." This is known as a "rusty dogbone."
3. Holding the cloth over his anal opening to prevent an unpleasant squirt (You mean like that Jonathan Lipnicki kid?), begin applying firm but gentle pressure to the sacs (which is what he said). This should cause some of the fluid to be expelled through the rectal opening, thereby emptying the glands. Some people call this "shitting." Wipe your dog's behind clean, and the job should be finished. As should be any shred of self-respect you had left.

If you notice blood or pus in your dog's anal gland secretions you should probably get yourself a hobby. It is likely a sign of infection, and you should contact your vet for an appointment and treatment. But it's a good idea to wash your hands before making the call.

_____________________________

A) Who knew dogs had fucking "anal glands."

2) Who knew said fucking anal glands might some day need "expressing."

iii) I ain't expressing no fucking anal glands.

We couldn't have just gotten some fish...

Dog Day of Summer Deux...

2009-08-04T20:09:00.005-04:00

Actual conversations I had with Grover today...

ME: [grating Parmigiano Reggiano] This is CHEESE Grover. CHEEEEESE.

GROVER: ...

ME: Tell you what. If you can say "Cheese," you can have a hunk.

GROVER:...

ME: Nope. No cheese for you.

___________

ME: [6 AM, standing outside in my robe, waiting for Grover to pee...] Are you gonna go potty?

GROVER: [not going potty]

ME: C'mon! You wake me up at 6 AM and you're not gonna pee?! Just piss, okay?

GROVER: [pees about a thimble-ful of whizz]

ME: You win this round, my scruffy friend. But don't come running to me when you have a dried turd affixed to your ass hair.

GROVER: [sneeze]

____________

ME: [throwing frisbee in backyard] GO GET THE FRISBEE, GROVER!

GROVER: ... fuck off.

Dog Day of Summer...

2009-08-02T11:44:00.007-04:00

Apparently, I was just not crabby enough. Apparently, I needed less sleep, less money, less time to myself and assloads more frustration.

Apparently, I needed a dog.

So, we drove down to the Toledo area yesterday and came home with Grover, rescued mutt extraordinaire.

His full name, according to his genealogist, Mr. Z, is Sir H. Grosvner Scruffington of the Barkshires. His given name is "Gordon." I actually thought that name was fucking hilarious for a dog. I love human names on dogs. Like Chuck. Or Kevin.

But I was the only one in the crabbshack who liked Gordon, so we had to find something we all agreed on. Stupid democracy. The Old Lady went with the nerdily obvious "Albus."

Fuck no. Like we're not already big enough nerdarinos.

We eventually decided on another "G" name, so as not to confuse the pup. Or course, Mr. Z and Miss O came up with the unusable "Goopula." Then I thought, "Why not just switch the letters around a bit. No use wasting some perfectly good letters."

ME: What about "Grodon"?

MISS O: [laughing, secretly]

MR. Z: What's so funny?

MISS O: Nothing.

ME: No, really. Why is Grodon funny?

MISS O: Isn't that the 'thing' on boys?

MR. Z: [laughing hysterically] NO! That's "scrotum"!

So, he's Grover.

This is gonna be ruff...

Dinnertime at The Crabshack...

2009-05-15T11:06:00.003-04:00

MR. Z (reading a magazine): What's vee-aggra?

ME: It's "viagra." And what are you reading?!

OLD LADY: It's a pill for men who can't get an erection.

MISS O: What's an erection?

MR. Z: It's so weird! It's when your thing gets hard and sticks out. I get one when I have to pee or when I see a cute girl.

MISS O: Hm.

ME: Hey, who needs more milk?!

Fowl Play...

2009-04-12T20:38:00.004-04:00

I'm pretty sure a dove tried to kill me tonight.

This morning, I went into the garage to get the paper and as I got ready to hit the door opener, I bird darted outta some invisible space/time continuum rip and started flapping in my stupid face. I got the door opened and it eventually flew the fuck out of there but not before infarcting my goddamn infarcter.

I figured the thing must've built a nest in there somewhere, so I looked around until I saw a bunch of twiggy looking shit on top of the garage door opener mechanism box thingy. I climbed up a ladder and not only did I find the nest, but I also found a lone egg perched atop it. So, I did the only humane thing to do and scooped up the nest/egg combo, walked to a tree in front of the house and wedged it amongst the twiggery.

Now I know you're not supposed to move a nest or touch an egg 'cuz then you'll give it human cooties and the bird will never touch it again, but what the shit -- I wasn't gonna leave it in there and risk getting my eyeballs pecked out by an overprotective mother hen... er, dove. Besides, I'm still so fucking pissed at those goddamn woodpeckers that ALL BIRDS are on my shit-list, so fuck them. Did I mention that our car was pancaked with dovey ass-batter? Well it was, so it's ON.

Cut to tonight, as I'm out back grilling up some veggies for dinner, when I hear a giant fucking crash echo through the crabby'hood. I thought someone's basketball backboard crashed to the ground or maybe Miss O found a live grenade in the street, so I walked around front and saw that the garage door had crashed down onto one of the plastic sleds that Mr. Z was fucking around with this afternoon, and the Old Lady was trying to extricate what was left of the sled from the door's death jaws. The cables from the pulley things on either side of the door had completely snapped and the door smashed down, hermetically sealing our garage in a Tutankhamenian sarCARphagus.

We tried to pull the door up but that fucking door weighs like a fuckillion pounds and we barely got it lifted a half-millimeter before my hyena popped out. Motherfucker! And, of course, both cars are IN the garage so we're basically fucked until we get the thing fixed.

So yeah, the dove did it, I'm convinced. I touched its stupid egg so it sabotaged our garage. Garagotaged! I'm giving the woodpecker the day off tomorrow and I'm going after that fucker. And if all goes as planned, the crabbyfamily's gonna be having some squab and eggs for dinner tomorrow night.

Song Fu 3: Electric Booga... lee?

2009-04-02T17:44:00.002-04:00

It's that time again... time for me to beg you to vote for my song at the never-ending Song Fu contest:

Blah, blah, VOTE, blah, CRABBYDAD, blah, TURDS

Have I mentioned that I'm SO ready for this thing to be over. I've actually wanted to start posting here on a more regular basis, but this contest has sapped any stink of extra late-night energy right outta me.

Obviously, a lot has happened over the last month or three. Here are some of the highlights:

1. Tae Kwon Do + Miss O = medal

2. Spelling Bee + Mr. Z = trophy

3. tooth + looseness = Miss O losing first tooth ever

4. Me + wet burrito from The International Traveler's Club and Tuba Museum = cramps and explosive 'rrhea

5. basement + workers + all of our money = new basement

6. woodpecker's return + dad's bb gun = we'll see?

Let me know which one you want to hear about first and I'll get to it just as soon as I lose the Song Fu contest.

Z-mail

2009-03-26T19:24:00.005-04:00

This letter mysteriously appeared in the mailbox yesterday...

I knew something was fishy, as today is the day that my parents spawned me, but I played along with it.

MR. Z: Hmm... who's that letter from, Dad?

ME: I have NO idea. Someone named "Rich Dethlefsen" from Mason?! I'll bet it's just some sort of real estate thing or maybe a coupon to some cruddy store in Mason.

MR. Z: Yeah... are you gonna open it?!

ME: You know... I think I'll wait until tomorrow when I open my other birthday cards. That way it'll seem like I got more stuff.

I could tell that he was dying for me to open it but I managed to drag it out until this morning. Sure enough, upon opening the mysterious letter, I found this inside:

And of course an original Mr. Z poem:

Apparently, he told the Old Lady a couple of days ago that he wanted to "trick" me on my birthday by hiding his card in a "bill." A classic Mr. Z idea, by the way. He got the dude's name and address from the phone book. The funny thing is, yesterday after school he told me he wanted to run next door to see if his friend P could play. I told him that P wasn't back from school yet and he replied that he wanted to go ask the nanny if P could play once he did get home. I told him to just chill and wait a while. Now I realize that he wanted to stick his faux bill in the mailbox so it would be mixed in with the mail when I went to get it. Apparently, I was being inadvertently dickish. I'm good at that.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go write Rich Dethlefsen a thank-you note.

Pecker Trouble Redux... Again...

2009-03-22T20:27:00.009-04:00

The woodpecker is back.

It's been waking our asses up at around 7:30 a.m., which isn't bad during the week but on the fucking weekend, I'm worthless unless I get to sleep in until at least 7:40. So I've been bolting outta bed, grabbing my wrist-rocket and a handful of BBs and running outside to try and pierce the tiny pecker's tiny pecker with my eagle-eye wristrocketmanship. The problem is, my eagle-eye is kinda like the dead, cloudy eyeball of that old Master dude from Kung Fu, so, needless to say, the bird has survived my "onslaught."

Today, I decided to at least cover up the largest of the pecker-holes (on the house, mind you) with some aluminum flashing that I keep around for just such an occasion. I did some fancy metal bending too, so it would kinda zig-zag over the lip of the siding and blend in a little better. I set up the ladder, grabbed some screws and a drill and prepared to climb up to seal my pecker-hole.

With the Old Lady holding the ladder, I climbed up to the top and then... I fucking froze there like a goddamn deer in headlights... that's been dipped in liquid nitrogen. Apparently, when one is on the verge of 44, one gets this crippling fear of heights and today, for some reason, my brain said, "Fuck it. I'm done. You better drill that fucker in with your honkin' schnoz, 'cuz I ain't letting your hands offa this goddamn ladder." Complete and utter High Anxiety.

So I finished piddling in my nappy, shuffled back down the ladder, threw the drill on the ground and told the Old Lady that if she wanted the hole plugged, she'd have to drill it in herself. (Which is, surprisingly, the first time I've ever had to tell her that in the 23 years that I've known her. Go figure.)

She climbed up four rungs of the ladder, paused, and then climbed back down. At least there was one person more chickenshit than I. So I did the only thing left to do. I walked inside, grabbed my old Xanax prescription that I still had from last year when I thought I was dying, popped 1/2 of one in my pill-hole and then waited for it to kick in.

Half an hour later, I bounded up the ladder, drilled five screws the fuck in, and slid down into a perfect 10 point landing. Have I mentioned how much I fucking love Xanax? I should have a hollow tooth with a pill in it at all times and then all I'd have to do is just bite down on it in times of stress. Note to self: call dentist in the morning... oh, and then drive to Canada to get shitloads more Xanax.

This would, of course, be a great story if it ended right there but, unfortunately, an hour later I was in my upstairs study droppin' a deuce when I heard that familiar tap-tap-ratatatatatafuckintappin' on the same wall, about a foot to the left. Motherfucker!

So I went outside and sprayed that bird-dick with the hose.

It's gonna be a long fucking spring.

There's no "U" in Wii....

2009-03-19T21:17:00.006-04:00

So the Old Lady's gotten herself hooked on "Animal Crossing," one of the game we have for the Wii. It started during her Spring Break and now, almost every night after we put the spawnage to bed, she scurries downstairs and ties off, heats her Wii-mote over a lighter and shoots a little AC junk into her veins. Which is great for her -- she usually hates video games... I think the last one she played was... I don't know, Frogger?

The thing is, I'm usually the one who bolts downstairs after tuckin' in the spawnage. I've got my little routine -- stop off at the kitchen, grab a sleeve or two of Thin Mints and a glass of water, poke my bony ass points into my perma-indents in the couch and either play Animal Crossing myself, or play a rousing game of Bobby Buttons with the fucking remote. But now that the Old Lady's gone all Amy Wii-nehouse on me, she's fucked it all up.

So, I'll usually just sit there next to her, while she goes fishing or plants some fucking flowers, and make comments that, apparently, really piss her off. Things like, "You know, it'd be easier if you'd just go upstream a little and let it float down toward the fish," or "Are you almost done because watching you play this game is about to make my head fucking explode." Seriously... watching someone else fish in Animal Crossing is akin to watching water boil... which then proceeds to bubble the fuck over and splatters all over your face until strips of said face peel off like fruit rollups and you look like that dude in the bathroom in Poltergeist.

But we worked it all out... she's still playing and I stomped upstairs to complain about it in the blog I don't update anymore. See? Everybody's happy.

Farty Arty...

2009-03-11T21:24:00.004-04:00

I know I haven't posted in a while -- I've got no fucking time, goddammit. Someone's gotta invent some new kind of blog thing where A) I don't have to type, 2) I don't have to think, and C) I can do it while taking a shatner. Invent that and I'll post more often... deal?

Anywhich, I've got a coupla great drawings by the spawnages that I thought I'd share. The first one, by Miss O, is presented to you as a public service, really. She's apparently learning about ears in school, of late, and she has a couple of illustrated pointers for proper ear maintenance.

That's right -- always wash your ears until they sweat and don't put bass drum mallets all the way in your ear. You heard it here first. Get it?

And Mr. Z and I have finally added another episode to our ongoing graphic novella, "The Adventures of Cheez Man." This episode finds our fromage-y hero once again in the evil clutches of Angry Pickle, the kingly kosher dill-etante. Again, for those unfamiliar with this wildly successful series, Mr. Z and I alternate drawing panels until they're all filled in. There is no consultation between us while drawing... which is why it makes no fucking sense whatsoever. Enjoy...

Thought I'd make it all the way through without drawing a turd, huh? You don't know me very well at all, do you?

And speaking of turds -- there's your post. Another one pinched off, for your pleasure. Don't forget to flush when you're done reading.

Who Effed?!

2009-03-03T09:07:00.004-05:00

[conversation in kitchen last night]

OLD LADY: So, I dropped an F-bomb in a meeting today.

MR. Z: YOU FARTED IN A MEETING?!?!

ME: [spraying hot tea outta my nostrils] No, while "dropping an f-bomb" sounds like it should be about farts, it actually means something else.

MR. Z: What is it?

OLD LADY: I said "fuck."

MR. Z: Whoa! Your students must think you're mean.

OLD LADY: No, I said "fuck" in a meeting with other professors.

ME: But you're right, Mr. Z, Mom's students do think she's mean.

I swear, every day our conversations become more and more like some sort of dysfunctional Bazooka Joe comic.

VOTE HERE FOR CRABBYDAD

Challenge 2: Electric Fu-galoo

2009-03-02T10:29:00.004-05:00

The voting has begun for Round Two of the Song Fu challenge:

VOTE HERE FOR CRABBYDAD

I'd implore you to vote for my song "Machine," but it seems pretty fucking futile at this point. Not to sound bitter or anything but... oh, wait, bitter is my thing. Okay, bitterly, I say that it's pretty fucking impossible to compete against people with 12,000 YouTube subscribers and/or websites shared by best-selling author siblings. I mean, maybe it's fair but at this point, regardless of whether my song is "the best" or whether it sucks shitballs, there's virtually no way for me to break into the number one or two spots because I don't have a virtual army of cyber-sheep hungrily devouring every musical turd I blast outta my fanny.

But hey, it's not about the winning, is it? It's about... no... I'm pretty sure it's about the winning. Oh well. If you like my song, maybe you could vote for it. Multiple times. From multiple different IP addresses.

See, this is why I don't like to compete in things. If this contest were a checker board, I'd have flipped it off the table weeks ago.

My name is crabbydad, and I am a spoil-sport.

Let's Take an Okay-tion...

2009-02-13T20:07:00.004-05:00

I used to think the Old Lady and I were lazy, neglectful parents because we never really take the spawnage on fancy family vacations -- you know, Disneyworld, China, Frankenmuth... shit like that. I've come to realize, however, that we're actually geniuses. See, the spawnages' vacation expectations, their 'expacations', if you will, or maybe their vacexpections, if you won't, are now set SO FUCKING LOW, that anywhere we decide to take them is a goddamn travel extravaganzeleh.

Case in point -- for the five-day President's Day weekend (and feel free to re-acquaint yourself with my feelings about that) we're jetting off to beautiful Ann Arbor for one and one-half days and one (1) craptacular night at the Hawthorne Suites, sandwiched between frantic shelf-clearing visits to Whole Foods, Trader Joe's and H&M.

The spawnage, literally, could not be more excited. Mainly because "the Hawthorne" has a pool and a little area off the front desk that sells candy, where they're allowed to pick out ONE of WHATEVER THEY WANT!!!! Seriously, the thought of being able to ingest a "regular-sized" Butterfinger in one sitting completely blows Space Mountain or The Great Wall or the America's Only Nazi Village Theme Park, outta the fucking water.

Geniuses, I tell ya.

We're leaving bright and early tomorrow so we'll have plenty of time to properly peruse the seasoned nut aisle at Trader Joe's, load up on bottles of wildly over-priced vino at Whole Foods and, maybe if we're feeling generous, stop off at the Natural History Museum so the spawnage can look at a coupla shitty dioramas and pick up some local superviruses from pushing all the buttons.

Who knows... maybe if this trip goes well, we'll really push the envelope next time. Two and a half days and TWO nights in Flint!

Oh, and don't forget to vote for our song in the Masters of Song Fu #3:

Click here and vote for crabbydad or else you'll make Miss O cry!

Toodles!

New Post... BUT KEEP VOTING!

2009-02-11T23:20:00.002-05:00

STICKY: Please vote for my (and Miss O's) song here:

Click this sentence with your mouse-y clicker!

As of 11:21 PM tonight, we're in second place. Not first, mind you, because I don't "do" first place. Or it doesn't "do" me. Nope... me and Bobby Brady... losers. Just like the goddamn ice cream eating contest -- Bobby was fucking chowing down on that bowl and then ol' Porky McSnarferson ends up getting the golden scoop.

Why can't I ever get that golden scoop.

It's the kids today with their loud ukulele music, that's why. No one has time for old men and their calypso songs. Oh well... maybe the crabbyfamily will have a trophy for me at breakfast tomorrow morning: "Honorable Mention Parent."

An old man can dream, can't he?

[a single tear drips from cheek, splashing on a nearby box of adult diapers]

End scene.

VOTE EARLY, VOTE OFTEN!

2009-02-11T09:24:00.004-05:00

Please vote for Crabbydad's song at Quickstop Entertainment's Song Fu contest:

Vote for Crabbydad

I've gotta make it to Round 2 -- it's the only thing that's gonna get me through this shitball of a winter alive. Seriously.

VOTE!

Oh, and if you can tell 900 or so friends to do the same, that would be most helpful. Thanks.

Hangin' in the Showers...

2009-02-05T10:08:00.003-05:00

Mr. Z and I had the following conversation regarding his post-swimming gym class, yesterday:

MR. Z: So, I was toweling off after taking a shower and all these guys started yelling at me to cover myself up.

ME: What do you mean? Weren't they taking showers, too?

MR. Z: Yeah, but they weren't taking off their bathing suits.

ME: And what... you were naked? What's the big deal?

MR. Z: I don't know. They kept their suits on and they were yelling, "Gross, Z, cover that up!"

ME: So what did you say to them?

MR. Z: I said, "What, you guys've never seen a WANG before?! Get used to it!!!"

ME: You know what? You couldn't have had a better comeback if you tried. That's awesome!

MR. Z: Those guys are so weird.

ME: Hey, maybe next time you can say, "Don't worry fellas, I've got a license to sell hotdogs."

THE OLD LADY: (from the other room) NO!! Don't say that!

ME: Yeah, your mom's right. Stick with the "never seen a wang" thing. That's probably your safer bet.

MR. Z: (laughing) Heh... hotdogs...

What the Fu?

2009-02-03T22:34:00.003-05:00

Okay, I'm back... kinda. I entered this song contest thing here:

song contest thing

... and I've gotta write a fucking "happy" song by next Tuesday. The irony is not lost on me, thank you.

So yeah, I'm thinking of starting to post more... maybe. Plenty of shitballs have foisted themselves upon me since we last spoke, so I shouldn't have too much trouble coming up with topics. We'll see how it goes.

In the meantime, please enjoy this poem by Mr. Z that he wrote the other night while atop the crapper. He's a regular "Smell Silverstein."

Cellar?! I Hardly Knew... the cellar...

2009-01-14T20:11:00.007-05:00

Okay, so I haven't really started the new year with a blog-writin' bangeroo, have I? Well, what the fuck do you want from me, goddammit -- I'm a slow ramper-upper. Plus, I've been emptying out the goddamn hellmouth of a basement we have because, yes, the builder fellas start work on the ol' basement redo THIS MONDAY. This mofo is going to be the Taj Mahal of basement rehabs... the Taj Mahellmouth. It's even gonna have walls and a floor and lights and outlets and fancy shit like that. Plus, it'll no longer be so fucking cold that when I descend into it's murky, radon-spore infested nether-regions my nipples'll no longer snap off like a coupla liquid-nitrogen dipped pencil erasers.

I'll be Mister Fancy Basement, I will. With intact nipples! Warm, intact nipples. Mmmmm... intact nipples.

Anywhich, that's also the reason my song-a-week idea has been kiboshed upon 'cuz I had to move all my recording wizardry into my temporary office in the soon-to-be-guestroom. I suppose I could try to record them up here but it'd definitely have some serious pigfuck potential. And I think it's way too early in the year for a pigfuck, don't you?

Oh, and did I mention that the Old Lady leaves tomorrow for a four day jaunt in New Orleans for a "conference," while I'm stuck here in fucking Antfartica with the spawnage? Nothing like a long weekend with a coupla cooped-up spawnages and temperatures so fucking frigid outside that it could freeze a... a... something that's really hot that normally wouldn't freeze very readily.

AND the Old Lady's taking the "good car" to the airport, so we're stuck with the car with the treadless tires that are balder than... I dunno, balder than Howie Mandel's ball-sack. (I'll tell ya, not blogging for awhile has definitely taken a toll on my simile production capabilities. Gotta work on that.)

So, we'll see... maybe this weekend will produce the second song-a-week offering. Or maybe the spawnage will upload a recording of themselves beating me to death with their Dino-Tubulars. Hard to tell.

Stay tuned...

Song #1... 51 more to go...

2009-01-05T10:06:00.005-05:00

All right, there's no fucking way I'm gonna crank out a song a week, but I did get the first one done over the weekend, so... one. I think it's a pretty fucking awesome tune with which to kick off the new year, I might add.

It's called "Dino Tubular" and it's a song the spawnage wrote about a mysterious gift they each received over the holidays. The lyrics are pretty self-explanatory, so I'll let them explain it. Oh, and if you like the song, please forward it to five friends. If I'm gonna be recording this shit, I want people to fucking hear it, ya know?

Ready, go.

Dino Tubular
by Mr. Z & Miss O

We got a package that felt like clothes
But what it was, nobody knows

We opened it up and what could it be?
Was it a toy, it was cylindar-y

Then we unrolled it and it had some writing
It said "Dino Tubular," was this for fighting?

Dino Tubular

We couldn't figure out what this thing was for
It had silhouettes of dinosaurs

We called our Gramma and then she shared
How to fill it up with lots and lots of air

And the we blew it up, and up, and up
Until it was the size of a Great Dane pup, yeah!

Dino Tubular

Then we whacked it, smacked, didn't treat it with care
We were bonking each other like two fightin' bears

It's like a light saber that's made of plastic
We hit each other till we got sorta spastic

From that day on Dino Tubular was fun
For mom and dad, zeke, olive and willa, everyone, yeah!

Dino Tubular

Crabby New Year...

2008-12-31T17:13:00.003-05:00

That note marked the START of our trip to Chicago, so you can imagine how it fucking went from there. Here's the rest of the hell-voyage:

Icy fucking roads in western Michigan added a good two hours onto an already rectum-ripping drive. Came close to dying in Paw Paw.
Miss O had the flu the entire trip -- fever, hacking cough, didn't eat anything, non-stop whine-a-palooza. Which was EXCELLENT.
The Old Lady and I had to sleep on a futon that was apparently hewn from living rock. That's okay, though... didn't need my pelvis anyway.
Left a day early to avoid hellish weather but managed to be permanently inscribed in my mom's shitlist for missing the "family" reunion. Thing is, everyone at the reunion was like a fifth cousin many times removed so what the shit was the big fucking deal?! But I'm pretty sure I'm now out of the will forever.

And that was it. Merry fucking Xmas. Oh, and because Miss O was sick, the Old Lady and I couldn't spend a night in the city at the goddamn Sofitel, like we had planned, 'cuz we had to be around to talk her down from the constant NIGHT TERRORS she was having. (And for those who haven't experienced their spawn having a night terror -- holy shitballs, that's some freaky fucking shit. Like Exorcist kinda shit. Scarred me for life, that girl did.)

Oh, and I've been thinking about what to do with this blog for the new year. I think I've come up with the ultimate Bowflex-of-a-resolution idea that, in true Bowflexian style, I'll stick to for about a month and then start hanging my clothes on it. The idea?

Song-a-week.

Simple, right? Record and complete one song a week with the spawnage and post it here. I may not even make it through week one. I dunno. But it's something. I mean, if I can stick to this fucker, I'll have 52 songs by 2010. That's like a quadruple album. Makes "Double Live Gonzo" look like a fucking EP. Full Bluntal Nugity, my ass.

So, yeah, I'll give it a shot.

It'll never work.

See ya next year.

Cur-rap.

2008-12-11T17:47:00.008-05:00

A word of advice for all those parentals out there loading up your Netflix queue with nostalgic films from your childhood that you're convinced your spawn will love because movies were fucking awesome back then and the shit they put out today can't hold a fucking candle to the masterpieces of your youth:

If you've got "Benji" in that queue, blast that fucker outta there, immediately.

Holy fuckstain, that is a steaming, worm-studded dog-turd of a film. And I use the word "film" only because watching it left a silty, shit-flavored film on my goddamn teeth. And no amount of brushing can scrub the B.M.-y aftertaste outta my kibble hole.

Here's the actual minute-by-minute breakdown of the movie:

For the first 19 hours, Benji trots down the sidewalk, stopping to see some moron kids, eat shit out of a trash can, visit with a cop in the park and get a bone from Uncle Joe from "Petticoat Junction." (No, Uncle Joe doesn't actually "bone" Benji, but that would've at least spiced this fucker up a bit.)

Then Benji does THE SAME EXACT SHIT AGAIN. Same. Exact. Thing. Kids, shit, cop, bone. It's like that fucking Teletubbies show. Lather, rinse, repeat. Enough to make me wanna cave my skull in with the remote.

Then, the guy who played Eb, from "Green Acres", and this guy who was on four episodes of "Fantasy Island" talk about goddamn PUDDING CUPS for four fucking hours. I shit you not. Pudding!

Cups!

Oh, and in what seemed like the last 30 seconds of the movie, some kids get kidnapped, Benji saves them and they get to keep him.

And after that, I kicked in the TV screen.

The End.

I sure as fuck hope that writer/director Joe Camp was spayed and/or neutered after the first screening of this shitball. God DAMN what a piece of turd.

Can't wait to see the next movie in our queue: "Benji the Hunted."

Road Drip!

2008-12-01T10:54:00.005-05:00

Spent Tanksgibbon with the spawnage at my folks' house in suburban Chicago. You'll notice no mention the Old Lady in that sentence -- no, she decided to stay home to "get some work done." Something about "making sure she gets tenure" so she doesn't "lose her job" and force us to "live in my parents' basement" and "only eat Ramen."

So, I'm not gonna go over all the myriad ways in which the trip was a pain in the fucking shitterhole, and how I didn't get any sleep and how the spawnage argued constantly and how my parents keep their house so fucking hot and dry that my skin turned all Slim Jimmy and my lips are so fucking chapped that they resemble what I would imagine William Hickey's anus used to look like.

I will, however, tell you about how I almost pissed my pants. See, I drink a lot of coffee in the morning. I don't necessarily LIKE to... I have to. This, combined with the fact that my bladder can apparently hold only one fluid ounce of liquid at any given time, makes close proximity to a bathroom pretty fucking crucial. So four hour car trips kinda blow donkey balls.

So, I peed before we left, and then I peed again at the BP station about five minutes later, just to make sure I was gonna be golden for at least an hour or so. Ha, golden. Get it? We hit the highway and things were pretty good... that is, until we hit the first toll on the Skyway that was backed up for about a mile. As we sat there, parked, I could feel my ureters filling up like a coupla giant, taut balloon animals, if balloon animals were filled with steaming, water buffalo piss. The spawnage were going nuts in the back seat, asking me for snacks and telling me to change the DVD and I really started to feel like I was gonna piss my fucking nappies.

Traffic finally got moving after the toll booth, but there's really nowhere to exit on the Skyway and I started thinking about pulling over onto the shoulder and draining it right then and there. But it was starting to snow pretty fucking hard and it was getting pretty slick and, frankly, sliding into a ditch is bad enough without pee-soaked trousers, so that was a no-go.

I decided to tough it out and get to the 94. I floored it and we started hydroplaning eastward. While the pain in my schvantz-sphincter was becoming unbearable, I was fairly confident it would remain pinched-shut for at least another 20 minutes, or so. And, to make things even more exciting, Miss O was now screaming that she had to pee, too. I plowed forward, the tinkle practically gurgling in the back of my throat by now.

Finally, just as a fine, misty pre-pee was starting to dribble outta my dingus, I spied the first exit with a gas station sign. It was in a town called Chesterton, and we were barely gonna make it. Now remember, the Old Lady wasn't with us, so I had to take Mr. Z and Miss O into the men's room with me, which is always a fucking joy. We skidded off the highway, slammed into the parking space, ran into Speedway, threw open the men's room door and there we stood, face to face, with the nastiest fucking shit-sprayed, hellmouth I've ever seen. Seriously, it was spattered with so much shit and random effluvia that is looked like a giant, 3-D Jackson Poo-llock painting. And the smell? Well, I'm imagining it's what walking into Dom DeLuise's transverse colon might smell like. But worse.

But it didn't matter, 'cuz we had work to do. I yelled to Mr. Z, "Go pee but DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!!!!" Then I ran Miss O into the single stall that HAD NO DOOR ON IT, and stared into the hellmouth portal. It was truly a work o' fart. The outside of the bowl was caked in B.M. and the seat had about 3 gallons of piss puddled upon it. Miss O shouted, "I'M NOT SITTING ON THAT!!!!" I agreed. So I pulled out an entire roll's worth of toilet paper, wrapped it around my hand like a fucking boxing glove and wiped that fucker down. Then I piled another entire roll's worth on top of the seat and had her sit upon it. She ended up sitting about two feet above the rim with all the padding underneath her.

Now, if you've been following closely, you'll realize that I still haven't peed yet. My eyes were bulging outta my urine-filled head at this point and I danced around, waiting for Miss O to finish. She finally did, I told her to run to the middle of the room and stand next to her brother and to "NOT TOUCH A FUCKING THING!!!!" as I bolted to the urinal and unleashed a raging torrent of steaming bladder juice that would've had a fucking elephant cowering in fear. Steam poured outta that urinal like a fucking bathhouse.

Twenty minutes later, I was done.

After we scrubbed every nook and/or cranny of our bodies with paint thinner, shaved our heads and burned our clothing, we were ready to get back in the car and continue the trip home.

So, despite your crap-spackled nastiness, Chesterton, the crabbyfamily thanks you from the bottom of our farts.

Or, as Mr. Z likes to call you, "Ches-turd-ton."

[SFX: toilet flush]

It's Like Taking A Bite Outta Uranus!

2008-11-19T21:48:00.002-05:00

Holy fuckstain, is 28 bucks too much to spend on a chance to take a choco-rubbery chomp out of my childhood?!

I'm leaning toward "it ain't."

Ice Holes...

2008-11-18T08:16:00.004-05:00

There's a fucking two hour delay to the start of the spawanges' school, today, because of "ice on the roads." How did I find out about this fact? Did I receive a phone call this morning? Was there a message on the school's answering machine? Did I see some sort of notice on the local cable access channel? Did I look out the window and realize it would be impossible to drive under such (apparently) brutal conditions?

No, I found out when I drove Mr. Z, on roads with NO FUCKING ICE ANYWHERE, to his darkened school that had absolutely no goddamn cars in the parking lot. That's the equivalent of a phone-tree in this fucking town.

Seriously, all I need, at this point, is for Mr. Haney to show up to try to sell me a faulty tractor and I'll have officially become Oliver Wendell Douglas.

When Hack Turns to Hork...

2008-11-13T19:24:00.006-05:00

I just cleaned up barf from Mr. Z's floor. He's been home from school for a couple of days with some sort of hacking phlegm-plague and, up until a few minutes ago, has only been spraying the house with horked up sputum. Apparently, he was just coughing so hard that, well, that he fucking yooked... which is just what I needed, right about now, as the Old Lady has conveniently had meetings for the last three afternoon/nights and it's been a non-stop, brain-hemorrhage-inducing spawn-o-palooz-shit.

Oh, and I'm pretty sure I've contracted Mr. Z's goddamn plague, which fucking rocks!

I think the BlogOverlord is punishing me for taking a fucking break from posting... fucking dick. Good thing I'm a atheist.

The only thing that's actually made me crack the faintest of smiles through my humorless, death-mask-like physiognomy was this:

I feel like Turtle Tim but I really wish I were the Eggman. He seems so much happier, that Eggman.

Goo goo ga joob.

One Last Thing...

2008-11-02T16:06:00.004-05:00

Okay, time in... for a sec. You know how Miss O has these goddamn warts on two of her toes and she basically won't let anyone touch them without screaming like she's being murdleized? And how, in between traumatic visits to the doctor (traumatic for him, not Miss O), we're supposed to have been putting this Compound W on these monstrosities, but then that shit just cakes up on top of their wartliness, and we have to somehow remove this wart-cake in order to apply some more, so we're not just compounding the Compound W with more Compound W? And when we do this, Miss O screams so fucking loud that the neighbors are SO gonna call the cops, especially since she's screaming shit like, "DON'T DADDY! DON'T DO THAT!!! IT HURTS ME!!! IT HURTS!!! STOP IT DADDY!!!!" Yeah, try explaining THAT one to the fucking cops.

Well, now Miss O's doctor, who is this close to giving up medicine because of Miss O's bi-weekly visits, wants us to use a NAIL FILE and file these mofos down in between appointments! What the shit, doc?! Why don't you just tell me to singe 'em off with an arc-welder. Ya fucking sadistic fuckshit.

Anywhich, we told Miss O that we're going to file them this afternoon, instead of tonight, because when we do try to do it at night, she gets so fucking worked up, as do we, that no one can get to fucking sleep when it's all over. So, we told her we're firing up the emery board as soon as she's done with her homework. She was just furiously writing, and I thought she was working on said homework. Instead, she handed me this:

I wonder if a belt-sander would be quicker?

SLAM!

2008-10-27T20:23:00.005-04:00

Okay, I've hit my wall. There's nothing left in the ol' tankeroo. I'm spent. Finito. Zip. Zally. Zilch. The train has left the station. Toot toot. I'm done.

I mean, what, 624 posts is pretty good, right? And I've seriously tried to write something over the last coupla days, honest. We had this huge fucking birthday party for Miss O this weekend with 10 screaming girls and a limbo contest and a craft project and bobbing for apples and did I mention screaming and tears and fucking blood spurting from my eye sockets, and shit, you know, I sat down to write about it and nothing came out except air. Nada. After a goddamn birthday party! Bupkus!

So I'm taking a break. Probably not forever, just until the searing pains that shoot through my puny brain every time I stare at this goddamn blank rectangle begin to subside. I'll probably post every now and then... when I have something to whine about or when one of the spawnages writes a new ditty. In fact, I'm going to try to spend more time recording with them. I'd like to finish that fucking albatross of a CD of theirs that's hanging around my neck like a goddamn... well, albatross. When that's done, I'll post it here. I promise. And I'll send off those free copies I promised to all of you who ordered shitty wrapping paper and whimsical trinkets from Mr. Z last year.

So, this isn't really goodbye... it's more of a TTFN. It'll give you an opportunity to use that minute you used to piddle away here reading my insufferable pablum for something more constructive. Take up a hobby, or something. Might I suggest glass-blowing?

And, then, there you go.

Sounds Like Someone Needs to Empty Their Spit Valve...

2008-10-21T22:13:00.003-04:00

Tonight, Mr. Z, Miss O and yours crabbily made an impromptu recording of a little "musical" number we crapped out while waiting for the Old Lady to get home from professorin'. It was a round, of sorts -- a rhythmic round. Rhythms produced using only our cupped hands and our armpits. You heard me -- an armpit fart round.

I started with quarter notes, Miss O "played" eighth notes, and then Mr. Z joined in with 16th notes produced not with his armpits, but with his behind-the-knee pits. But enough 'splainin' -- here 'tis:

Fartin': A Round by the Crabbyfamily

Z-Wrex...

2008-10-18T22:21:00.007-04:00

Mr. Z wiped out on his bike, Friday, on the way home from school. He was apparently "popping a wheelie" when he came down on a rock and, subsequently, bit it. I got a call from him at about 3:10 and he said, very matter-of-factly, "I just totally wiped out on my bike and I busted my elbow." I almost shat my nappies, but then I remembered it was Mr. Z, who has a tendency to, oh, "oversell" a situation from time to time. So I asked him to clarify.

I asked him if he thought his elbow was really broken and he said, "No, but it's gonna need like 10 bandages. It's totally bloody." I then asked him if he wanted me to come and get him and he said he'd be okay and he could ride home.

Yobbita-yobbita-WHUH?!

At that point, I was pretty convinced that Mr. Z hadn't wiped out, but had rather been abducted by aliens, and replaced with a cyborg Mr. Z. There's NO FUCKING WAY that that calm, cool and chillaxin' "person" on the other end of the phone was the Mr. Z I knew.

But, sure enough, 10 minutes later, in walked the boy, bloodied elbow in tow, sans tears and cool as a crabcumber. As I bandaged his wound, he filled me in on the details of the wreck -- there were a lot of kids around when it happened, he got up and dusted himself off, he DIDN'T CRY, and the kicker, an 8th grade boy saw the whole thing happen and proclaimed, "Dude, you totally took that like a man!"

Now, I'm not one for reinforcing sexist declarations of "manlihood" but, FUCK YEAH HE DID! I explained to Mr. Z that if word of his face-plant flintiness got around school, he could well be on his way to gaining some serious middle-schooler "cred." He smiled, stood up a little taller, and then confidently strode into the other room... to play Webkinz with his six year old sister.

(Baby steps to manlihood.)

Gotta Hand It to Him....

2008-10-16T23:36:00.006-04:00

So... So... tired. I've got nothin' for you, tonight. Nothing except this drawing that Mr. Z brought home from his art class today:

I can't decide which of the three is the most awesome. The one on the left, or "hand," is great because it's got that auto-peace-sign thing going on, and all the fingers look like French baguettes. The one on the right, or "hand? big," is like some sort of Lynda Barry-esque claw-hand. And then there's "cartoon hand." I have a feeling that one wasn't part of the assignment.

Mr. Z also came home declaring, "Today was the greatest day ever for three reasons! One, no homework! Two, I found a quarter! And three... B (the dickhead bully who's been tormenting the shit outta Z since 2nd grade) MOVED!!! He's gone! FOREVER!!!! Can you believe it?!?!"

Woo-hoo! Three deformed-hand high-fives for Mr. Z!

The Wart of the Toeses...

2008-10-14T22:32:00.002-04:00

Quick update on the wart-sitch. As I drove Miss O to the doc after school, she was in fantastic spirits. We were laughing and singing and just having the grandest of wart-removal-fretting-free times imaginable. I had a backpack full of candy, stuffed animals and magazines, and like the knob that I am, I figured there was nothing to warty about.

Even in the examination room, while we were waiting for Dr. Death to enter, she was laughing and boppin' around and cutting armpit farts like there was no tomorrowart. Then, the doc and the nurse burst in and kicked off World Wart III. Now, to her credit, Miss O didn't scream this time. Instead, she somehow hooked her warty foot behind her "good" foot and refused to extend it toward the doc. At first I tried reasoning with her -- I pulled out the "Spongebob Halloween" magazine and offered her some Smarties, but she wouldn't fucking budge. It was as if she had sunk her horny, warty talons into her Achilles tendon and was hunkered down for the long haul.

Finally, I managed to wrassle her foot free and hold it in front of Dr. Feelgood, as he first sliced off some of the dead skin and then proceeded to burn those fuckers with the liquid nitrogen dipped Q-Tips. It was intense -- each time he touched the Q-Tip to the wart, there was a little "sizzle" noise and then wisps of vaporized wart-smoke would waft upwards, occasionally curling their smokey viral tendrils up my flared nares. And you haven't tripped until you've huffed wart-smoke, my friends. A heady brew, indeed.

But there was no screaming. There were one or two tears, and I could actually hear her teeth grinding down to nubs as she gritted them throughout the entire process. But she, more or less, held it together throughout. I think I'm gonna chalk it up in the win column.

Granted, the warts are still there and the doc informed me that there'll be one, maybe two more visits until those fuckers are permanently vaporized. As he put it, "Warts are like swimming upstream -- you have to make it all the way to the end, or the current will carry you all the way back down and you have to start over from scratch."

The dude's a regular Wart Whitman.

So, I scheduled the next appointment for two weeks from now and, wouldn't you know it, it just happens to fall on one of the Old Lady's afternoons. Doggone it all to heck. She gets all the fun. Doesn't matter, though... she'll schedule the one after that on one of my days. It's a regular tug-o-wart between us.

Oh well, until we wart again...

Wart's Happening Now!!

2008-10-13T22:08:00.004-04:00

For those of you who've inexplicably been dropping by here for a while, you'll recall the joy that was had during Mr. Z's Wart-tastic Foot-a-Palooza of Winter 2006. Multiple trips to the family doc, with the freezing and the slicing and blood-curdling screaming... wait, am I still talking about warts or have I shifted to some sort of Bill-Kurtis-hosted Jeffrey Dahmer news magazine on the Biography channel?

Anywart, flash-forward a coupla years and, surprise, we find young Miss O following in her brother's papillomavirus-infested footsteps. Two mongo wartzillas growing on the tips of her tiny toes, like a couple of plantar-unicorns... shoe-nicorns, if you will. We've been futilely battling them for a few months, with those fucking worthless Dr. Scholl's wart pads, but the good doctor must've gotten his goddamn degree in Grenada, 'cuz theose fuckers ain't doing shizzle.

Miss O has been to the real doc once, so far, and the Old Lady was the lucky chaperone the first time. It was, apparently, a "fucking nightmare," what with the girl screaming bloody murder and the Old Lady and the nurse having to physically restrain her during the freezing procedure (which also didn't do shit, by the way.)

Well, guess who gets to take her to visit number two, tomorrow? Give up? I'll give you a hint -- it rhymes with "crabbydab." Yep, after school tomorrow, it's round two in the battle of "Miss O vs. Anyone-who-tries-to-get-near-her-fucking-toes"... and their tympanic membranes. That girl can fucking scream with the best of 'em. If Sammy Hagar had been an almost-seven year old girl who had warts on his toes, he wouldn't even come close to out-screaming her. (But he'd still grow up to, one day, sing on Van Halen's album OUWART12.)

The thing is, she used be fucking fearless when she was younger. She'd wipe out, get up and dust herself off, and then run off to wipe-the-fuck out again. (Remember, the crabbykids aren't the most agile of spawnages.) But she had a shitty experience when she got her ears pierced last winter -- one of the earrings was ripped out by an overzealous towel-drying once -- and things rocketed down the ol' shitter after that.

And nothing really helps. I try reasoning, bargaining, BRIBING... nada. I can get her nice and calm... have her laughing and joking around, and then the doc walks in the room and it's like the goddamn Texas Chainsaw Massacre in there. And the thing that kills me is, after it's all over, she's fine. She's like, "Oh, gee... that didn't hurt." Meanwhile, there's blood spouting out of my fucking earholes, the nurse is catatonic and weeping in the corner and the doc is injecting lidocaine into his own jugular.

But, we've gotta go tomorrow just to ensure that her foot doesn't end up looking like the Elephant Man's head. Although I could always just slip a burlap sack over the thing and rent her out to the circus. Money is tight in our troubled economy, but people always love them a good freakshow.

Hmm. Another one of them parental dilemmas I always seem to find myself in...

The Spawnish Inquisition...

2008-10-09T22:29:00.003-04:00

I don't know what further Guantanamo-style torture sessions the spawnage have in store for me, but they've been recently engaging me in some sort of nefarious sleep-deprivation experiment that has me ready to fess up to whatever crime I may or may not have committed.

Monday night-- 1:00 AM: Mr. Z awakens me from deeeeeeep R.E.M. sleep by walking into the hallway and pronouncing, in his I-sound-like-I'm-awake-but-I'm-SO-not voice, that he "wants to talk about the astronauts" and that "he's worried about what the martians are doing." I walk him back to bed where he goes back to, er, continues sleeping, while I'm awake for a good 20 minutes.

Tuesday night -- 1:30 AM: Miss O's Tamagotchi-style "Fairy Magic Electronic Pet" starts beeping this incessant brain-drilling digital beep in her room and she wakes both the Old Lady and I up shouting for us to do something about it. In a rare move, the Old Lady attends to it, while I fall back asleep... only to be awakened moments later when said Old Lady gruffly pushes my arm off her pillow.

Last night (this morning) 5:07 AM: Mr. Z, actually awake this time, opens the door and says, "Dad? I had the all time worst nightmare I've ever had." I walk him back to bed and assure him that he's safe and mumble something like "ssssfine... mmback to sleep... think about... baby monkeys or flommbrrrgnnbrzzz."

I have no idea what's in store for me tonight... maybe bamboo under the fingernails, maybe some caning on the bottoms of my feet, or perhaps some good, old-fashioned waterboarding. All I know is that I'm about to fucking crack and spill the beans about where the Old Lady's secret chocolate bars are stashed.

Saugatuckered...

2008-10-07T18:07:00.014-04:00

Back from our mini-vaykeigh and, while it was a great time, I'm now tired as shitfuck. Too shitfucked, in fact, to write anything longer than a sentence or two. So, here's the trip in pics/captions:

It's the famous Saugatuck neon-penis, a tribute to Chief Saugatuck, inventor of... that's right, the neon penis.

The famous Wickwood Inn, where we slept. Little known fact: the inn is run by Julee Rosso, author of the "Silver Palate Cookbook," and owner of several hundreds of Crabbydad's dollars.

The room in which yours crabbily and the Old Lady "slept." It's called the "Kyoto Room," because of its Japanese-influenced design and because, each morning after sleeping on the lumpy feather-bed mattress in the room, I'd wake up saying, "KEE! OH! T'OH, MY BACK!"

This is the nearby beach we walked along -- collected some beach glass, some driftwood and a pocketful of used syringes, condoms and a human ear.

DeMond's grocery store, where we bought the New York Times each morning. This is a mural on the side of the building, depicting the store's founders -- Lindsay Buckingham, Shemp Howard and a potato in overalls.

Believe it or don't -- Beery Field is where they held Octoberfest on Saturday night. Get it? Beery? Field? We didn't go because I get nervous when I'm surrounded by large gatherings of Germans... and kielbasas.

This is a sign at a popular local Saugatuck dry cleaners. After eating the rich fucking breakfasts, drinking shitloads of wine and going out to dinner for every meal, the fudge line pretty much starts (and ends) in everybody's pants.

And there you have it. Saugatuck 2008. It was great while it lasted but now I'm fucking tired, getting a goddamn cold and I'm crabbier than I was before I left. But, hey, at least I don't have any money left!

I Call Time Out!

2008-10-01T22:46:00.003-04:00

So, I haven't had a vacation in, like, fuckever. The Old Lady and I were supposed to go away last spring, during the spawnages' break, but, if you'll remember, I spent that time at the goddamn Mayo Clinic, filling up five-gallon jugs of whiz and getting my death-sentence overturned by "real" doctors. And thanks a LOT for bringing up a sore subject.

Anywhich, my folks offered to watch Mr. Z and Miss O for a long weekend sometime and, well, it's about fucking sometime. We're meeting them halfway tomorrow, handing the spawnages over, and then driving up to Saugatuck for a few days of whatever one does in Saugatuck... I dunno, tuckin' in our Saugas, I guess. It doesn't really matter where we're going, though -- I just need a fucking break. My motivation is for shit, my crab-o-meter is off the fucking charts and my brain is floating around in my skull like a loose stool. I SO need a few days of sleeping in, eating good food and, most of all, not hearing a 24-7 running dialogue of who the cutest goddamn Pokemon is. (For the record, it's Diglett.)

And I don't think I'm bringing the laptop, so it's gonna be even duller than usual around here for the next few days. I think we'll all benefit from that. Frankly, posting, lately, has been like pulling teeth... outta my ass. Perhaps I shall find inspiration in Saugatuck, most likely in the form of a commemorative spoon and/or oversized novelty sunglasses.

Carry on.

I Got It, I Got It... KONK!

2008-09-29T22:53:00.003-04:00

Oh, the pain that is the middle school gym class for the 6th grade intellectual. Apparently, today in P.E., Mr. Z got hit on the top of the noggin with a football. He said "Someone kicked it really high and then I looked up and it konked me right on the head." I asked him if he thought of maybe, oh I don't know, catching said ball, but he looked at me as if to say, "Why the shit would I want to do that?!" He summed it up by stating, "I'm not the kinda guy to play football... I like cute things. Stuffed animals, Pokemon... cute farts."

Of course, I explained to him that that sort of information is best kept on the D.L. while actually IN gym class.

I then reminded him that, while he may not particularly care for football, he is hardly "non-athletic." He likes to ride his bike and run around, he hikes at camp all summer, and he loves swimming. Like it or not, Mr. Z, you're actually kinda sporty, dude.

We're trying to break him of the "it's me vs. the jocks" attitude he's been cultivating, of late. But it's really fucking hard to do when his neanderthal gym teacher keeps reinforcing the boneheaded us vs. them gym class environment. He picks all the athletic kids as captains and then they pick and pick until they're left with the nerdarino dregs. You'd think by 2008 these chuckleheads would've come up with a more equitable sorting method.

Attention, Coach Nutsack, here's an idea: how 'bout counting off by twos, ya fuck!

Anywhich, we've assured Mr. Z that he's only gotta suffer through about seven more years of gym class and then he can trade in his jockstrap for a life of the mind. In the meantime, I think I'll send him to school tomorrow in a helmet.

Volun-tearing Me a New One...

2008-09-28T18:55:00.005-04:00

Mr. Z and I volunteered our services to the Obama campaign headquarters in Lansing yesterday and it turned out to be a surprisingly great experience. They called last week and asked if I wanted to help out, saying I could do things like canvassing, calling people and/or STUFFING ENVELOPES. "YES!" I said. "I CAN HANDLE STUFFING ENVELOPES! SIGN ME UP!!!!" What better way to support the campaign and teach my son the importance of participating in the democratic process than by folding paper and licking glue. (And it was just a bonus that I wouldn't have to come in contact with any actual PEOPLE.)

So, after getting lost for about a 1/2 hour, the boy and I finally pulled up to the headquarters and bopped on in to start a-lickin' paper. But as soon as I talked to the man-boy in charge there (who I'm pretty sure was about 15 1/2), I learned that there would be no envelope stuffing. No sir... I was handed a clipboard, pen and a stack of voter registration sheets and told "Now get on out there and get some people registered!"

Son of a shitfuck.

I am SO not a clipboard-holdin', voter-registerin', stranger-going-up-to-in' kinda dude. I'm really not into "dealing" with "people." I'm not a "go-getter." I don't like "humans." But there I was, clipboard in hand, heading on over to the goddamn Frandor mall to walk the parking lot, trolling for victims.

And it did kinda suck. Basically, everyone we went up to was already registered -- it was mostly families heading over to the Halloween USA temporarium, or polyester sweatsuit-wearin' grannies shuffling over to Jo-Ann fabrics, or polyester sweatsuit-wearin' moms checking out Michaels Crafts-n-Which, or polyester sweatsuit-wearin' families heading over to Sears to buy more polyester sweatsuits. Everyone was very pleasant, though, and a lot of people asked where they could get an Obama shirt like mine, and it was heartening to realize that everyone seemed to be registered (and supporting Obama)... which is a good thing.

But it was hot as shit and when Mr. Z said, "Dad, this really isn't as fun as I thought it was going to be," I realized we needed to switch locales, and quick. So, I checked our list of "hot spots" and I thought we'd do better closer to downtown, so we loaded up the car and headed on over to the Rite-Aid on MLK Boulevard.

Bingo!

And by bingo, I mean that we signed up ONE person, instead of ZERO. But hey, one is good, goddammit! That woman could very well be the deciding vote! And it'd all be thanks to crabbydad and Mr. Z! You're welcome, future!

So, yeah, one person registered in three hours. But shit, it was probably more than you did for the country this weekend, by gum. It did feel good to finally get off my pointy ass and do something, though, instead of just complaining about things and just thinking that I should really get off my pointy ass and do something. And it kinda demystified the whole volunteering thing and showed me that three hours out of a whole weekend is not a lot of time if you feel like you're actually doing something positive, even if it's only in a kinda puny way. And I think it was good to show Mr. Z that it's important to get involved in causes that are bigger than you or your family or your video games and that if a whole shitload of people get out there and just do a puny bit, it can actually end up having a huge fucking impact.

But most of all, I realized that, if you're going to go out with a clipboard in your hand and interrupt strangers on their relaxing Saturday afternoon by talking politics at them, it's very wise to bring along your 10 year old kid with you if you don't want to get punched in the head.

Cheesus!

2008-09-25T22:45:00.004-04:00

Some people see Jesus in their wet beef sandwiches, while others find the Virgin Mary in their plate of pulled pork. Me? I slice a piece of Jarlsburg and end up with a fucking SKULL SANDWICH!

Maybe tomorrow I'll just have a Tim-Burton-butter-and-jelly sammy.

1 + 1 = I'm A Moron

2008-09-23T21:11:00.003-04:00

So I was helping Mr. Z with his math homework, this afternoon, and it mostly consisted of converting metric measurements from one size to another, like kilograms to grams or millimeters to centimeters and shit like that. At first I was like, "ah, no fucking problem," but as I was trying to explain it to him, my withered synapses fucking seized up on me and I found myself rapidly spinning down some bottomless numerical vortex, and I began second-guessing every answer and well, frankly, it got pretty ugly pretty quick.

We made it through to the other side with only a few tears (and he was pretty upset, too) and then we closed the book and I let him watch some Spongebob so that any trace amounts of understanding he may have gleaned from our little study session were instantly erased and replaced with "GAAAAHHHHHHH!"

So, the Old Lady gets home around dinner time and I started explaining what an ass-ripper this fucking math homework was, you know, to get the rightful sympathy props, and I even handed her the textbook to show her the devil's handiwork contained within. She looks it over and says, "Well, here's all you need: 'If you're going from a larger measurement to smaller one, you multiply and if you're going from smaller to larger, you divide.' What's the trouble?" I grabbed the book from her in the classic Moe Howard way, adding the requisite, "Lemme see that, you!" and soon realized that if I had only READ THE GODDAMN DIRECTIONS FIRST, the fucking hour long battle that I had put the boy and myself through would have been, maybe, a 20 minute skirmish, and I wouldn't have wasted all that valuable stomach acid that was at that moment bubbling up my ulcer-studded esophagus.

And the kicker? As the Old Lady casually glanced over the answers, she found that four or five of them were TOTALLY WRONG and that I had basically told Mr. Z to do the exact opposite of what he was supposed to do.

Have I mentioned that I'm not that good with the math? What the shit, man?! I really thought I knew what the fuck I was doing, too! That's what makes it worse. It would have been one thing if I were like, "Shit, man, I just don't get this... you're on your own, Mr. Z," but NO, I had FIGURED IT OUT and I was HELPING HIM to FIGURE IT OUT FOR HIMSELF!

So, whereas he was only mildly confused BEFORE he started his homework, now he is TOTALLY fucking confused.

Excellent, my work here is done.

And if any of you care to do any extra credit, here's one of the problems:

On Sunday, Li ran 0.8 km. On Monday, she ran 7,200 m. On which day did Li run farther? Use estimation to explain why your answer makes sense.

(HINT: The fact that "Li" is the 2nd most common surname in China is, apparently, not really relevant.)

Should I Stay or Should I Go... to School

2008-09-22T22:07:00.005-04:00

For some reason, I'm more confident in picking out Miss O's outfits this school year. This is either due to the fact that I'm just better at picking out things that go together or, more likely, that I've stopped giving a shit about what goes together and I'm just picking out things that I would wear, were I a six-year-old girl. Case in point, today's outfit:

Clash shirt, b/w, horizontally striped leggings and Chucks. I'd SO wear that if I were six. Shit, if they made that outfit in my size, I'd wear it tomorrow.

(By the way, Miss O just fell out of bed as I was typing this. I heard a "thud/AHH!" and ran into her room to find her climbing back in to her bed. I asked her what happened and she said, "I fell out of bed" in a way that made it sound more like "I fucking fell outta bed, ya dumbshit, whattya think just happened?!" I ~~blame~~ thank the Clash shirt for the 'tude.)