Well, we didn't die of dryness at my folks' house, in case you're wondering. Though I am just moistening up enough today to be able to move my finger joints to type. I'm not going to rehash all the holiday goings-on in this post -- just don't have it in me. It's 11:36 on New Year's Eve, and the Old Lady and I are in bed and it looks like we won't make it 'til midnight. When the fuck did I turn 80?! Oh well, I better lie down slowly so I don't shatter a hip.
Anywhich, another year passes and I'm still not dead, so I look that as a major fucking bonus. My resolutions for 2008? Eat more lettuce and don't die.
Happy New Year, and may you also eat more lettuce and not die.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Sunday, December 23, 2007
GACK!
Could it be any drier here at my parents' house? And the answer is no. It was so fucking dry last night, as the Old Lady and I fitfully tossed and turned in my childhood bedroom, that all canals, tubes and mucosae in my body dried up and I woke up like some sort of hollowed-out, dessicated cicada husk. After ingesting about 18 gallons of water today, I've managed to re-moisten myself back to the level of a burlap gunnysack filled with psoriasis.
Tonight, before bed, I plan on lubing myself up with vaseline and slipping inside a giant lambskin condom filled with rice pudding. That should keep me nice and dewy.
Tonight, before bed, I plan on lubing myself up with vaseline and slipping inside a giant lambskin condom filled with rice pudding. That should keep me nice and dewy.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
M.R.AAAIIIIIIEEEEEE!
Holy mother of shit! What kind of sick FUCKDICK invented the MRI?! There is no fucking way that that thing passes Geneva Convention muster! Oh my shit, that was the most nerve-wracking, fucked up two hours of my life. It actually would've been funny, hilarious even, if it didn't suck so shittily. I swear, I was convinced that I was on an episode of Punk'd, where they'd invented this ridiculous machine, stuck me in it, and then blared these bone-vibrating alarm noises into my head for a couple of hours, just to see if my mind would explode. Oh my crap! What a dick that machine is.
Oh, and thanks for the 5 mg tab of Valium to relax me, Dr. W. That did ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY NOTHING! Next time, prescribe a giant mallet that the Old Lady can konk me in the head with, so I'll be unconscious for that magnetic torture chamber of horrors.
I go in there and change into the little gown thing. Didn't know if it was supposed to be the forward tying kind or the backward, so I did forward and hoped that nothing would sproing out at an inopportune moment. I get in the room and they say they're gonna do the brain first. I had headphones for that part, so it wasn't too bad. About 20 minutes of buzzing and beeping, but I was doing my deep breathing exercises and I didn't open my eyes to view the fucking death-tube I was wedged into, so it was okay.
Then, they pull my ass out and switch shit around for the spine part. They said the headphones wouldn't fit in there, so they gave me ear plugs that didn't fit, so basically it was going to be loud as fuck. Then they shove me waaaay into the tube and mention, at the last minute, that this part should take about 40 minutes. Motherfucker! I swear, waterboarding can't be any worse than that shit. It just didn't fucking end. After a while, I was started to freak out a bit and then made the HUGE mistake of opening my eyes. That was it. I squeezed that fucking ball they told me to squeeze if I needed anything and the little speaker said, "Can we help you?" I said, "Uh, yeah... I'm kinda losing my shit in here."
So I figured they'd let me out to chill for a sec, right? They said, "Just relax, and breathe deeply, and it'll be over soon." NO THEY DIN-UNH! Then they kept blasting the fucking tornado sirens in my ears and I continued to flip my lid. My hands and feet got totally tingly and my head was spinning. Total panic attack. But there was nothing I could do -- I sure as fuck didn't want to move and fuck it up so I'd have to do the whole fucking thing again.
Oh, and did I mention that I had to fucking piss like a race-horse that had to fucking piss an assload? So, a half-hour later, they pull me the fuck out, and I think it's all over. HA! The evil lab lady goes, "Okay, now we need to inject some dye into your arm and we'll do about another 20 minutes on the spine and then another shot with the head." All I heard was "You will die in 20 minutes." Which was actually quite comforting at that point.
And they wouldn't let me pee because I had to be in the same position for the next round. So, back in the tomb I went, my ureter filled taut like a fucking pee-filled balloon animal, and my synapses sparking and fizzling out by the second. And the sounds got louder and even more ridiculous. There's the pulsing "AH! AH! AH! AH! AH! AH," and the "EEE-AHH-EEEH-AAAAH-EEEH-AAAH." The worst ones were the long, continuous ones that kinda shifted waveforms throughout, occasionally syncing up with my brain waves and turning my grey matter into fucking Cream of Wheat -- "AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH
EEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOHHHHHH."
I swear to fuck, I couldn't imagine a worse torture for me. I was totally ready to give up any and all secrets I had about Mr. Z, Miss O and the Old Lady. All they had to do was ask and I'd turn 'em all the fuck in to the authorities. Luckily for them, it ended and they hauled my jittery ass out of the chunnel-of-terror once again.
I was just shy of spraying both technicians with a tsunami of piss, so I asked if I could PLEASE take a whiz-break. They said okay and told me to sit up. I did and almost passed out. I had to sit there for a second until the little swirly cartoon eyes I had stopped spinning and then I hobbled over to the crapper. It had to be the longest piss I've ever taken -- a good 4 and a half minutes of full-force golden firehose action. I realized, about halfway through it, that I still had my eyes closed. I pried them open and started to feel myself calming down a bit. When the well ran dry, I got up, splashed some water on my face and hobbled back to Dr. Magneto's Fright Funnel.
I hopped back up onto the table and finished the last 15 minutes of brain scan like a champ. Then they pulled me out, I hopped up, told the technicians that I was reporting them to the authorities, flipped them off and then high-tailed it outta there.
I don't care if they find a fucking leather-winged homunculus stirring a cauldron of aneurysm juice on those scans -- I will never go through that bullfuck again. Seriously. I'd rather have my head do this:
But it's done, so yay. For now, I think it's time to see how that Valium mixes with some Plymouth gin and a couple of olives.
Oh, and thanks for the 5 mg tab of Valium to relax me, Dr. W. That did ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY NOTHING! Next time, prescribe a giant mallet that the Old Lady can konk me in the head with, so I'll be unconscious for that magnetic torture chamber of horrors.
I go in there and change into the little gown thing. Didn't know if it was supposed to be the forward tying kind or the backward, so I did forward and hoped that nothing would sproing out at an inopportune moment. I get in the room and they say they're gonna do the brain first. I had headphones for that part, so it wasn't too bad. About 20 minutes of buzzing and beeping, but I was doing my deep breathing exercises and I didn't open my eyes to view the fucking death-tube I was wedged into, so it was okay.
Then, they pull my ass out and switch shit around for the spine part. They said the headphones wouldn't fit in there, so they gave me ear plugs that didn't fit, so basically it was going to be loud as fuck. Then they shove me waaaay into the tube and mention, at the last minute, that this part should take about 40 minutes. Motherfucker! I swear, waterboarding can't be any worse than that shit. It just didn't fucking end. After a while, I was started to freak out a bit and then made the HUGE mistake of opening my eyes. That was it. I squeezed that fucking ball they told me to squeeze if I needed anything and the little speaker said, "Can we help you?" I said, "Uh, yeah... I'm kinda losing my shit in here."
So I figured they'd let me out to chill for a sec, right? They said, "Just relax, and breathe deeply, and it'll be over soon." NO THEY DIN-UNH! Then they kept blasting the fucking tornado sirens in my ears and I continued to flip my lid. My hands and feet got totally tingly and my head was spinning. Total panic attack. But there was nothing I could do -- I sure as fuck didn't want to move and fuck it up so I'd have to do the whole fucking thing again.
Oh, and did I mention that I had to fucking piss like a race-horse that had to fucking piss an assload? So, a half-hour later, they pull me the fuck out, and I think it's all over. HA! The evil lab lady goes, "Okay, now we need to inject some dye into your arm and we'll do about another 20 minutes on the spine and then another shot with the head." All I heard was "You will die in 20 minutes." Which was actually quite comforting at that point.
And they wouldn't let me pee because I had to be in the same position for the next round. So, back in the tomb I went, my ureter filled taut like a fucking pee-filled balloon animal, and my synapses sparking and fizzling out by the second. And the sounds got louder and even more ridiculous. There's the pulsing "AH! AH! AH! AH! AH! AH," and the "EEE-AHH-EEEH-AAAAH-EEEH-AAAH." The worst ones were the long, continuous ones that kinda shifted waveforms throughout, occasionally syncing up with my brain waves and turning my grey matter into fucking Cream of Wheat -- "AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH
EEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOHHHHHH."
I swear to fuck, I couldn't imagine a worse torture for me. I was totally ready to give up any and all secrets I had about Mr. Z, Miss O and the Old Lady. All they had to do was ask and I'd turn 'em all the fuck in to the authorities. Luckily for them, it ended and they hauled my jittery ass out of the chunnel-of-terror once again.
I was just shy of spraying both technicians with a tsunami of piss, so I asked if I could PLEASE take a whiz-break. They said okay and told me to sit up. I did and almost passed out. I had to sit there for a second until the little swirly cartoon eyes I had stopped spinning and then I hobbled over to the crapper. It had to be the longest piss I've ever taken -- a good 4 and a half minutes of full-force golden firehose action. I realized, about halfway through it, that I still had my eyes closed. I pried them open and started to feel myself calming down a bit. When the well ran dry, I got up, splashed some water on my face and hobbled back to Dr. Magneto's Fright Funnel.
I hopped back up onto the table and finished the last 15 minutes of brain scan like a champ. Then they pulled me out, I hopped up, told the technicians that I was reporting them to the authorities, flipped them off and then high-tailed it outta there.
I don't care if they find a fucking leather-winged homunculus stirring a cauldron of aneurysm juice on those scans -- I will never go through that bullfuck again. Seriously. I'd rather have my head do this:
But it's done, so yay. For now, I think it's time to see how that Valium mixes with some Plymouth gin and a couple of olives.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Well, At Least We Have Our Health...
Mr. Z and Miss O are both sick. The Old Lady's catching it. I've got my MRI at 8:45 tomorrow morning.
It's a Xmas miracle, Mother!
More later... if and when we make it out the other side.
It's a Xmas miracle, Mother!
More later... if and when we make it out the other side.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Have You Turd the Latest?
I finally took the plunge and bought this incredible hand-held digital audio recorder thing I've had my eye on for, oh, a year or so. I wanted to have something that I could just whip out at a moment's notice to record an argument the spawnage were having, or record Miss O singing in the tub, or record an awesome fart that was just going to go to waste. So much audio gold has slipped through my tingling fingers, I decided I had to buy the fucker. And I was not disappointed. (For those interested in joining the club, find it here.)
Anywhich, Miss O and I have been singing this song from time to time while she sits on the toilet for half-a-fucking-hour trying to dump before bed. It's just kind of this meandering ditty, and we just kind of sing about whatever has gone on that day. I wanted to record it down in the studio (basement) but I didn't want to lose the spontaneity and uncertainty spurred on by the impending poopage.
Enter the Zoom H2!
We recorded it in one take last night during a particularly constipating poo-formance. It's kinda long (the song, not the poo), but I think it's a keeper. I dumped the file onto the mac and then added a little extra noodlin'guitar in the background, but I like the fact that it's raw and un-fucked-with (and a little outta tune).
So, yeah, here you go. I give you "The Toilet Song"! Enjoy...
"The Toilet Song" by the "Miss O Beat."
Anywhich, Miss O and I have been singing this song from time to time while she sits on the toilet for half-a-fucking-hour trying to dump before bed. It's just kind of this meandering ditty, and we just kind of sing about whatever has gone on that day. I wanted to record it down in the studio (basement) but I didn't want to lose the spontaneity and uncertainty spurred on by the impending poopage.
Enter the Zoom H2!
We recorded it in one take last night during a particularly constipating poo-formance. It's kinda long (the song, not the poo), but I think it's a keeper. I dumped the file onto the mac and then added a little extra noodlin'guitar in the background, but I like the fact that it's raw and un-fucked-with (and a little outta tune).
So, yeah, here you go. I give you "The Toilet Song"! Enjoy...
"The Toilet Song" by the "Miss O Beat."
Sunday, December 16, 2007
BLONG!
There are four things have kept me from losing my shit lately, and I think, because of them, I'm ready to join the living once again.
1) The Old Lady and the Spawnage. No matter how fucking oh-woe-is-me I've been feeling lately, the Old Lady has been there to pick up my slack and is just patient as shit with my bullfuck. And the Spawnage -- even when they're annoying the crap out of me, they're so goddamn adorable, it's impossible to be a fucking mope for too long. (By the way, I recorded a song with Miss O tonight and I'll try to post it tomorrow. We recorded it live, with my new portable flash recorder, and I think it's tits. It's tentatively called "The Toilet Song.")
B) The very kind people who read this miserable fucking drivel on a fairly regular basis and have left such supportive comments. As I've mentioned, because I have no life outside of this house, I consider you all to be my imaginary friends and it really helps when friends, even imaginary ones, are there for you in times of self-pitying wretchedness.
iii) The mystery person who just ordered three (3!) KICKSOME CDs through the spawnages' web site. Seriously -- I think it's been like a year since someone has ordered one of those fuckers, let alone three. I actually didn't even have any blank disks to burn them onto, so I had to go to Best Buy to get some... on a Saturday... a week before Xmas. That sucked balls. No, but seriously, thanks for the order -- I'm gonna send them out tomorrow.
IV) And I'm fucking embarrassed as shit to admit it, but the final thing that actually made me say, "Snap the shit outta your malaise, Crabbydick, and start posting again! You may have incurable boola-boola, but you've gotta suck it up, ya douche," was this video:
Yes, I know it's a video of a laughing baby... yes, I know it's over a year old... yes, I realize I'm contributing to the downfall of the fucking innernecks by linking to it, but goddammit, it made me blow a fucking snot out of my nose that shot halfway across the fucking room.
I salute you, happy, drunk foreign baby!
1) The Old Lady and the Spawnage. No matter how fucking oh-woe-is-me I've been feeling lately, the Old Lady has been there to pick up my slack and is just patient as shit with my bullfuck. And the Spawnage -- even when they're annoying the crap out of me, they're so goddamn adorable, it's impossible to be a fucking mope for too long. (By the way, I recorded a song with Miss O tonight and I'll try to post it tomorrow. We recorded it live, with my new portable flash recorder, and I think it's tits. It's tentatively called "The Toilet Song.")
B) The very kind people who read this miserable fucking drivel on a fairly regular basis and have left such supportive comments. As I've mentioned, because I have no life outside of this house, I consider you all to be my imaginary friends and it really helps when friends, even imaginary ones, are there for you in times of self-pitying wretchedness.
iii) The mystery person who just ordered three (3!) KICKSOME CDs through the spawnages' web site. Seriously -- I think it's been like a year since someone has ordered one of those fuckers, let alone three. I actually didn't even have any blank disks to burn them onto, so I had to go to Best Buy to get some... on a Saturday... a week before Xmas. That sucked balls. No, but seriously, thanks for the order -- I'm gonna send them out tomorrow.
IV) And I'm fucking embarrassed as shit to admit it, but the final thing that actually made me say, "Snap the shit outta your malaise, Crabbydick, and start posting again! You may have incurable boola-boola, but you've gotta suck it up, ya douche," was this video:
Yes, I know it's a video of a laughing baby... yes, I know it's over a year old... yes, I realize I'm contributing to the downfall of the fucking innernecks by linking to it, but goddammit, it made me blow a fucking snot out of my nose that shot halfway across the fucking room.
I salute you, happy, drunk foreign baby!
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Birdy Numb-Numb...
So, I guess I should check in, huh? You know, I thought I knew from crabby. I thought I had crabby's number, I did. Well, let me tell you something, people... I have entered the Thunderdome of crabbitude. The Grand Crabyon. Mt. Crabbyama. The Great Wall of Crabna.
And you know what? It fucking sucks donkey dicks.
This'll give you an idea how shitty I feel -- I called in sick to work. I can't remember the last time I didn't work when I was sick. Which sucks, by the way, 'cuz I work from home, so it's not like I have an office full of people I'm gonna infect. No, through colds, flus and 'the 'rrhea,' there I sit on my little TV screen... the omnipresent video monkey.
But when I limped my numb-ass legs/feet/arms down that basement staircase on Monday morning, I just couldn't pull it off. I feel like such shit, whether I'm sitting or standing or lying down -- I'm sorry, but I just couldn't fathom writing trivia questions about the similarities between Dr. Spock and Mr. Spock. I didn't go in yesterday, either. Just lied in bed and whined. Today, I worked a bit, but it was painful.
I've gotta figure out what's going on in my nervous system, and quick, or I'm gonna fucking lose my shit completely. And I haven't been sleeping much at all, so my mind is just spinning. At this point, I have no idea what's actually fucked up with my body and what's just a result of lying in bed all night and freaking out about whatever horrendous ailment is plaguing me.
Oh, and fuck you, internet. There's nothing worse than having an unexplained numbing/tingling of your extremities and random pain, and having a fucking wireless laptop sitting next to your bed. The list of potential heinous maladies I might be harboring has grown exponentially. There's all kinds of goodies: the oldies like MS and pinched nerves, and then the new ones, like liver failure, diabetes and chiari! Motherfuckers at Webmd and the Mayoclinic. Dickbags.
The shittiest thing of all is that I'm a fucking pain-in-the-goddamn-ass to live with right now. The poor Old Lady is working overtime to talk me down, comfort me, spend time with the spawnage, buy food -- fucking saint, that woman. And the spawnage -- if I have to say I can't read a book to Miss O or draw with Mr. Z because I feel shitty one more time... it's gonna rip my most-likely-malfunctioning heart clean out.
Luckily, my MRI is NEXT WEEK GODDAMMIT, and the appointment with the fucking neurosurgeon who's gonna interpret it isn't until motherfucking January 8th, so I get to wallow in misery for the entire Xmas holidays!!! That'll fucking rock!!!!
So there, you wanted a post -- that's it. Now I'm gonna down some Advil PM and not get a fucking wink of sleep, while I lie in bed and try to decide between a manual or electric wheelchair.
And you know what? It fucking sucks donkey dicks.
This'll give you an idea how shitty I feel -- I called in sick to work. I can't remember the last time I didn't work when I was sick. Which sucks, by the way, 'cuz I work from home, so it's not like I have an office full of people I'm gonna infect. No, through colds, flus and 'the 'rrhea,' there I sit on my little TV screen... the omnipresent video monkey.
But when I limped my numb-ass legs/feet/arms down that basement staircase on Monday morning, I just couldn't pull it off. I feel like such shit, whether I'm sitting or standing or lying down -- I'm sorry, but I just couldn't fathom writing trivia questions about the similarities between Dr. Spock and Mr. Spock. I didn't go in yesterday, either. Just lied in bed and whined. Today, I worked a bit, but it was painful.
I've gotta figure out what's going on in my nervous system, and quick, or I'm gonna fucking lose my shit completely. And I haven't been sleeping much at all, so my mind is just spinning. At this point, I have no idea what's actually fucked up with my body and what's just a result of lying in bed all night and freaking out about whatever horrendous ailment is plaguing me.
Oh, and fuck you, internet. There's nothing worse than having an unexplained numbing/tingling of your extremities and random pain, and having a fucking wireless laptop sitting next to your bed. The list of potential heinous maladies I might be harboring has grown exponentially. There's all kinds of goodies: the oldies like MS and pinched nerves, and then the new ones, like liver failure, diabetes and chiari! Motherfuckers at Webmd and the Mayoclinic. Dickbags.
The shittiest thing of all is that I'm a fucking pain-in-the-goddamn-ass to live with right now. The poor Old Lady is working overtime to talk me down, comfort me, spend time with the spawnage, buy food -- fucking saint, that woman. And the spawnage -- if I have to say I can't read a book to Miss O or draw with Mr. Z because I feel shitty one more time... it's gonna rip my most-likely-malfunctioning heart clean out.
Luckily, my MRI is NEXT WEEK GODDAMMIT, and the appointment with the fucking neurosurgeon who's gonna interpret it isn't until motherfucking January 8th, so I get to wallow in misery for the entire Xmas holidays!!! That'll fucking rock!!!!
So there, you wanted a post -- that's it. Now I'm gonna down some Advil PM and not get a fucking wink of sleep, while I lie in bed and try to decide between a manual or electric wheelchair.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
But Enough about Me...
I'm sick as shit of talking about my fucking extremities, which, by the way, I received no closure on from the doc today. Scheduling an MRI for next week. Excellent!
Anywhich, I've gotta move on for now...
I present to you the first, in what will most likely be a continuing series of candid bathtime interviews with the Crabbykids. Tonight, Episode 1 of the Mr. Z Bathtime Chats! Tonight we talk about the girls he likes at school, and, as usual, it all devolves into him talking about his schvantz. Enjoy.
"Bathtime Chat Series, Ep. I" with Mr. Z
Anywhich, I've gotta move on for now...
I present to you the first, in what will most likely be a continuing series of candid bathtime interviews with the Crabbykids. Tonight, Episode 1 of the Mr. Z Bathtime Chats! Tonight we talk about the girls he likes at school, and, as usual, it all devolves into him talking about his schvantz. Enjoy.
"Bathtime Chat Series, Ep. I" with Mr. Z
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
This Theory Just In...
Okay, Theory 3: The Theory Which is Not Mine, But Rather My Mom's...
So, I'm talking to my parents tonight, filling them in on my woes, and outta nowhere, my mom comes up with this:
MOM: You know... it could be a pinched nerve. You and Dad did carry that giant buffet down those four flights of stairs on Friday... and then you went bowling.
ME: [cut to picture of a gummy jackass going "HEE-HAW, HEE-HAW"]
She's brilliant!! I mean, she may totally wrong, but what a theory! If she's right, I might even forgive her for molding me into the sniveling hypochondriac I am today. I mean, my dad and I did carry that fuck-ass buffet down four, really tight/twisty flights of stairs. See, my parents had some friends who were moving and they mentioned that they had a nice mid-century buffet that they'd sell to us for $100, and all we had to do was drive to Evanston to pick it up.
When we got there, it was an okay mid-century-STYLE buffet (actually only about 10 years old from Dania), but we couldn't say no or we'd look like ungrateful dicks, so we lugged it down the back staircase and, in the process, I potentially ruined my entire nervous system. And of course I had to volunteer, "Hey Dad, let me walk down first and go backwards. I don't want you to hurt your back." Idiot. Yeah, that was definitely worth 100 bucks.
Oh, and THEN, that night, I was roped into taking Mr. Z to the annual day-after-Thanksgiving-bowling-party with all the second and third cousins that I hardly know over at the depressing, dimly lit Best Western motor lodge/bowling alley in Wheeling, the town with feeling. Nothing better for the old freshly ruptured neurons than hurling a 30 pound rock down an alley a coupla hundred times.
So, yeah, when the doctor asked me, last week, if I had done anything to injure myself over the holidays and I said, "Me? No!"... well, maybe I should've THOUGHT for a fucking nanosecond and said, "Oh, well, there was that 300 pound buffet..."
We'll see what the ol' doc says tomorrow morning when I present my three theories to him. I have a feeling he'll listen quietly, mull them over and then come up with a theory of his own -- That I'm a fucking douche.
So, I'm talking to my parents tonight, filling them in on my woes, and outta nowhere, my mom comes up with this:
MOM: You know... it could be a pinched nerve. You and Dad did carry that giant buffet down those four flights of stairs on Friday... and then you went bowling.
ME: [cut to picture of a gummy jackass going "HEE-HAW, HEE-HAW"]
She's brilliant!! I mean, she may totally wrong, but what a theory! If she's right, I might even forgive her for molding me into the sniveling hypochondriac I am today. I mean, my dad and I did carry that fuck-ass buffet down four, really tight/twisty flights of stairs. See, my parents had some friends who were moving and they mentioned that they had a nice mid-century buffet that they'd sell to us for $100, and all we had to do was drive to Evanston to pick it up.
When we got there, it was an okay mid-century-STYLE buffet (actually only about 10 years old from Dania), but we couldn't say no or we'd look like ungrateful dicks, so we lugged it down the back staircase and, in the process, I potentially ruined my entire nervous system. And of course I had to volunteer, "Hey Dad, let me walk down first and go backwards. I don't want you to hurt your back." Idiot. Yeah, that was definitely worth 100 bucks.
Oh, and THEN, that night, I was roped into taking Mr. Z to the annual day-after-Thanksgiving-bowling-party with all the second and third cousins that I hardly know over at the depressing, dimly lit Best Western motor lodge/bowling alley in Wheeling, the town with feeling. Nothing better for the old freshly ruptured neurons than hurling a 30 pound rock down an alley a coupla hundred times.
So, yeah, when the doctor asked me, last week, if I had done anything to injure myself over the holidays and I said, "Me? No!"... well, maybe I should've THOUGHT for a fucking nanosecond and said, "Oh, well, there was that 300 pound buffet..."
We'll see what the ol' doc says tomorrow morning when I present my three theories to him. I have a feeling he'll listen quietly, mull them over and then come up with a theory of his own -- That I'm a fucking douche.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Maybe It's "The Grippe"...
All right, let me preface this by saying that, when it comes to issues regarding health (mine in particular) I tend to catastrophize at bit. Okay, a fuckload. With that in mind, this may be my last post, as I will most surely be dead by morning.
Okay, remember my black and blue toe? Ol' Bruise-ter? Well, the bruise has faded, but some other funky shit has taken its place. For the last week or so, I've had this bizarre phenomenon where my hands and feet feel like the blood is just pooling in them, and they're all hot and stiff and prickly and shit. And they're all crampy and weak feeling and it gets worse when they're hot, like in the morning, when I have the comforter on them.
At first I thought it had something to do with my sitting on my ass in the freezing basement all fucking day, but now I'm not so sure. I have two theories:
Theory 1: The Theory Which is Mine
For the last year, I've been taking this anti-reflux pill called Zegerid. I was having this horrendous reflux that was burning a goddamn hole in my esophagus and this fucking wonder-drug fixed me right up. No more schpilkes in the schnitzengruben.
So I looked up the side-effects the other day to see if my hand/foot thing might be caused by this little wonder pill. Apparently, the active ingredient in Zegerid, (Omeprazole, for those keeping score), inhibits the little pumps in the stomach that make the acid and shit. It also blocks the absorption of a shitload of vitamins that your stomach acid normally helps you absorb. One of the vitamins it blocks is B12, which, when you don't get enough of it, leads to "numbness or tingling in the hands or feet," and a whole host of other delights, including... neurological damage (which would explain a fuck of a lot.) So yeah, no vitamin B12 for a year... sounds like a pretty solid theory, no?
Theory B: The Other Theory Which is Mine
Now this is where my catastrophization kicks in. There's usually one logical explanation and then I stumble upon the WORST-CASE SCENARIO! Fucking WebMD shitheads. In this case, my worst-case scenario is... Multiple Sclerosis. I'm telling ya, look at the fucking symptoms -- it's me, goddammit! Tingling? Got it. Numbness? Got it. Weakness in one or more limbs? Got it. Blurred vision? Okay, I don't have that. Sudden onset of paralysis? Okay, I don't have that. Lack of coordination? Well, Mr. Z has that in spades, so I'll count that as a "yes."
The thing is, no matter how much the logical explanation makes sense, it's the worst-case scenario that I always cling to. Oh, and did I mention that my grandma's sister had MS? Huh, huh, see?
I don't fucking know. I'm going to the doctor on Thursday to see what he says, which I'm sure will be, "Sorry, Crabbydad, but you've got a bad case of the MS. If I were you, I'd get my things in order. That'll be 200 dollars, please. NEXT!"
The Old Lady has been very patient with me. Believe it or not, I used to be a LOT worse with this kinda shit. During her 21 years with me, she's seen it all -- brain cancer, lockjaw, heart attacks, appendicitis, Boola-boola, Dengue fever, flesh-eating bacteria, SARS... you name it, I've had it. She listens to my complaints and then talks me the fuck down with a lethal combination of bullshit detection and logic. Tonight she said, "Look, we'll probably be together long enough where one day, one of us is going to get something. Maybe you do have MS. Maybe you'll have a brain aneurysm. Maybe I'll get breast cancer and have to have a double mastectomy. We'll just deal with whatever happens. It's very unlikely that we'll both just grow old and die peacefully in our sleep, or say 'Okay' and float off into space like Mr. Magorium."
I think she was trying to make me feel better, which is very sweet of her. Unfortunately, now all I can think about is brain aneurysms.
Okay, remember my black and blue toe? Ol' Bruise-ter? Well, the bruise has faded, but some other funky shit has taken its place. For the last week or so, I've had this bizarre phenomenon where my hands and feet feel like the blood is just pooling in them, and they're all hot and stiff and prickly and shit. And they're all crampy and weak feeling and it gets worse when they're hot, like in the morning, when I have the comforter on them.
At first I thought it had something to do with my sitting on my ass in the freezing basement all fucking day, but now I'm not so sure. I have two theories:
Theory 1: The Theory Which is Mine
For the last year, I've been taking this anti-reflux pill called Zegerid. I was having this horrendous reflux that was burning a goddamn hole in my esophagus and this fucking wonder-drug fixed me right up. No more schpilkes in the schnitzengruben.
So I looked up the side-effects the other day to see if my hand/foot thing might be caused by this little wonder pill. Apparently, the active ingredient in Zegerid, (Omeprazole, for those keeping score), inhibits the little pumps in the stomach that make the acid and shit. It also blocks the absorption of a shitload of vitamins that your stomach acid normally helps you absorb. One of the vitamins it blocks is B12, which, when you don't get enough of it, leads to "numbness or tingling in the hands or feet," and a whole host of other delights, including... neurological damage (which would explain a fuck of a lot.) So yeah, no vitamin B12 for a year... sounds like a pretty solid theory, no?
Theory B: The Other Theory Which is Mine
Now this is where my catastrophization kicks in. There's usually one logical explanation and then I stumble upon the WORST-CASE SCENARIO! Fucking WebMD shitheads. In this case, my worst-case scenario is... Multiple Sclerosis. I'm telling ya, look at the fucking symptoms -- it's me, goddammit! Tingling? Got it. Numbness? Got it. Weakness in one or more limbs? Got it. Blurred vision? Okay, I don't have that. Sudden onset of paralysis? Okay, I don't have that. Lack of coordination? Well, Mr. Z has that in spades, so I'll count that as a "yes."
The thing is, no matter how much the logical explanation makes sense, it's the worst-case scenario that I always cling to. Oh, and did I mention that my grandma's sister had MS? Huh, huh, see?
I don't fucking know. I'm going to the doctor on Thursday to see what he says, which I'm sure will be, "Sorry, Crabbydad, but you've got a bad case of the MS. If I were you, I'd get my things in order. That'll be 200 dollars, please. NEXT!"
The Old Lady has been very patient with me. Believe it or not, I used to be a LOT worse with this kinda shit. During her 21 years with me, she's seen it all -- brain cancer, lockjaw, heart attacks, appendicitis, Boola-boola, Dengue fever, flesh-eating bacteria, SARS... you name it, I've had it. She listens to my complaints and then talks me the fuck down with a lethal combination of bullshit detection and logic. Tonight she said, "Look, we'll probably be together long enough where one day, one of us is going to get something. Maybe you do have MS. Maybe you'll have a brain aneurysm. Maybe I'll get breast cancer and have to have a double mastectomy. We'll just deal with whatever happens. It's very unlikely that we'll both just grow old and die peacefully in our sleep, or say 'Okay' and float off into space like Mr. Magorium."
I think she was trying to make me feel better, which is very sweet of her. Unfortunately, now all I can think about is brain aneurysms.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Tortie-Something...
Well, I wasn't gonna post tonight, but Mr. Z just sleep-walked out of his room and basically handed me a post. It's 11:57 p.m., mind you, and and I'm sitting here on our bed perusing the innernecks.
I watched him walk out of his room and sit at the top of the stairs. Then he called out, "Mom? What were your torties like?"
That's right, "torties."
The Old Lady was downstairs in her office and she yelled back, "What?!"
He repeated, with a mild variation, "What were your tortoes like?"
Without missing a beat, the Old Lady shouted back, "Fine."
At this point, I was helping him to his feet and guiding him back into his room. I couldn't help myself, so I asked, "Mr. Z, what were YOUR torties like?"
He said, "Pretty good."
So, in case you're wondering, over here at the Crabbyhouse, all of our torties and/or tortoes are just fine, thank you.
Good night.
I watched him walk out of his room and sit at the top of the stairs. Then he called out, "Mom? What were your torties like?"
That's right, "torties."
The Old Lady was downstairs in her office and she yelled back, "What?!"
He repeated, with a mild variation, "What were your tortoes like?"
Without missing a beat, the Old Lady shouted back, "Fine."
At this point, I was helping him to his feet and guiding him back into his room. I couldn't help myself, so I asked, "Mr. Z, what were YOUR torties like?"
He said, "Pretty good."
So, in case you're wondering, over here at the Crabbyhouse, all of our torties and/or tortoes are just fine, thank you.
Good night.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Look, Can't I Just Read You a Story?
Miss O had what may have been the most adorable little existential meltdown at bedtime tonight. I was sitting there rubbing her back and we had the following conversation:
MISS O: Dad... after I go to college, I don't know where I'm going to live. Is it okay if I still live with you and Mom?
ME: Of course, sweetie. You can live with us for as long as you'd like.
MISS O: That's good. I want to be a painter when I grow up, [her voice starts cracking, like she's trying not to cry] and I don't know the places I can live if I want to be a painter.
ME: Well, you know, painters can live anywhere. There are painters all over the world.
MISS O: Yeah? Okay, but if you guys move and you see a house on your street with one of those sale signs on the lawn, can you tell me and then I'll buy it.
ME: Sure. Maybe you can get the house across the street and then when I want to visit you, I'll just jump in the car and drive across the street and say, "Hi, I'm here!"
MISS O: [laughs] I think I'll be an abstract painter for a while and then do some other styles.
ME: That sounds great... but, you know, I think you have a year or two before you have to decide exactly what you want to do.
It went on for a bit and she vacillated between being on the verge of tears and then laughing. It's fucking wild, 'cuz I remember Mr. Z having almost the same conversations with us when he was around six. Something about realizing that they're starting to get a lot more independent and then thinking ahead and realizing what the fuck that really means.
I think I put Miss O's mind at ease, though. And I'm not worried about her -- I'm sure the minute she has the chance to move out, she'll be more than ready to bolt. And if she does want to come back and stay in her room, she'll just have to convince whatever schmucks are living here to let her in, 'cuz the Old Lady and I sure as fuck aren't gonna be hangin' around this life-suck of a town.
Actually, she can probably just rent her old bedroom out from Mr. Z. He said he's never moving out -- he's gonna get married, have six kids and live in our house forever. That's it -- shoot for the stars, boy! Everything you need is here: Cracker Barrel, Caeserland, Ye Olde Country Buffet, Heavenly Ham...
Holy crap, I gotta get outta this town.
MISS O: Dad... after I go to college, I don't know where I'm going to live. Is it okay if I still live with you and Mom?
ME: Of course, sweetie. You can live with us for as long as you'd like.
MISS O: That's good. I want to be a painter when I grow up, [her voice starts cracking, like she's trying not to cry] and I don't know the places I can live if I want to be a painter.
ME: Well, you know, painters can live anywhere. There are painters all over the world.
MISS O: Yeah? Okay, but if you guys move and you see a house on your street with one of those sale signs on the lawn, can you tell me and then I'll buy it.
ME: Sure. Maybe you can get the house across the street and then when I want to visit you, I'll just jump in the car and drive across the street and say, "Hi, I'm here!"
MISS O: [laughs] I think I'll be an abstract painter for a while and then do some other styles.
ME: That sounds great... but, you know, I think you have a year or two before you have to decide exactly what you want to do.
It went on for a bit and she vacillated between being on the verge of tears and then laughing. It's fucking wild, 'cuz I remember Mr. Z having almost the same conversations with us when he was around six. Something about realizing that they're starting to get a lot more independent and then thinking ahead and realizing what the fuck that really means.
I think I put Miss O's mind at ease, though. And I'm not worried about her -- I'm sure the minute she has the chance to move out, she'll be more than ready to bolt. And if she does want to come back and stay in her room, she'll just have to convince whatever schmucks are living here to let her in, 'cuz the Old Lady and I sure as fuck aren't gonna be hangin' around this life-suck of a town.
Actually, she can probably just rent her old bedroom out from Mr. Z. He said he's never moving out -- he's gonna get married, have six kids and live in our house forever. That's it -- shoot for the stars, boy! Everything you need is here: Cracker Barrel, Caeserland, Ye Olde Country Buffet, Heavenly Ham...
Holy crap, I gotta get outta this town.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Where's Hypothermia When You Need It?!
Ugh, what a shit-ass day. I think it's a combination of my bum foot, the goddamn Arctic tundra that is my basement and me just being a warped, frustrated old man, Mr. Potter. Unfortunately, I carried along my mood with me when I went to pick up the spawnage, after school, and I kinda 'sploded a tad.
So, I pick them up from after-care on Thursdays and Miss O usually doesn't want to leave. Understandable, as she likes to hang with her homies... I get it. But when she saw me, she crawled under the craft table and started yelling at me to leave. I laughed it off and then did a wacky pull-her-back-out-comically-by-her-legs move, that would usually get a chuckle out of her. Did she chuckle? Fuck no. She threw some papers at me. Fucking hilarious.
Then, one of the kids there tells me that Mr. Z spit on her on the playground. Mind you, she's kind of a freaky, skeleton-y albino kid that I've seen around before, so I took her salivary-saga with a grain of salt. I asked Mr. Z what the shit was up, and he started denying it, flipping his lid and yelling... AT ME?! So I've got both of these little spazmos screaming at my ass, and I'm standing there like a fucking jagoff.
We get out to the car and I kinda raised my voice, which I do, maybe, never, and told them that it was pretty shitty of them chew my ass out when they were the ones acting like dicks. It was a wonderful Crabbyfamily moment -- actually, I wish I had had my camera with me, cuz it would've been a phenomenal cover for this year's holiday card. A picture of me yelling and the two of them crying and written under it in gold leaf, "Crabby Holidays, Fuckers!"
I smoothed it all out by the time we got home and managed to salvage a moment or two of quality, happy-go-lucky time before bedtime, but I'm tellin' ya, this day definitely ripped me a new one... or seven. It's okay, though, 'cuz I get to do it all over again tomorrow!
Did I mention that I wore my snowpants in the basement today?
So, I pick them up from after-care on Thursdays and Miss O usually doesn't want to leave. Understandable, as she likes to hang with her homies... I get it. But when she saw me, she crawled under the craft table and started yelling at me to leave. I laughed it off and then did a wacky pull-her-back-out-comically-by-her-legs move, that would usually get a chuckle out of her. Did she chuckle? Fuck no. She threw some papers at me. Fucking hilarious.
Then, one of the kids there tells me that Mr. Z spit on her on the playground. Mind you, she's kind of a freaky, skeleton-y albino kid that I've seen around before, so I took her salivary-saga with a grain of salt. I asked Mr. Z what the shit was up, and he started denying it, flipping his lid and yelling... AT ME?! So I've got both of these little spazmos screaming at my ass, and I'm standing there like a fucking jagoff.
We get out to the car and I kinda raised my voice, which I do, maybe, never, and told them that it was pretty shitty of them chew my ass out when they were the ones acting like dicks. It was a wonderful Crabbyfamily moment -- actually, I wish I had had my camera with me, cuz it would've been a phenomenal cover for this year's holiday card. A picture of me yelling and the two of them crying and written under it in gold leaf, "Crabby Holidays, Fuckers!"
I smoothed it all out by the time we got home and managed to salvage a moment or two of quality, happy-go-lucky time before bedtime, but I'm tellin' ya, this day definitely ripped me a new one... or seven. It's okay, though, 'cuz I get to do it all over again tomorrow!
Did I mention that I wore my snowpants in the basement today?
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
It's Elementary, Dear Blogson...
Well, not that it's a big fucking surprise to anyone, but:
Funny... I don't remember saying things like "Holy fuckstain!" and "mother-cock-ass" until at least junior high. Eh, maybe late fourth grade.
Anywhich, over the last couple of weeks it's gotten really fucking FREEZING down here in the basement. It's gone from that brisk autumn chill to "Shit, I think my nipples just snapped the fuck off." So, I dug out the ol' piece-o-shit space-heater I used last year and fired its ass up. I guess it qualifies as a space heater -- it heats about two square feet of space in front of it. The thing's a glorified hair dryer, is what it is.
So I have that thing spitting its little lukewarm farts onto my feet, which are ensconced in the down slippers that I've had for so long that the bottoms are completely worn away, exposing my mysteriously bruised digits. Then I'm wearing, in ascending layer order, a long-sleeved shirt, a sweater and then a fleece sweatshirt. Oh, and pants. So, I can barely move with all this shit on, and my fingers are still turning purple and all my joints are aching. I'm telling ya, it's a motherfucking Charles Dickens story down here.
And so, today, the contractor guy, who has been putting in our new front door and fixing up some other shit, presented us the plan he drew up for finishing our basement. The Old Lady has been saying that we really need to finish it up down here, so I have a nice place to work, and the spawnage can have a play area, and blah, blah, right -- like that's ever going to fucking happen.
So, I'm paging through the drawings and all the shit he's planning on doing, and it looks fucking spectacular! It's all framed in and drywalled, there are outlets all over the place, 13 can lights in the finished ceiling, it's carpeted, painted, the staircase is all opened up, there's tons of room for recording and still plenty of room for the spawnage to fuck around. I'm starting to get all excited and shit, and then I turn the page for the quote...
25K.
Well shit, dude, Miss O could come up with a fucking awesome basement design if I gave her 25,000 dollars! The CHALLENGE is to do it for, like, 10! Show me something for 8,500 -- then I'll be fucking impressed. Holy carp, I was seriously expecting less than half that price. I would SO suck on "The Price is Right." Of course, the Old Lady still thinks it's possible -- "We can do it... we'll just save up all year and then by next winter we'll have enough."
A) I won't last until next winter, and 2) no we won't. So, I don't know. I'll get another quote, and maybe ask the contractor dude to dumb it down a little... maybe get rid of all the fancy lighting... and the nice carpet... and the walls...
I'm not holding my breath, though. In the meantime, I'm thinking about getting me a pair of these:
(The USB gloves, not the lady hands.)
Monday, November 26, 2007
Pho-toe Funnies...
Okay, James and Mike, you asked for it. To the others -- if you're the kind of people who get all ookie when you see other peoples' gnarly, stanky, hair-festooned digits, turn away now. Or at least focus on the Siberian tiger. You have been warned...
Now, I'm a little creeped out that it's two dudes who want to see my toe-porn, but I'm not going to judge. Metatarsal Mike, if your name is any indication, perhaps you can bestow upon me your diagnosis. Remember, there was no apparent trauma that preceded this bruising. (It was magical.)
Other than the toe, I don't have much to say tonight. Uh, it snowed a shitload today. Not that I got outside to see it... I noticed the flakes out my tiny basement porthole (not a euphemism), and decided against actually stepping out the door to experience it. I'll save my excitement for the shit that falls during December, January, February, March and a good chunk of April, thank you.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a good hour of plugging "symptom + bruised toe + no apparent cause + deadly?" into the WebMD search field before I hit the ol' sack (that was a euphemism, by the way... only one bruise at a time, please).
Now, I'm a little creeped out that it's two dudes who want to see my toe-porn, but I'm not going to judge. Metatarsal Mike, if your name is any indication, perhaps you can bestow upon me your diagnosis. Remember, there was no apparent trauma that preceded this bruising. (It was magical.)
Other than the toe, I don't have much to say tonight. Uh, it snowed a shitload today. Not that I got outside to see it... I noticed the flakes out my tiny basement porthole (not a euphemism), and decided against actually stepping out the door to experience it. I'll save my excitement for the shit that falls during December, January, February, March and a good chunk of April, thank you.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a good hour of plugging "symptom + bruised toe + no apparent cause + deadly?" into the WebMD search field before I hit the ol' sack (that was a euphemism, by the way... only one bruise at a time, please).
Sunday, November 25, 2007
This Little Piggie Don't Look Too Good...
Well, we're back. Pretty painless trip, actually. I think we made it home in under four hours, which fucking rocked. The spawnage did a great job and we managed to zip in and zip back out without any major deaths or casualties.
Actually, the only real casualty was my big toe. Fucking bizarre. I was just sitting there -- it happened while I was writing the last (riveting) post. All of a sudden, I had this pain in my big toe -- I look down and it's kinda purple. And it hurt like shit. And then, over the course of the next coupla hours, the whole fucking thing turns black and blue. What the shit?! I didn't bump it, or kick anything, or drop an anvil on it or anything. Spontaneous fucking bruisage.
Of course, my first thought was big-toe cancer. My brother (the doctuh) checked it out and he mumbled some shit about a varicosity and a ruptured something and tossed in an "I wouldn't worry about it," but that didn't help. I mean, whose toe just goes black and blue for no goddamn reason. The fucking thing looked like Jackie Gleason's foot in "Nothing in Common" -- right before they had to amputate it. How depressing was that movie, by the way? Miserable fucking piece of cinema. No wonder he died after filming it.
So, yeah, it's still kinda purple-y/mauve right now, but it's not swollen anymore. And it doesn't hurt, so I guess that's a plus. It fucking sucks getting old, though. What happened to all the young, concrete injuries, like a sprained ankle or the clap. You knew what was happening to you and you knew what salve or unguent to slap on it. Now, it's weird-ass shit, like blood vessels just bursting outta nowhere, and patches of hair growing in random, normally hairless places. What's next, am I gonna start pissing cerebral spinal fluid and shitting fire?!
What I'd give for a nice, predictable STD. Ah, youth.
Actually, the only real casualty was my big toe. Fucking bizarre. I was just sitting there -- it happened while I was writing the last (riveting) post. All of a sudden, I had this pain in my big toe -- I look down and it's kinda purple. And it hurt like shit. And then, over the course of the next coupla hours, the whole fucking thing turns black and blue. What the shit?! I didn't bump it, or kick anything, or drop an anvil on it or anything. Spontaneous fucking bruisage.
Of course, my first thought was big-toe cancer. My brother (the doctuh) checked it out and he mumbled some shit about a varicosity and a ruptured something and tossed in an "I wouldn't worry about it," but that didn't help. I mean, whose toe just goes black and blue for no goddamn reason. The fucking thing looked like Jackie Gleason's foot in "Nothing in Common" -- right before they had to amputate it. How depressing was that movie, by the way? Miserable fucking piece of cinema. No wonder he died after filming it.
So, yeah, it's still kinda purple-y/mauve right now, but it's not swollen anymore. And it doesn't hurt, so I guess that's a plus. It fucking sucks getting old, though. What happened to all the young, concrete injuries, like a sprained ankle or the clap. You knew what was happening to you and you knew what salve or unguent to slap on it. Now, it's weird-ass shit, like blood vessels just bursting outta nowhere, and patches of hair growing in random, normally hairless places. What's next, am I gonna start pissing cerebral spinal fluid and shitting fire?!
What I'd give for a nice, predictable STD. Ah, youth.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
I Yam What I Yam...
Quick check in from the home of Grammacrab & Grampacrab. Minimal lid-flippage by the spawnage thus far, save for a one hour chunk yesterday morning in which Mr. Z basically lost his shit in a craptacular fashion. I felt bad, at first, when we made him chill the fuck out in his room for a 1/2 hour or so, but then, last night, I saw something that made any disciplinary guilt just melt away.
As a matter of fact, I would like to make a recommendation to all parents who might occasionally have that feeling that "Gee, I feel bad 'cuz I kinda lost my temper," or "Man, I'm in kind of a shitty mood today and I'm not as patient with the spawnage as I should be."
Go see "Margot at the Wedding." I guarantee that after the end credits, you'll feel like the greatest fucking parent in the goddamn universe. Trust me... go see it. Actually, if I didn't think it would fuck them up for life, I'd make the spawnage go see it, too, just to show them how fucking good they really have it. Maybe it'll be a good rental when Mr. Z hits puberty. I'll make it a double-feature with "Squid and the Whale."
Uh oh, gotta run. I hear screaming downstairs and I can't tell if it's the good kind or the bad kind. Five bucks it's the bad kind.
Happy Turkey.
As a matter of fact, I would like to make a recommendation to all parents who might occasionally have that feeling that "Gee, I feel bad 'cuz I kinda lost my temper," or "Man, I'm in kind of a shitty mood today and I'm not as patient with the spawnage as I should be."
Go see "Margot at the Wedding." I guarantee that after the end credits, you'll feel like the greatest fucking parent in the goddamn universe. Trust me... go see it. Actually, if I didn't think it would fuck them up for life, I'd make the spawnage go see it, too, just to show them how fucking good they really have it. Maybe it'll be a good rental when Mr. Z hits puberty. I'll make it a double-feature with "Squid and the Whale."
Uh oh, gotta run. I hear screaming downstairs and I can't tell if it's the good kind or the bad kind. Five bucks it's the bad kind.
Happy Turkey.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Schmeckel Me This?
Private message to the person from the Allstate Insurance Company who, at 4:48 this afternoon, Googled "what does schmeckel mean?" and got my blog:
It means schvantz.
Glad I could help.
To everyone else, I'm going to bed early tonight, as we're loading up the car tomorrow and making the ill-advised trek to Chicago for Turducken Day. I'll try to post there, but it's kinda tricky -- my dad's computer is in the room where Miss O sleeps. I'll have to type quietly or face the wrath that is the rudely awakened spawnage.
Ha, I love how Blogger underlined "schmeckel" and "schvantz" with that "you-misspelled-this-word" underline thing and suggested "Fleishman" and "servants" instead. Well, at least they put their anti-semitic, racists agenda out there in the open. Bastards.
Anywhich, off to sleep. Maybe I'll have another stress dream like I did last night, where I was on the road with my old band, and when we showed up to the gig -- Surprise! I forgot my entire drum set.
Curse you, dream-me!
It means schvantz.
Glad I could help.
To everyone else, I'm going to bed early tonight, as we're loading up the car tomorrow and making the ill-advised trek to Chicago for Turducken Day. I'll try to post there, but it's kinda tricky -- my dad's computer is in the room where Miss O sleeps. I'll have to type quietly or face the wrath that is the rudely awakened spawnage.
Ha, I love how Blogger underlined "schmeckel" and "schvantz" with that "you-misspelled-this-word" underline thing and suggested "Fleishman" and "servants" instead. Well, at least they put their anti-semitic, racists agenda out there in the open. Bastards.
Anywhich, off to sleep. Maybe I'll have another stress dream like I did last night, where I was on the road with my old band, and when we showed up to the gig -- Surprise! I forgot my entire drum set.
Curse you, dream-me!
Sunday, November 18, 2007
I Come to Bury Caesarland, Not to Praise It...
Well, I no longer fear death -- for today I spent 2 1/2 hours at Caesarland. What's that? I'll be dead for all eternity, never to think or feel or love or breathe again? Bring it on! I've been to Caesarland!
I won't get into why I was the one lucky enough to escort Miss O to the party. I won't discuss the fact that I was one of only four parents who stayed to make sure their children weren't A) crippled while crawling around in code-defying, shit-caked play tunnels, 2) poisoned by bacteria-ridden cheese-and-salmonellaroni-pizzas, and/or III) molested by the myriad sex-offenders roaming the E.coli-stained carpets. I won't even get into the two tantrums thrown by Miss O, in front of all the other satan spawn, when she refused to fucking sit down for cake and ice cream.
Oh, and I definitely won't mention the Cops episode that broke out, mere feet from the fucking party, when police burst into the building and forcefully apprehended, handcuffed and carried off some skeev who was most likely one of the aforementioned sex offenders. I shit you not, by the way. The boyfriend of the birthday girl's mom, who looked like he was maybe, oh, 17 1/2, told me, after the altercation, "I thought that guy didn't look quite right. I seen 'im earlier when I was outside smokin', and he asked me for a light."
I'm just going to go upstairs, steal a coupla candy bars from the Miss O's halloween bag (that she fucking OWES me after today), take a long, hot shower to dislodge the silt of death that descended upon me in that Hellmouth, crawl into bed and pass out. And if I never wake up... well, at least I won't have to think about this day ever again.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
You're Not Making it Work...
You know what, fuck Project Runway. Sure, they've got their fancy fashion school degrees, and their pricey fabrics and their severe hair-dos, but at the end of the day, the turds they pinch out are just plain boring.
Tell you what -- I'll start getting really interested when they start cranking out stuff like this:
I challenge you, Tim Gunn, to offer up the Cher/Osmond purple spacejumpsuit challenge! And while I'm at it -- striking writers? I fully support your strike and hope you're able to milk a coupla nickels from the engorged teats of the networks, but promise me something. When you get back to work, try to write some shit like the above clip. Now THAT'S fucking ENTERTAINMENT, goddammit! I could watch that shit all fucking day! Hell, I'll bet you could pick up Cher and, like, 90 Osmonds for 75 bucks and a case of Strawberry Ensure.
Variety shows, baby! Just pair random people together: Dana Carvey and, fuck I don't know... Shakira. Done. Number one show. How 'bout Bonnie Hunt and... The White Stripes. Done. 'Nother hit. Edie McClurg and Wolfmother. Now THAT I'd watch. And I'm GIVING you these ideas for free. Take them and run, people!
You're welcome.
Tell you what -- I'll start getting really interested when they start cranking out stuff like this:
I challenge you, Tim Gunn, to offer up the Cher/Osmond purple spacejumpsuit challenge! And while I'm at it -- striking writers? I fully support your strike and hope you're able to milk a coupla nickels from the engorged teats of the networks, but promise me something. When you get back to work, try to write some shit like the above clip. Now THAT'S fucking ENTERTAINMENT, goddammit! I could watch that shit all fucking day! Hell, I'll bet you could pick up Cher and, like, 90 Osmonds for 75 bucks and a case of Strawberry Ensure.
Variety shows, baby! Just pair random people together: Dana Carvey and, fuck I don't know... Shakira. Done. Number one show. How 'bout Bonnie Hunt and... The White Stripes. Done. 'Nother hit. Edie McClurg and Wolfmother. Now THAT I'd watch. And I'm GIVING you these ideas for free. Take them and run, people!
You're welcome.
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