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

... Now, if you’ve never attempted to insert a suppository into your blowhole, well then, my friend, you are fucking MISSING OUT! I’ve been trying to find the words to describe the process and I have to say I’m at a loss. The best metaphor I can muster up is that it’s akin to trying to put an extra Pez candy into a completely filled Pez container. That is, if the Pez candy is 50 times bigger than the container’s opening. And if the container’s opening is actually my anus.

And then, if and when you get the fucking thing in there, it’s gonna just pop right back out in a second… as it rightly should! “Sorry folks, asshole’s closed! Moose out front shoulda told ya.” But fuck it, I needed to fix the goddamn itching problem, so I sucked it up… so to speak. And I’m lying there, on the bathroom floor, trying to poke this fucking glorified Mike & Ike up my patoot. In it goes, I stand up, POIT! Out it pops. Lie down, push in, stand up, POIT! I felt like a goddamn broken vending machine. “INCORRECT CHANGE! TRY AGAIN!” And I had to perform this little butt dance without the Old Lady walking in and, thus, immediately nullifying our marriage. I had officially, and literally, sunk as low as I could go.

I will admit that, a couple of times, I actually managed to poke the thing in there, stand up, clamp my hand over my clenched ass cheeks and dive into bed, without blasting that fucker outta my ass like an errant mortar round. But after a coupla days of this mostly fruitless barrel-loading, I gave up. You know, I’d rather have an itchy bung than continue with this humiliating game of rectal Whack-a-Mole any longer. What to do… what… to… do…?

Up Next: Could This Be the End???

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

... The verdict? Fuck if he knew. He said there might be a mild internal ‘roid in there and he gave me two prescriptions: one for a cream and one for… suppositories. [SFX: tuba blat] Can I get a what the shit?! Someone just shoot me now.

So I drive on over to Kroger to pick up my magazine of bum-bullets. Now one of the myriad shitty things about living in a small town is that the pharmacist knows every goddamn pain, rash, infection, psychological disorder and zit going on in your miserable existence. And they know your name. It’s nothing like Cheers, where you go in for a beer and everyone yells, “NORM!” It’s more like, you walk up to the counter and everyone yells, “HEY CRABBY! HOW’S YOUR SORE BALL SACK?”

Anywhich, I dropped off the scripts and skulked on over to the magazine rack to wait until it’s my turn to be publicly humiliated. And I didn’t have to wait long. They called me over and said, and I shit you not:

PHARMACIST: Uh, Mr. Crabby? Yeah, we have that Nupercainal ANAL OINTMENT here for you but the RECTAL SUPPOSITORIES? We don’t have the exact brand that your doctor ordered so we’re going to call him to see if we can substitute the RECTAL SUPPOSITORIES we have here, okay? It’ll just be a few more minutes…

ME: Oh, okay.

ME, IN MY HEAD: One, thank you for announcing my ASSHOLE DISORDER to the entire goddamn store and B, why didn’t you call the fucking doctor FIRST and see if it was okay before calling me over here and embarrassing my ass in front of every goddamn senior citizen in town to TELL me that you were about to call my doctor to ask him. And three, thanks tons for hitting the word “rectal” so fucking hard?! I sure can’t wait until I get ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION. Ya fuck!

And then, about 15 minutes later (when the line was nice and long) they called me back up:

PHARMACIST: Yes, Mr. Crabby? We talked to your doctor’s office and they said the RECTAL SUPPOSITORIES we have here will be fine for YOU. So, if you’ll look here, it’s one suppository, IN YOUR RECTUM, two times a day. Mmmmkay? Do you have any questions?

ME: Just one. Why do you hate me so?

I grabbed the bag, weaved in and out of the line of the elderly and infirm circling me, pointing and laughing, and exited the store in a cold ass-sweat. I realized at this moment that it would have been much easier to have just gotten my asshole removed. Maybe next time.

Up Next: When the Bullet Hits the Bum…

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

... Okay, so fast-forward a coupla weeks and I finally decide it’s time to air my ass woes out to (at) my doctor. Poor guy. So I head over there under the guise of getting a prescription refilled and then at the last minute, after some good-natured chit-chat, I spring on him, “Oh… and I’ve been having some itching going on in the rear-end area [circular hand gesture] that I thought I should maybe mention.” His smile fades and he gets that look that you get when you realize you’ve just stepped in some dog shit and you’re going to have to spend the next 20 minutes sitting on the front porch, picking it out of your waffle soles with a stick.

So he reluctantly gloves up, lubes his finger and tells me to roll on my side and grab my ankles. At least that’s what I think he said. It all happened so fast. Luckily, he’s a wee man and, thankfully, sports a wee forefinger, to boot. He pokes his mini-digit in there, twists it around, says everything “feels normal” and then, like Little Jack Horner, withdraws said digit… sans plum, thank god. Just as I was about to roll back over and retrieve my pants (and my dignity), he inserts something that felt like… well, I’m pretty sure he rammed an inverted orange traffic cone up my fanny. Apparently, he needed to “open the aperture” a bit to take a little lookie-loo. Holy fuckstain, the dude could’ve walked in there at that point! It’s a good thing I didn’t blow one while that thing was in there ‘cuz the whole town would’ve high-tailed it to their basements, thinking the air raid sirens were going off. Eventually he withdrew the cone and my poor sphincter slammed shut like snapping turtle’s jaws on an unsuspecting wader’s pinkie toe. My poor, poor sphincter.

Next up: The Verdict...

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

... Now, while my third theory is the most ridiculous and improbable, it is, of course, the one that freaks me out the most. What if I have some sort of killer anus disease. It could happen. Farrah Fawcett Majors had anus cancer and I’m sure her asshole was WAY cleaner than mine could ever dream of being. That would seriously suck. The high point of my pitiful day is my 9:37 AM daily dumpage. And the late afternoon dumpage. And the occasional late-night dumpage. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I had to have my asshole removed. And I can’t imagine that filling up one of those colostomy bags could ever be as satisfying as pinching one’s loaf the old-fashioned way. Frankly, having one of those bags has always been my worst fucking nightmare. Although… it would pretty much cut the bathroom trips out of my schedule -- that’s a good couple of hours I’d get back per day. The things I could do with two extra hours a day. Maybe I won’t write off anus-disease quite yet...

Up Next: What's Up (There), Doc?

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

... My second theory is that my oh-so-delicate "escape hatch" has become sensitized to the Cottonelle Moist Wipes I use on a daily basis. As you may or may not know, a couple of years ago, I pretty much ditched traditional toilet paper for the miracle that is the “moist wipe.” (And you're welcome for that news flush.) Cleaning up with those babies is akin to having the tongue of god lick your ass clean… I'd imagine. But lately, it’s been starting to sting a little when I swipe one of those fuckers down there and I’m beginning to think that maybe my anal immune system is rebelling agin’ the perfumes, chemicals and unguents infused in said wipes. (My ass has always been a bit of a rebel.)

Of course, installing a bidet would probably remedy the situation but that would cost a butt-load and there is really no extra space for a French ass sink in our tiny bathroom. No, the quickest solution to this problem would be to sit in a vat of peanut butter and have the dog lick my ass clean. I mean, he already loves licking his own ass and he fucking loves the taste of peanut butter... and shit. Frankly, it would be a win-win-win for him. But there is that slim chance that I’d be caught. Hmm... that’d be a tough one to explain away…

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

... I did have my theories, of course. My first theory was the most logical – my bung-o-flames was being caused by the piece-o-carp, leatherette office chair I plop my skinny ass in for ten hours every goddamn day. As the day wears on, the ol’ crackerino transforms into an Arizona sweat lodge. It’s like a wood-burning pizza oven down there – I swear, if I jammed a pinch of sourdough starter up my shitter each morning, I’d have a steamy loaf by lunchtime… San Francisco style. And the rubbery/silicone-y seat cushion thing I bought to better distribute the pressure on my bony-ass assbones probably isn’t helping matters, either. I might as well be sporting rubber baby pants all day. I'm surprised I don't have lichen growing on my taint. What I really need is one of those Aeron chairs with the mesh seat so I can properly “Aeron” my crackhole out. Damn, if only I hadn’t spent that last thousand dollars on food, clothes for the spawnage, the mortgage and that Take 5 bar...

The O-Ring of Fire...

It was the itch that woke me up. That relentless, sweaty, crawling-with-panko-caked-baby-spiders itch that made me wish I could just rip my skin off and jump into a vat of Greek yogurt. For two weeks I had been awakened this way. Where the itching came from, why it was happening now, how the fuck I could get rid of it… I had no answers. All I could do was lie there, wondering if anyone had ever gone clinically insane from an itchy asshole...

Crappy New Year...

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...

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!

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...

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

Crabbydoc I'm Not...

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...

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....

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)...

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

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...

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!

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!

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...

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.