The Pit...

The Saga Continues...

Another Thing I Have No Time for...

I have a new favorite thing. It's called "Xtranormal" and it's this online animation/movie making app that pretty much has endless possibilities for hee-larity. Here's my first attempt (not necessarily hee-larious, yet):



Oh, the possibilities...

Missed Episode 5? Schnauzer chance!!!

What goes best with a snifter full of Shamrock Shake? I mean, besides a dry heave? Why Mr. Pugsley's Peanut Butter dog treats, that's what. It's Episode 5 of Miss O's "Dog Treats Cafe" and it's a wiener... dog. Will she enjoy this week's treat? The suspense is killing me... it's sheer terrier!

Okay, I'll stop. Enjoy...

Tastes Like Mechanically-Separated Chicken!

Just got Episode 4 of The Dog Treats Cafe in under the wire. I was going to shoot it yesterday, but I had to get an upper endoscopy (save that fucker for another post) and afterward, instead of filming the spawnage, I thought it wiser to wallow in my Propofol-induced narco-coma for a an hour or five. Probably the best sleep I've had in 11 years. May get another next week just to make up for the pending time change.

Anywhich, here ya go...

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

Time for the third installment of Miss O's "The Dog Treats Cafe." She wasn't too thrilled about filming this episode, frankly. First, she was in a shitty mood and B, she had to down some Catch of the Day Pollock Snackers. She's braver than I, that girl is. But she soldiered on for the sake of art, as only Miss O can, and the result... well you decide. Enjoy.



Oh, and the giant underpants sponsor was Mr. Z's idea. (Credit where credit is due.)

Another Treat from Miss Owooooooo!

The second episode of "The Dog Treats Cafe" with Miss O is now available! This time, Miss O chokes down a Natural Balance Sweet Potato and Fish Formula Treat. She and Mr. Z have been really stoked about this project, so I'm doing my best not to let my crabbiness put the kibosh on it. Miss O already asked if we could go to the grand opening of the new Pet Supplies Plus this weekend to see what kinds of goodies they're sportin'.

The upside of all this is that I think she's actually starting to gain a little weight with her new canine cuisine. Those biscuits'll bulk ya right up. The downside, of course, is that her gums have turned black and now her paws smell like Fritos, but, hey, you take the good with the bad. Enjoy.

Miss O Has a Shiny Coat...

Miss O is a picky eater. Kind of a reverse William "The Refrigerator" Perry. She's more like William "The I'll Only Eat about a Quarter of My Sandwich at Lunch and Won't Touch the Chips, Milk or Even the Dessert" Perry. The bizarre thing is, she seems to really enjoy eating the dog's food. Whenever we get a new box of chow for Grover, she has to dig right in. Dry treats? Yep. Dehydrated fish chews? Why not. Salmon dog food pellets? Bring 'em on.

Now, most parents would probably try to discourage this kind of behavior. I, however, smelled the stink of opportunity. Mr. Z and Miss O came up with the idea, storyboarded it and all I did was video it and put it together. Personally, I think it's genius but remember, I also have a folder of about 75 fart sound effects that I also think are genius.

So, without further dog-doo, I give you Episode 1 of "The Dog Treats Cafe."

Upstairs, Brownstairs...

Day five of the President's Day Week All Children Left Behind-a-palooza today -- we've all pretty much had it with each other by now. I was in the basement, in a pretty important meeting with work (via the TeeVee), Mr. Z was mainlining some Wii on the first floor and Miss O was upstairs, in her room, doing whatever the shit is she does in her room.

SOMEONE AT WORK: ... And so, we should do this very important thing as soon as---

MISS O (barely audible): DAD!

SOMEONE AT WORK: ... really crucial thing you need to pay attention to--

MISS O (a little less barely audible): DAAAAAAD!!!!

I mute my camera and yell...

ME: WHAT?!

MISS O: (inaudible)

ME: I CAN'T HEAR YOU!! WHAAAAT?!!!

MISS O: (top of her lungs) I THINK I JUST SHARTED!!!!!

ME: YOU SHARTED?!?!?!!

MISS O: YES, I THINK SO!!!!

ME: GO CLEAN YOUR BUTT AND CHANGE YOUR UNDERWEAR!!!!!

MISS O: WHERE SHOULD I PUT THE UNDERWEAR?

ME: JUST THROW IT IN THE TUB AND I'LL GET IT LATER!!!

MISS O: THE TUB?!

ME: YES! THE TUB!!!

MISS O: OKAY!!!!!

Apparently, she sharted and was wondering what to do with her underwear.

After my meeting ended, I ran upstairs to ask her what the shit was going on. She told me that as she was reaching up to a high shelf to retrieve some Polly Pocket clothes, she did "three farts that felt kinda wet." She then told me that she "got a little shart on her finger" when she checked to see if, indeed, 'twas a shart.

I asked her if she washed her hands. She said "yes." I asked her if she washed her hands REALLY well. She said, "yes." I asked if she used soap. She said, "duh!" Then I told her not to fart for the rest of the day. She said, "I'll try."

Please don't let tomorrow be a snow day.

Airin' out the New 'Do...

I managed to make it through the showers today at the gym without anyone ridiculing my new pubic 'Moe-hawk.' I just made sure I was fully lathered at all times. Probably looked like I was trying to smuggle an albino gorilla into the pool. I managed to take a quick snap in the mirror...



And while I'm on the subject of shower nekkidness, what is it with these wee dudes with the giant wangdangdoodles? There's a guy there, no taller than 5'6", who I could've sworn rode into the showers atop a giant anteater. I thought he was a plumber who had come to snake out the clogged shower drain. I asked if I could borrow his loofah and he said, "What loofah?" I thought I had walked in on some sort of nude bassoon concert. The dude's participle wasn't dangling, it was lying on the floor. Am I making it clear that he was packing a ponderous pud?

I guess it just struck me as out of proportion with his stature. It didn't literally strike me... it's not like he was doing pirouettes in there or anything. That thing would've left a serious welt.

Okay, I've said enough. See, this is what happens when I have nothing to type about. Well, at least I went a day without talking about my b.m.'s. Wait, do I use an apostrophe with b.m.? I'm not talking about something that belongs to my b.m. But b.m.s seems odd -- it sounds like some sort of investment firm. Eh, I'll just stick with 'turds.'

That's it, I'm done.

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

So, I rarely shave because, well, because I work in my basement and never see people... and because shaving is just what the MAN would want me to do. Stupid man. Anywhich, on the rare occasion that I do decide to de-beard, I've found that the electric razor is the way to go -- I don't have to buy new blades or shaving cream and it only trims it down to a nice five-o-clock shadow so I can get that Fred Flintstone look that's such a hit with the ladies.

Now, up until a few weeks ago, I would just shave at the bathroom sink and watch as the blizzard of facial pubery rained down about me. When finished, I'd attempt to clean up all the whiskerettes but I'd inevitably miss a few thousand, usually the ones stuck to the soap and those resting peacefully atop the Old Lady's toothbrush. Needless to say, my shaving routine ended up as another tick mark in the Old Lady's "Things That Repulse Me about Crabbydad" ledger.

Then I had the brilliant idea of shaving in the shower. Not with the water on, mind you -- I'm not that dim... yet. But every week or so, before my morning hosing off, I'll stand in the shower with a mirror in hand and shear away. It's a perfect solution -- all the whiskerinos drop down into the little mesh sombrero in the drain and the Old Lady can brush her teeth without tasting my face.

Usually, I'll wear my boxers during this procedure, mainly because it's kinda chilly in the shower and it offers me a bit of ass warmth. But today I strode in undraped for some reason. I'm impulsive that way, I guess. Now, the problem with being nekkid while you're shaving your face is that, once you're done, you're just standing there, razor a-buzzin' in hand, looking for something else to trim up. And believe me, as a flocculant fellow, I've got a lot of potential trimmables.

I think we all know where this is going, don't we. I thought I'd do a little manscaping, as the kids call it nowadays. Clip the ol' thicket, if you will. To be honest, a rototiller would have been more appropriate than a clipper, but I digress. Now, the razor I have comes with an attachment that can raise or lower the clipping level -- kind of a safety feature so you don't trim too close to anything you don't want to lop off.

I, of course, didn't use said attachment. No, I just dove right in, blades a-slicin', ready to do some serious topiary action in my hedgerow. A little off the sides here, a bit off the top, maybe a few clips "under the hood." Frankly, I got a little carried away.

When the fur finally stopped a-flying, I realized what I had done. Without getting into too much detail, I basically gave my junk a "Betty Page." Actually, it looked more like the bastard love child of Betty Page and Jimmy Durante. My first thought was, "The fellas at the gym are sure in for a surprise when this 'pin-up' enters the showers." I don't know how I could've made "that area" any more ridiculous than it already looked, but I sure found a way.

And then, as I was checking out the rest of my handiwork, I noticed a little raw patch in the undercarriage area. Was that... was that blood?! Yes, apparently as I was pruning the "belly of the beast" I got a little too close and gave myself a second circumcision, of sorts. Excellent! Nothing like a cut on the ol' Chancellor to brighten one's day! So, not only do I get to enjoy the itch of the regrowth of my buzz-cut ground cover, I also get to enjoy the sensation of my schmekel scabbing over.

I'm gonna grow a beard.

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

I smell a snow day shitstorm a-blowin'. And not just any snow day, mind you. It's a snow day that just happens to be preceding the annual five day Presi-motherfucking-dent's Day No-School-a-Poolooza. That's right. Here in mid-Michigan, we celebrate the births of our forefathers by CLOSING THE GODDAMN SCHOOLS! Why? Because the founders of our country would most certainly NOT want any education taking place on the arbitrarily assigned date of their births! Why? 'Cuz they were dicks, that's why.

So what's another day piled on top of the other five, right? Shit, let's just skip Thursday too and go for a whole fucking week! Because there's nothing I like more than trying to actually get "work" done for my "job" so we can "eat" while running up the fucking stairs every 10 minutes to break up an argument, make some lunches, find out what the shit just broke, make some snacks, walk the dog, find out why the fuck it's so goddamned quiet and then make dinner.

Oh, and the Spawnage both have dentist appointments tomorrow, too, which will be GREAT! Driving to Mason in 10 feet of drifting snow. Think I'll have to break the Taun-Tauns out of the corral for that one. Well, maybe the Old Lady can pitch and help in so I can--What's that?! She has meetings all day and she's teaching a night class? FLAARRGNNBBLLLAAAARRGGGGGHHH!

My only hope is that my plaque-ridden brain will be impaled by the giant icicle hanging down in front of the house. In fact, I'm going to go stand below it now. Where's that broom handle...

Nocturnal Admissions...

MR Z: I think I had a wet dream the other night.

ME: What?!

MR. Z: Yeah, I was having this awesome dream and when I woke up the bed was kinda wet.

OLD LADY: Well... that may have just been sweat.

ME: And actually, it wouldn't really be "wet"... sticky is more like it--

MISS O: What's a wet dream?

MR. Z: I read about it in my "It's Perfectly Normal" book. It's when--

ME: HEY! Who needs dessert?!!!

Mid-Michiganean Homesick Blues...

Earlier today, I got a call from Mr. Z, who's on a four day trip with his middle school class to some retreat thingy in northern Michigan. Today is day two and, from the sound of his voice, methinks he might not make it to day three, let alone four. He had that Laura Petrie warble going on. Poor dude... I so know what he's going through. I told him to try to stick it out and that Friday would be here before he knows it... don't know if he bought what I was sellin', though.

I think he's fine during the day, when he's doing stuff -- it's the whole bedtime thing that's bumming his shit out. He's normally in bed by 9:00 and out by, say, 9:02. Up there, it sounds like they're staying up until 10:45 and, at that point, he's kinda missed his chill window. If he's up too late he goes into What the shit?! mode and gets all worked up into a lathery lather.

Of course now I feel guilty as fuck and feel like I should've told him I'd come pick him up. If you'll remember, and even if you won't, my parents first sent me off to camp, for four weeks, when I was a wee lad of 10. I cried for about the first two weeks and then quickly transformed into the emotionless husk I remain today. Granted, four days is NOT four weeks so I guess I'm not as heartless as my parents were. (And it's official... I will never get over that episode in my life.)

The key is that he can't lose his shit in front of the other kids or he's fucked. Seventh grade is a bizznitch and those fucking zit-bedazzled hormonauts are ruthless. I did have him take an empty notebook on the trip and told him to keep a journal about all the goings on throughout the week. Should be an interesting read. (Maybe I'll at least get a coupla good posts out of it.)

I'm telling ya, the Old Lady and I are just too fucking nice to the spawnage. I think we've gotta work on being bigger shitheads so they don't have such a hard time getting the hell outta here. Note to self: be a worse parent. Got it.

Miss O Math...

Brow-Beaten....

In my never-ending quest to humiliate myself in a public forum (my pope-like self-flagellation by blog) and in the interest of full disclosure, I reveal to you my latest indignity...

I got my eyebrows did.

You read that right. Dye. On my fucking eyebrows. To make them look darker. See, at an age when most dudes' brows start sprouting like those of, say, a James Whitmore or a Sean Connery, mine are looking more and more like those of a Whoopi Goldberg or a Mike Nichols before putting on his body merkins. They're fading to nothingness -- my family can't even tell when I'm surprised anymore.

So I went to my haircutterlady, with whom I already have issues, and kindly asked her to give me a nice, gentle B.J. -- a Brow Job.

So, she slapped some jizz on my invisibrows, cut my hair and then wiped said jizz off my head just before what little browage I had left burst into flames. I'm telling ya, if getting one's brows burns like that then the anal bleaching I was planning on in the spring is definitely OUT!

She did mention that the skin under my brows would be stained for a day or so, which explains why people have been stopping me on the street to ask if I'm Brooke Shields' special brother.

But today they're looking pretty fucking sweet. The area between my eyeballs and my forehead feels 15 years younger! I don't know... you be the judge:

A Boy & His Dog...

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

Personalize funny videos and birthday eCards at JibJab!

The Wedge of Night...

"I haven't had a single night of acid reflux since buying the wedge pillow. Definitely worth every penny!" -- Signed, Stew McAcid

My reflux situation was getting so hein-ass that I was becoming desperate. I had resorted to trolling heartburn message boards to find an elusive magic bullet and noticed that a lot of threads discussed these wedge pillows that elevate one's head so the stomach acid doesn't bubble up into one's esophagus while sleeping.

What the shit... why not?! The heartburn relief tea I got was total fuckshit and the dickfers who got me to drink pickle juice had pretty much succeeded in burning another hole or two in my already hole-ridden digestive system. Fucking pickle juice. Assholes!

So I drove on over to Bed, Bath & Bewildered and picked up the "Bed Wedge Pillow" for $29.99:



Looks harmless enough, right? The Old Lady guffawed in my face when I lugged that thing into the house. I told her, "Laugh it up, sister! You're lucky this is only reflux I'm dealing with. It won't be long before I'm coming home with support hose and one of them toilet-chair contraptions!"

Cut to midnight and I'm lying down on my new wedge, ready for an acid-free, cozy journey into slumberland.

How did it go? Well, here's a photo of me getting out of bed this morning:



FUCK THE WEDGE PILLOW! Holy crapstain that thing ripped me multiple new ones. I would've been better off sleeping in a wheelbarrow... filled with anvils... and snakes. I swear to shit I can barely stand up straight now. I tried to take a piss today and I literally could not look down to see if I was even getting it anywhere near the bowl. I think both of my clavicles are broken. And if you ever had a desire to sneak up on me, do it now, 'cuz I couldn't turn my fucking neck if my life depended on it.

But you know what... my reflux wasn't as bad today...

GERD Dammit!

The Old Lady's out of town 'til Sunday night, so it's me, the Spawnage and Cujo for the entire weekend. I can already taste the stomach acid bubbling up into the back of my throat.

Literally.

A couple of months before we moved to the Mitten, back in "aught four," I started getting some really heinous reflux. I'd wake up in the middle of the night feeling like Fred G. Sanford having "the biggie," which freaked me the shit out until I finally went to a gastro doc who said it was most likely reflux. Just to be sure, he knocked me out, snaked a tube down my esophagus and, when I woke up, I was pregnant. No, wait... wrong story.

When I woke up, he said I had GERD, or Gastro-Esophogeal Reflux Disease. Better known as heartburn. And it didn't take no highfalutin' poo-poo doctor to tell me that I was getting it because I was stressed out. Then again, I get stressed out if my morning bowel movement arrives a few minutes late, so...

The doc prescribed me some Zegerid, the magic anti-reflux pill, and I've been GERD-free (as free as the wind blows...) ever since. That is, until it kicked back into high gear last week. I started waking up with the burn-y, scratchy throat, and my teeth hurt and it felt like someone was cranking a car jack on my sternum, from the inside. You know, the usual.

So now I'm stalking around like fucking Columbo, trying to figure out what the shit is causing it. Is it from the all the wine we've been drinking with dinner, lately? Maybe. Was it all the rich foodstuffs I crammed into my facepipe over Xmas break? Perhaps. Did the dog shit in my mouth while I was sleeping? Probably.

Whatever the reason, I'm doing all this fucked up shit to try to fix it. I'm sleeping on a bunch of pillows so my head is higher than my stomach. Does it help? Well, if fucking up my lower back beyond repair is helping, then yes. I'm downing handfuls of Gaviscon at bed which is supposed to form some foamy barrier in front of one of my many faulty sphincters to keep the acid from a-backin' on up. I don't know if that's helping but, between all the aluminum and sodium it has in it, I'll be too worried about my early-onset Alzheimer's and my gigantic goiter to care about some goddamn reflux.

I'm also analyzing every fucking thing I put in my mouth. Can I eat a grape? Hmm... I don't know. Grapes could be the culprit. Better not! How about an apple? That could either fix it or burn a hole in my esophagus. Tough call. I think I'll just play it safe and eat three sleeves of saltines and drink a jar of pickle juice... from now until I die.

Which may just be sometime between now and Sunday night.

IM-barrassed...

Mr. Z got home from school today and wanted to do some noodling on the computer, so he turned on my laptop upstairs while I was toiling away in the basement. Apparently, the laptop was still logged in to my Google account because a friend, we'll call her Ms. M, tried to IM me. I was working on my Mac, though, and, thus, she was IM'ing Mr. Z, instead. Here's their conversation:

MS. M: How's your anus?

MR. Z: I'm not Andy.

MS. M: sorry...

MR. Z: It's OK.

It was at about this time that I switched back over to my other computer and saw their conversation. I almost launched a brain lobe outta my right nostril, I laughed so hard. I typed:

ME: you there?

MS. M: yep... horrified!

ME: Why did you ask Mr. Z how his anus was?

MS. M: I'm so sorry!

ME: I'm laughing so hard right now.

MS. M: me too... i have tears

ME: I wish he would've answered, "Fine, how's yours?" That would've been more polite.

MS. M: I like "I'm not Andy."

ME: Morning! How's your anus? [I'm not Andy.]

MS. M: I'm not Andy's Anus.

ME: Hi, this is Andy's anus. I'm not home right now...

MS. M: Leave your message after the brap! By the way, my vagina won't take my brain's phone calls after the stunt she pulled.

ME: Mr. Z, are you still there?

MS. M: wait...is Mr. Z listening?

ME: Uh, I better make sure he's off the computer!

I ran upstairs and he wasn't. He was working on some Mario game he's making. He said he wasn't watching the conversation. Hm. Maybe he wasn't, maybe he was. If he was, he now knows that something was up with my anus. Even more interestingly, though, is that he's now aware that Ms. M's vagina can apparently pull stunts.

I wonder what we'll be talking about at Mr. Z's bedtime tonight.