MR. Z (reading a magazine): What's vee-aggra?
ME: It's "viagra." And what are you reading?!
OLD LADY: It's a pill for men who can't get an erection.
MISS O: What's an erection?
MR. Z: It's so weird! It's when your thing gets hard and sticks out. I get one when I have to pee or when I see a cute girl.
MISS O: Hm.
ME: Hey, who needs more milk?!
Friday, May 15, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Fowl Play...
I'm pretty sure a dove tried to kill me tonight.
This morning, I went into the garage to get the paper and as I got ready to hit the door opener, I bird darted outta some invisible space/time continuum rip and started flapping in my stupid face. I got the door opened and it eventually flew the fuck out of there but not before infarcting my goddamn infarcter.
I figured the thing must've built a nest in there somewhere, so I looked around until I saw a bunch of twiggy looking shit on top of the garage door opener mechanism box thingy. I climbed up a ladder and not only did I find the nest, but I also found a lone egg perched atop it. So, I did the only humane thing to do and scooped up the nest/egg combo, walked to a tree in front of the house and wedged it amongst the twiggery.
Now I know you're not supposed to move a nest or touch an egg 'cuz then you'll give it human cooties and the bird will never touch it again, but what the shit -- I wasn't gonna leave it in there and risk getting my eyeballs pecked out by an overprotective mother hen... er, dove. Besides, I'm still so fucking pissed at those goddamn woodpeckers that ALL BIRDS are on my shit-list, so fuck them. Did I mention that our car was pancaked with dovey ass-batter? Well it was, so it's ON.
Cut to tonight, as I'm out back grilling up some veggies for dinner, when I hear a giant fucking crash echo through the crabby'hood. I thought someone's basketball backboard crashed to the ground or maybe Miss O found a live grenade in the street, so I walked around front and saw that the garage door had crashed down onto one of the plastic sleds that Mr. Z was fucking around with this afternoon, and the Old Lady was trying to extricate what was left of the sled from the door's death jaws. The cables from the pulley things on either side of the door had completely snapped and the door smashed down, hermetically sealing our garage in a Tutankhamenian sarCARphagus.
We tried to pull the door up but that fucking door weighs like a fuckillion pounds and we barely got it lifted a half-millimeter before my hyena popped out. Motherfucker! And, of course, both cars are IN the garage so we're basically fucked until we get the thing fixed.
So yeah, the dove did it, I'm convinced. I touched its stupid egg so it sabotaged our garage. Garagotaged! I'm giving the woodpecker the day off tomorrow and I'm going after that fucker. And if all goes as planned, the crabbyfamily's gonna be having some squab and eggs for dinner tomorrow night.
This morning, I went into the garage to get the paper and as I got ready to hit the door opener, I bird darted outta some invisible space/time continuum rip and started flapping in my stupid face. I got the door opened and it eventually flew the fuck out of there but not before infarcting my goddamn infarcter.
I figured the thing must've built a nest in there somewhere, so I looked around until I saw a bunch of twiggy looking shit on top of the garage door opener mechanism box thingy. I climbed up a ladder and not only did I find the nest, but I also found a lone egg perched atop it. So, I did the only humane thing to do and scooped up the nest/egg combo, walked to a tree in front of the house and wedged it amongst the twiggery.
Now I know you're not supposed to move a nest or touch an egg 'cuz then you'll give it human cooties and the bird will never touch it again, but what the shit -- I wasn't gonna leave it in there and risk getting my eyeballs pecked out by an overprotective mother hen... er, dove. Besides, I'm still so fucking pissed at those goddamn woodpeckers that ALL BIRDS are on my shit-list, so fuck them. Did I mention that our car was pancaked with dovey ass-batter? Well it was, so it's ON.
Cut to tonight, as I'm out back grilling up some veggies for dinner, when I hear a giant fucking crash echo through the crabby'hood. I thought someone's basketball backboard crashed to the ground or maybe Miss O found a live grenade in the street, so I walked around front and saw that the garage door had crashed down onto one of the plastic sleds that Mr. Z was fucking around with this afternoon, and the Old Lady was trying to extricate what was left of the sled from the door's death jaws. The cables from the pulley things on either side of the door had completely snapped and the door smashed down, hermetically sealing our garage in a Tutankhamenian sarCARphagus.
We tried to pull the door up but that fucking door weighs like a fuckillion pounds and we barely got it lifted a half-millimeter before my hyena popped out. Motherfucker! And, of course, both cars are IN the garage so we're basically fucked until we get the thing fixed.
So yeah, the dove did it, I'm convinced. I touched its stupid egg so it sabotaged our garage. Garagotaged! I'm giving the woodpecker the day off tomorrow and I'm going after that fucker. And if all goes as planned, the crabbyfamily's gonna be having some squab and eggs for dinner tomorrow night.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Song Fu 3: Electric Booga... lee?
It's that time again... time for me to beg you to vote for my song at the never-ending Song Fu contest:
Blah, blah, VOTE, blah, CRABBYDAD, blah, TURDS
Have I mentioned that I'm SO ready for this thing to be over. I've actually wanted to start posting here on a more regular basis, but this contest has sapped any stink of extra late-night energy right outta me.
Obviously, a lot has happened over the last month or three. Here are some of the highlights:
1. Tae Kwon Do + Miss O = medal
2. Spelling Bee + Mr. Z = trophy
3. tooth + looseness = Miss O losing first tooth ever
4. Me + wet burrito from The International Traveler's Club and Tuba Museum = cramps and explosive 'rrhea
5. basement + workers + all of our money = new basement
6. woodpecker's return + dad's bb gun = we'll see?
Let me know which one you want to hear about first and I'll get to it just as soon as I lose the Song Fu contest.
Blah, blah, VOTE, blah, CRABBYDAD, blah, TURDS
Have I mentioned that I'm SO ready for this thing to be over. I've actually wanted to start posting here on a more regular basis, but this contest has sapped any stink of extra late-night energy right outta me.
Obviously, a lot has happened over the last month or three. Here are some of the highlights:
1. Tae Kwon Do + Miss O = medal
2. Spelling Bee + Mr. Z = trophy
3. tooth + looseness = Miss O losing first tooth ever
4. Me + wet burrito from The International Traveler's Club and Tuba Museum = cramps and explosive 'rrhea
5. basement + workers + all of our money = new basement
6. woodpecker's return + dad's bb gun = we'll see?
Let me know which one you want to hear about first and I'll get to it just as soon as I lose the Song Fu contest.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Z-mail
This letter mysteriously appeared in the mailbox yesterday...
I knew something was fishy, as today is the day that my parents spawned me, but I played along with it.
MR. Z: Hmm... who's that letter from, Dad?
ME: I have NO idea. Someone named "Rich Dethlefsen" from Mason?! I'll bet it's just some sort of real estate thing or maybe a coupon to some cruddy store in Mason.
MR. Z: Yeah... are you gonna open it?!
ME: You know... I think I'll wait until tomorrow when I open my other birthday cards. That way it'll seem like I got more stuff.
I could tell that he was dying for me to open it but I managed to drag it out until this morning. Sure enough, upon opening the mysterious letter, I found this inside:
And of course an original Mr. Z poem:
Apparently, he told the Old Lady a couple of days ago that he wanted to "trick" me on my birthday by hiding his card in a "bill." A classic Mr. Z idea, by the way. He got the dude's name and address from the phone book. The funny thing is, yesterday after school he told me he wanted to run next door to see if his friend P could play. I told him that P wasn't back from school yet and he replied that he wanted to go ask the nanny if P could play once he did get home. I told him to just chill and wait a while. Now I realize that he wanted to stick his faux bill in the mailbox so it would be mixed in with the mail when I went to get it. Apparently, I was being inadvertently dickish. I'm good at that.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go write Rich Dethlefsen a thank-you note.
I knew something was fishy, as today is the day that my parents spawned me, but I played along with it.
MR. Z: Hmm... who's that letter from, Dad?
ME: I have NO idea. Someone named "Rich Dethlefsen" from Mason?! I'll bet it's just some sort of real estate thing or maybe a coupon to some cruddy store in Mason.
MR. Z: Yeah... are you gonna open it?!
ME: You know... I think I'll wait until tomorrow when I open my other birthday cards. That way it'll seem like I got more stuff.
I could tell that he was dying for me to open it but I managed to drag it out until this morning. Sure enough, upon opening the mysterious letter, I found this inside:
And of course an original Mr. Z poem:
Apparently, he told the Old Lady a couple of days ago that he wanted to "trick" me on my birthday by hiding his card in a "bill." A classic Mr. Z idea, by the way. He got the dude's name and address from the phone book. The funny thing is, yesterday after school he told me he wanted to run next door to see if his friend P could play. I told him that P wasn't back from school yet and he replied that he wanted to go ask the nanny if P could play once he did get home. I told him to just chill and wait a while. Now I realize that he wanted to stick his faux bill in the mailbox so it would be mixed in with the mail when I went to get it. Apparently, I was being inadvertently dickish. I'm good at that.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go write Rich Dethlefsen a thank-you note.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Pecker Trouble Redux... Again...
The woodpecker is back.
It's been waking our asses up at around 7:30 a.m., which isn't bad during the week but on the fucking weekend, I'm worthless unless I get to sleep in until at least 7:40. So I've been bolting outta bed, grabbing my wrist-rocket and a handful of BBs and running outside to try and pierce the tiny pecker's tiny pecker with my eagle-eye wristrocketmanship. The problem is, my eagle-eye is kinda like the dead, cloudy eyeball of that old Master dude from Kung Fu, so, needless to say, the bird has survived my "onslaught."
Today, I decided to at least cover up the largest of the pecker-holes (on the house, mind you) with some aluminum flashing that I keep around for just such an occasion. I did some fancy metal bending too, so it would kinda zig-zag over the lip of the siding and blend in a little better. I set up the ladder, grabbed some screws and a drill and prepared to climb up to seal my pecker-hole.
With the Old Lady holding the ladder, I climbed up to the top and then... I fucking froze there like a goddamn deer in headlights... that's been dipped in liquid nitrogen. Apparently, when one is on the verge of 44, one gets this crippling fear of heights and today, for some reason, my brain said, "Fuck it. I'm done. You better drill that fucker in with your honkin' schnoz, 'cuz I ain't letting your hands offa this goddamn ladder." Complete and utter High Anxiety.
So I finished piddling in my nappy, shuffled back down the ladder, threw the drill on the ground and told the Old Lady that if she wanted the hole plugged, she'd have to drill it in herself. (Which is, surprisingly, the first time I've ever had to tell her that in the 23 years that I've known her. Go figure.)
She climbed up four rungs of the ladder, paused, and then climbed back down. At least there was one person more chickenshit than I. So I did the only thing left to do. I walked inside, grabbed my old Xanax prescription that I still had from last year when I thought I was dying, popped 1/2 of one in my pill-hole and then waited for it to kick in.
Half an hour later, I bounded up the ladder, drilled five screws the fuck in, and slid down into a perfect 10 point landing. Have I mentioned how much I fucking love Xanax? I should have a hollow tooth with a pill in it at all times and then all I'd have to do is just bite down on it in times of stress. Note to self: call dentist in the morning... oh, and then drive to Canada to get shitloads more Xanax.
This would, of course, be a great story if it ended right there but, unfortunately, an hour later I was in my upstairs study droppin' a deuce when I heard that familiar tap-tap-ratatatatatafuckintappin' on the same wall, about a foot to the left. Motherfucker!
So I went outside and sprayed that bird-dick with the hose.
It's gonna be a long fucking spring.
It's been waking our asses up at around 7:30 a.m., which isn't bad during the week but on the fucking weekend, I'm worthless unless I get to sleep in until at least 7:40. So I've been bolting outta bed, grabbing my wrist-rocket and a handful of BBs and running outside to try and pierce the tiny pecker's tiny pecker with my eagle-eye wristrocketmanship. The problem is, my eagle-eye is kinda like the dead, cloudy eyeball of that old Master dude from Kung Fu, so, needless to say, the bird has survived my "onslaught."
Today, I decided to at least cover up the largest of the pecker-holes (on the house, mind you) with some aluminum flashing that I keep around for just such an occasion. I did some fancy metal bending too, so it would kinda zig-zag over the lip of the siding and blend in a little better. I set up the ladder, grabbed some screws and a drill and prepared to climb up to seal my pecker-hole.
With the Old Lady holding the ladder, I climbed up to the top and then... I fucking froze there like a goddamn deer in headlights... that's been dipped in liquid nitrogen. Apparently, when one is on the verge of 44, one gets this crippling fear of heights and today, for some reason, my brain said, "Fuck it. I'm done. You better drill that fucker in with your honkin' schnoz, 'cuz I ain't letting your hands offa this goddamn ladder." Complete and utter High Anxiety.
So I finished piddling in my nappy, shuffled back down the ladder, threw the drill on the ground and told the Old Lady that if she wanted the hole plugged, she'd have to drill it in herself. (Which is, surprisingly, the first time I've ever had to tell her that in the 23 years that I've known her. Go figure.)
She climbed up four rungs of the ladder, paused, and then climbed back down. At least there was one person more chickenshit than I. So I did the only thing left to do. I walked inside, grabbed my old Xanax prescription that I still had from last year when I thought I was dying, popped 1/2 of one in my pill-hole and then waited for it to kick in.
Half an hour later, I bounded up the ladder, drilled five screws the fuck in, and slid down into a perfect 10 point landing. Have I mentioned how much I fucking love Xanax? I should have a hollow tooth with a pill in it at all times and then all I'd have to do is just bite down on it in times of stress. Note to self: call dentist in the morning... oh, and then drive to Canada to get shitloads more Xanax.
This would, of course, be a great story if it ended right there but, unfortunately, an hour later I was in my upstairs study droppin' a deuce when I heard that familiar tap-tap-ratatatatatafuckintappin' on the same wall, about a foot to the left. Motherfucker!
So I went outside and sprayed that bird-dick with the hose.
It's gonna be a long fucking spring.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
There's no "U" in Wii....
So the Old Lady's gotten herself hooked on "Animal Crossing," one of the game we have for the Wii. It started during her Spring Break and now, almost every night after we put the spawnage to bed, she scurries downstairs and ties off, heats her Wii-mote over a lighter and shoots a little AC junk into her veins. Which is great for her -- she usually hates video games... I think the last one she played was... I don't know, Frogger?
The thing is, I'm usually the one who bolts downstairs after tuckin' in the spawnage. I've got my little routine -- stop off at the kitchen, grab a sleeve or two of Thin Mints and a glass of water, poke my bony ass points into my perma-indents in the couch and either play Animal Crossing myself, or play a rousing game of Bobby Buttons with the fucking remote. But now that the Old Lady's gone all Amy Wii-nehouse on me, she's fucked it all up.
So, I'll usually just sit there next to her, while she goes fishing or plants some fucking flowers, and make comments that, apparently, really piss her off. Things like, "You know, it'd be easier if you'd just go upstream a little and let it float down toward the fish," or "Are you almost done because watching you play this game is about to make my head fucking explode." Seriously... watching someone else fish in Animal Crossing is akin to watching water boil... which then proceeds to bubble the fuck over and splatters all over your face until strips of said face peel off like fruit rollups and you look like that dude in the bathroom in Poltergeist.
But we worked it all out... she's still playing and I stomped upstairs to complain about it in the blog I don't update anymore. See? Everybody's happy.
The thing is, I'm usually the one who bolts downstairs after tuckin' in the spawnage. I've got my little routine -- stop off at the kitchen, grab a sleeve or two of Thin Mints and a glass of water, poke my bony ass points into my perma-indents in the couch and either play Animal Crossing myself, or play a rousing game of Bobby Buttons with the fucking remote. But now that the Old Lady's gone all Amy Wii-nehouse on me, she's fucked it all up.
So, I'll usually just sit there next to her, while she goes fishing or plants some fucking flowers, and make comments that, apparently, really piss her off. Things like, "You know, it'd be easier if you'd just go upstream a little and let it float down toward the fish," or "Are you almost done because watching you play this game is about to make my head fucking explode." Seriously... watching someone else fish in Animal Crossing is akin to watching water boil... which then proceeds to bubble the fuck over and splatters all over your face until strips of said face peel off like fruit rollups and you look like that dude in the bathroom in Poltergeist.
But we worked it all out... she's still playing and I stomped upstairs to complain about it in the blog I don't update anymore. See? Everybody's happy.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Farty Arty...
I know I haven't posted in a while -- I've got no fucking time, goddammit. Someone's gotta invent some new kind of blog thing where A) I don't have to type, 2) I don't have to think, and C) I can do it while taking a shatner. Invent that and I'll post more often... deal?
Anywhich, I've got a coupla great drawings by the spawnages that I thought I'd share. The first one, by Miss O, is presented to you as a public service, really. She's apparently learning about ears in school, of late, and she has a couple of illustrated pointers for proper ear maintenance.
That's right -- always wash your ears until they sweat and don't put bass drum mallets all the way in your ear. You heard it here first. Get it?
And Mr. Z and I have finally added another episode to our ongoing graphic novella, "The Adventures of Cheez Man." This episode finds our fromage-y hero once again in the evil clutches of Angry Pickle, the kingly kosher dill-etante. Again, for those unfamiliar with this wildly successful series, Mr. Z and I alternate drawing panels until they're all filled in. There is no consultation between us while drawing... which is why it makes no fucking sense whatsoever. Enjoy...
Thought I'd make it all the way through without drawing a turd, huh? You don't know me very well at all, do you?
And speaking of turds -- there's your post. Another one pinched off, for your pleasure. Don't forget to flush when you're done reading.
Anywhich, I've got a coupla great drawings by the spawnages that I thought I'd share. The first one, by Miss O, is presented to you as a public service, really. She's apparently learning about ears in school, of late, and she has a couple of illustrated pointers for proper ear maintenance.
That's right -- always wash your ears until they sweat and don't put bass drum mallets all the way in your ear. You heard it here first. Get it?
And Mr. Z and I have finally added another episode to our ongoing graphic novella, "The Adventures of Cheez Man." This episode finds our fromage-y hero once again in the evil clutches of Angry Pickle, the kingly kosher dill-etante. Again, for those unfamiliar with this wildly successful series, Mr. Z and I alternate drawing panels until they're all filled in. There is no consultation between us while drawing... which is why it makes no fucking sense whatsoever. Enjoy...
Thought I'd make it all the way through without drawing a turd, huh? You don't know me very well at all, do you?
And speaking of turds -- there's your post. Another one pinched off, for your pleasure. Don't forget to flush when you're done reading.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Who Effed?!
[conversation in kitchen last night]
OLD LADY: So, I dropped an F-bomb in a meeting today.
MR. Z: YOU FARTED IN A MEETING?!?!
ME: [spraying hot tea outta my nostrils] No, while "dropping an f-bomb" sounds like it should be about farts, it actually means something else.
MR. Z: What is it?
OLD LADY: I said "fuck."
MR. Z: Whoa! Your students must think you're mean.
OLD LADY: No, I said "fuck" in a meeting with other professors.
ME: But you're right, Mr. Z, Mom's students do think she's mean.
I swear, every day our conversations become more and more like some sort of dysfunctional Bazooka Joe comic.
VOTE HERE FOR CRABBYDAD
OLD LADY: So, I dropped an F-bomb in a meeting today.
MR. Z: YOU FARTED IN A MEETING?!?!
ME: [spraying hot tea outta my nostrils] No, while "dropping an f-bomb" sounds like it should be about farts, it actually means something else.
MR. Z: What is it?
OLD LADY: I said "fuck."
MR. Z: Whoa! Your students must think you're mean.
OLD LADY: No, I said "fuck" in a meeting with other professors.
ME: But you're right, Mr. Z, Mom's students do think she's mean.
I swear, every day our conversations become more and more like some sort of dysfunctional Bazooka Joe comic.
VOTE HERE FOR CRABBYDAD
Monday, March 02, 2009
Challenge 2: Electric Fu-galoo
The voting has begun for Round Two of the Song Fu challenge:
VOTE HERE FOR CRABBYDAD
I'd implore you to vote for my song "Machine," but it seems pretty fucking futile at this point. Not to sound bitter or anything but... oh, wait, bitter is my thing. Okay, bitterly, I say that it's pretty fucking impossible to compete against people with 12,000 YouTube subscribers and/or websites shared by best-selling author siblings. I mean, maybe it's fair but at this point, regardless of whether my song is "the best" or whether it sucks shitballs, there's virtually no way for me to break into the number one or two spots because I don't have a virtual army of cyber-sheep hungrily devouring every musical turd I blast outta my fanny.
But hey, it's not about the winning, is it? It's about... no... I'm pretty sure it's about the winning. Oh well. If you like my song, maybe you could vote for it. Multiple times. From multiple different IP addresses.
See, this is why I don't like to compete in things. If this contest were a checker board, I'd have flipped it off the table weeks ago.
My name is crabbydad, and I am a spoil-sport.
VOTE HERE FOR CRABBYDAD
I'd implore you to vote for my song "Machine," but it seems pretty fucking futile at this point. Not to sound bitter or anything but... oh, wait, bitter is my thing. Okay, bitterly, I say that it's pretty fucking impossible to compete against people with 12,000 YouTube subscribers and/or websites shared by best-selling author siblings. I mean, maybe it's fair but at this point, regardless of whether my song is "the best" or whether it sucks shitballs, there's virtually no way for me to break into the number one or two spots because I don't have a virtual army of cyber-sheep hungrily devouring every musical turd I blast outta my fanny.
But hey, it's not about the winning, is it? It's about... no... I'm pretty sure it's about the winning. Oh well. If you like my song, maybe you could vote for it. Multiple times. From multiple different IP addresses.
See, this is why I don't like to compete in things. If this contest were a checker board, I'd have flipped it off the table weeks ago.
My name is crabbydad, and I am a spoil-sport.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Let's Take an Okay-tion...
I used to think the Old Lady and I were lazy, neglectful parents because we never really take the spawnage on fancy family vacations -- you know, Disneyworld, China, Frankenmuth... shit like that. I've come to realize, however, that we're actually geniuses. See, the spawnages' vacation expectations, their 'expacations', if you will, or maybe their vacexpections, if you won't, are now set SO FUCKING LOW, that anywhere we decide to take them is a goddamn travel extravaganzeleh.
Case in point -- for the five-day President's Day weekend (and feel free to re-acquaint yourself with my feelings about that) we're jetting off to beautiful Ann Arbor for one and one-half days and one (1) craptacular night at the Hawthorne Suites, sandwiched between frantic shelf-clearing visits to Whole Foods, Trader Joe's and H&M.
The spawnage, literally, could not be more excited. Mainly because "the Hawthorne" has a pool and a little area off the front desk that sells candy, where they're allowed to pick out ONE of WHATEVER THEY WANT!!!! Seriously, the thought of being able to ingest a "regular-sized" Butterfinger in one sitting completely blows Space Mountain or The Great Wall or the America's Only Nazi Village Theme Park, outta the fucking water.
Geniuses, I tell ya.
We're leaving bright and early tomorrow so we'll have plenty of time to properly peruse the seasoned nut aisle at Trader Joe's, load up on bottles of wildly over-priced vino at Whole Foods and, maybe if we're feeling generous, stop off at the Natural History Museum so the spawnage can look at a coupla shitty dioramas and pick up some local superviruses from pushing all the buttons.
Who knows... maybe if this trip goes well, we'll really push the envelope next time. Two and a half days and TWO nights in Flint!
Oh, and don't forget to vote for our song in the Masters of Song Fu #3:
Click here and vote for crabbydad or else you'll make Miss O cry!
Toodles!
Case in point -- for the five-day President's Day weekend (and feel free to re-acquaint yourself with my feelings about that) we're jetting off to beautiful Ann Arbor for one and one-half days and one (1) craptacular night at the Hawthorne Suites, sandwiched between frantic shelf-clearing visits to Whole Foods, Trader Joe's and H&M.
The spawnage, literally, could not be more excited. Mainly because "the Hawthorne" has a pool and a little area off the front desk that sells candy, where they're allowed to pick out ONE of WHATEVER THEY WANT!!!! Seriously, the thought of being able to ingest a "regular-sized" Butterfinger in one sitting completely blows Space Mountain or The Great Wall or the America's Only Nazi Village Theme Park, outta the fucking water.
Geniuses, I tell ya.
We're leaving bright and early tomorrow so we'll have plenty of time to properly peruse the seasoned nut aisle at Trader Joe's, load up on bottles of wildly over-priced vino at Whole Foods and, maybe if we're feeling generous, stop off at the Natural History Museum so the spawnage can look at a coupla shitty dioramas and pick up some local superviruses from pushing all the buttons.
Who knows... maybe if this trip goes well, we'll really push the envelope next time. Two and a half days and TWO nights in Flint!
Oh, and don't forget to vote for our song in the Masters of Song Fu #3:
Click here and vote for crabbydad or else you'll make Miss O cry!
Toodles!
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
New Post... BUT KEEP VOTING!
STICKY: Please vote for my (and Miss O's) song here:
Click this sentence with your mouse-y clicker!
As of 11:21 PM tonight, we're in second place. Not first, mind you, because I don't "do" first place. Or it doesn't "do" me. Nope... me and Bobby Brady... losers. Just like the goddamn ice cream eating contest -- Bobby was fucking chowing down on that bowl and then ol' Porky McSnarferson ends up getting the golden scoop.
Why can't I ever get that golden scoop.
It's the kids today with their loud ukulele music, that's why. No one has time for old men and their calypso songs. Oh well... maybe the crabbyfamily will have a trophy for me at breakfast tomorrow morning: "Honorable Mention Parent."
An old man can dream, can't he?
[a single tear drips from cheek, splashing on a nearby box of adult diapers]
End scene.
Click this sentence with your mouse-y clicker!
As of 11:21 PM tonight, we're in second place. Not first, mind you, because I don't "do" first place. Or it doesn't "do" me. Nope... me and Bobby Brady... losers. Just like the goddamn ice cream eating contest -- Bobby was fucking chowing down on that bowl and then ol' Porky McSnarferson ends up getting the golden scoop.
Why can't I ever get that golden scoop.
It's the kids today with their loud ukulele music, that's why. No one has time for old men and their calypso songs. Oh well... maybe the crabbyfamily will have a trophy for me at breakfast tomorrow morning: "Honorable Mention Parent."
An old man can dream, can't he?
[a single tear drips from cheek, splashing on a nearby box of adult diapers]
End scene.
VOTE EARLY, VOTE OFTEN!
Please vote for Crabbydad's song at Quickstop Entertainment's Song Fu contest:
Vote for Crabbydad
I've gotta make it to Round 2 -- it's the only thing that's gonna get me through this shitball of a winter alive. Seriously.
VOTE!
Oh, and if you can tell 900 or so friends to do the same, that would be most helpful. Thanks.
Vote for Crabbydad
I've gotta make it to Round 2 -- it's the only thing that's gonna get me through this shitball of a winter alive. Seriously.
VOTE!
Oh, and if you can tell 900 or so friends to do the same, that would be most helpful. Thanks.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Hangin' in the Showers...
Mr. Z and I had the following conversation regarding his post-swimming gym class, yesterday:
MR. Z: So, I was toweling off after taking a shower and all these guys started yelling at me to cover myself up.
ME: What do you mean? Weren't they taking showers, too?
MR. Z: Yeah, but they weren't taking off their bathing suits.
ME: And what... you were naked? What's the big deal?
MR. Z: I don't know. They kept their suits on and they were yelling, "Gross, Z, cover that up!"
ME: So what did you say to them?
MR. Z: I said, "What, you guys've never seen a WANG before?! Get used to it!!!"
ME: You know what? You couldn't have had a better comeback if you tried. That's awesome!
MR. Z: Those guys are so weird.
ME: Hey, maybe next time you can say, "Don't worry fellas, I've got a license to sell hotdogs."
THE OLD LADY: (from the other room) NO!! Don't say that!
ME: Yeah, your mom's right. Stick with the "never seen a wang" thing. That's probably your safer bet.
MR. Z: (laughing) Heh... hotdogs...
MR. Z: So, I was toweling off after taking a shower and all these guys started yelling at me to cover myself up.
ME: What do you mean? Weren't they taking showers, too?
MR. Z: Yeah, but they weren't taking off their bathing suits.
ME: And what... you were naked? What's the big deal?
MR. Z: I don't know. They kept their suits on and they were yelling, "Gross, Z, cover that up!"
ME: So what did you say to them?
MR. Z: I said, "What, you guys've never seen a WANG before?! Get used to it!!!"
ME: You know what? You couldn't have had a better comeback if you tried. That's awesome!
MR. Z: Those guys are so weird.
ME: Hey, maybe next time you can say, "Don't worry fellas, I've got a license to sell hotdogs."
THE OLD LADY: (from the other room) NO!! Don't say that!
ME: Yeah, your mom's right. Stick with the "never seen a wang" thing. That's probably your safer bet.
MR. Z: (laughing) Heh... hotdogs...
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
What the Fu?
Okay, I'm back... kinda. I entered this song contest thing here:
song contest thing
... and I've gotta write a fucking "happy" song by next Tuesday. The irony is not lost on me, thank you.
So yeah, I'm thinking of starting to post more... maybe. Plenty of shitballs have foisted themselves upon me since we last spoke, so I shouldn't have too much trouble coming up with topics. We'll see how it goes.
In the meantime, please enjoy this poem by Mr. Z that he wrote the other night while atop the crapper. He's a regular "Smell Silverstein."
song contest thing
... and I've gotta write a fucking "happy" song by next Tuesday. The irony is not lost on me, thank you.
So yeah, I'm thinking of starting to post more... maybe. Plenty of shitballs have foisted themselves upon me since we last spoke, so I shouldn't have too much trouble coming up with topics. We'll see how it goes.
In the meantime, please enjoy this poem by Mr. Z that he wrote the other night while atop the crapper. He's a regular "Smell Silverstein."
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Cellar?! I Hardly Knew... the cellar...
Okay, so I haven't really started the new year with a blog-writin' bangeroo, have I? Well, what the fuck do you want from me, goddammit -- I'm a slow ramper-upper. Plus, I've been emptying out the goddamn hellmouth of a basement we have because, yes, the builder fellas start work on the ol' basement redo THIS MONDAY. This mofo is going to be the Taj Mahal of basement rehabs... the Taj Mahellmouth. It's even gonna have walls and a floor and lights and outlets and fancy shit like that. Plus, it'll no longer be so fucking cold that when I descend into it's murky, radon-spore infested nether-regions my nipples'll no longer snap off like a coupla liquid-nitrogen dipped pencil erasers.
I'll be Mister Fancy Basement, I will. With intact nipples! Warm, intact nipples. Mmmmm... intact nipples.
Anywhich, that's also the reason my song-a-week idea has been kiboshed upon 'cuz I had to move all my recording wizardry into my temporary office in the soon-to-be-guestroom. I suppose I could try to record them up here but it'd definitely have some serious pigfuck potential. And I think it's way too early in the year for a pigfuck, don't you?
Oh, and did I mention that the Old Lady leaves tomorrow for a four day jaunt in New Orleans for a "conference," while I'm stuck here in fucking Antfartica with the spawnage? Nothing like a long weekend with a coupla cooped-up spawnages and temperatures so fucking frigid outside that it could freeze a... a... something that's really hot that normally wouldn't freeze very readily.
AND the Old Lady's taking the "good car" to the airport, so we're stuck with the car with the treadless tires that are balder than... I dunno, balder than Howie Mandel's ball-sack. (I'll tell ya, not blogging for awhile has definitely taken a toll on my simile production capabilities. Gotta work on that.)
So, we'll see... maybe this weekend will produce the second song-a-week offering. Or maybe the spawnage will upload a recording of themselves beating me to death with their Dino-Tubulars. Hard to tell.
Stay tuned...
I'll be Mister Fancy Basement, I will. With intact nipples! Warm, intact nipples. Mmmmm... intact nipples.
Anywhich, that's also the reason my song-a-week idea has been kiboshed upon 'cuz I had to move all my recording wizardry into my temporary office in the soon-to-be-guestroom. I suppose I could try to record them up here but it'd definitely have some serious pigfuck potential. And I think it's way too early in the year for a pigfuck, don't you?
Oh, and did I mention that the Old Lady leaves tomorrow for a four day jaunt in New Orleans for a "conference," while I'm stuck here in fucking Antfartica with the spawnage? Nothing like a long weekend with a coupla cooped-up spawnages and temperatures so fucking frigid outside that it could freeze a... a... something that's really hot that normally wouldn't freeze very readily.
AND the Old Lady's taking the "good car" to the airport, so we're stuck with the car with the treadless tires that are balder than... I dunno, balder than Howie Mandel's ball-sack. (I'll tell ya, not blogging for awhile has definitely taken a toll on my simile production capabilities. Gotta work on that.)
So, we'll see... maybe this weekend will produce the second song-a-week offering. Or maybe the spawnage will upload a recording of themselves beating me to death with their Dino-Tubulars. Hard to tell.
Stay tuned...
Monday, January 05, 2009
Song #1... 51 more to go...
All right, there's no fucking way I'm gonna crank out a song a week, but I did get the first one done over the weekend, so... one. I think it's a pretty fucking awesome tune with which to kick off the new year, I might add.
It's called "Dino Tubular" and it's a song the spawnage wrote about a mysterious gift they each received over the holidays. The lyrics are pretty self-explanatory, so I'll let them explain it. Oh, and if you like the song, please forward it to five friends. If I'm gonna be recording this shit, I want people to fucking hear it, ya know?
Ready, go.
Dino Tubular
by Mr. Z & Miss O
We got a package that felt like clothes
But what it was, nobody knows
We opened it up and what could it be?
Was it a toy, it was cylindar-y
Then we unrolled it and it had some writing
It said "Dino Tubular," was this for fighting?
Dino Tubular
We couldn't figure out what this thing was for
It had silhouettes of dinosaurs
We called our Gramma and then she shared
How to fill it up with lots and lots of air
And the we blew it up, and up, and up
Until it was the size of a Great Dane pup, yeah!
Dino Tubular
Then we whacked it, smacked, didn't treat it with care
We were bonking each other like two fightin' bears
It's like a light saber that's made of plastic
We hit each other till we got sorta spastic
From that day on Dino Tubular was fun
For mom and dad, zeke, olive and willa, everyone, yeah!
Dino Tubular
It's called "Dino Tubular" and it's a song the spawnage wrote about a mysterious gift they each received over the holidays. The lyrics are pretty self-explanatory, so I'll let them explain it. Oh, and if you like the song, please forward it to five friends. If I'm gonna be recording this shit, I want people to fucking hear it, ya know?
Ready, go.
Dino Tubular
by Mr. Z & Miss O
We got a package that felt like clothes
But what it was, nobody knows
We opened it up and what could it be?
Was it a toy, it was cylindar-y
Then we unrolled it and it had some writing
It said "Dino Tubular," was this for fighting?
Dino Tubular
We couldn't figure out what this thing was for
It had silhouettes of dinosaurs
We called our Gramma and then she shared
How to fill it up with lots and lots of air
And the we blew it up, and up, and up
Until it was the size of a Great Dane pup, yeah!
Dino Tubular
Then we whacked it, smacked, didn't treat it with care
We were bonking each other like two fightin' bears
It's like a light saber that's made of plastic
We hit each other till we got sorta spastic
From that day on Dino Tubular was fun
For mom and dad, zeke, olive and willa, everyone, yeah!
Dino Tubular
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Crabby New Year...
That note marked the START of our trip to Chicago, so you can imagine how it fucking went from there. Here's the rest of the hell-voyage:
- Icy fucking roads in western Michigan added a good two hours onto an already rectum-ripping drive. Came close to dying in Paw Paw.
- Miss O had the flu the entire trip -- fever, hacking cough, didn't eat anything, non-stop whine-a-palooza. Which was EXCELLENT.
- The Old Lady and I had to sleep on a futon that was apparently hewn from living rock. That's okay, though... didn't need my pelvis anyway.
- Left a day early to avoid hellish weather but managed to be permanently inscribed in my mom's shitlist for missing the "family" reunion. Thing is, everyone at the reunion was like a fifth cousin many times removed so what the shit was the big fucking deal?! But I'm pretty sure I'm now out of the will forever.
Oh, and I've been thinking about what to do with this blog for the new year. I think I've come up with the ultimate Bowflex-of-a-resolution idea that, in true Bowflexian style, I'll stick to for about a month and then start hanging my clothes on it. The idea?
Song-a-week.
Simple, right? Record and complete one song a week with the spawnage and post it here. I may not even make it through week one. I dunno. But it's something. I mean, if I can stick to this fucker, I'll have 52 songs by 2010. That's like a quadruple album. Makes "Double Live Gonzo" look like a fucking EP. Full Bluntal Nugity, my ass.
So, yeah, I'll give it a shot.
It'll never work.
See ya next year.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Cur-rap.
A word of advice for all those parentals out there loading up your Netflix queue with nostalgic films from your childhood that you're convinced your spawn will love because movies were fucking awesome back then and the shit they put out today can't hold a fucking candle to the masterpieces of your youth:
If you've got "Benji" in that queue, blast that fucker outta there, immediately.
Holy fuckstain, that is a steaming, worm-studded dog-turd of a film. And I use the word "film" only because watching it left a silty, shit-flavored film on my goddamn teeth. And no amount of brushing can scrub the B.M.-y aftertaste outta my kibble hole.
Here's the actual minute-by-minute breakdown of the movie:
For the first 19 hours, Benji trots down the sidewalk, stopping to see some moron kids, eat shit out of a trash can, visit with a cop in the park and get a bone from Uncle Joe from "Petticoat Junction." (No, Uncle Joe doesn't actually "bone" Benji, but that would've at least spiced this fucker up a bit.)
Then Benji does THE SAME EXACT SHIT AGAIN. Same. Exact. Thing. Kids, shit, cop, bone. It's like that fucking Teletubbies show. Lather, rinse, repeat. Enough to make me wanna cave my skull in with the remote.
Then, the guy who played Eb, from "Green Acres", and this guy who was on four episodes of "Fantasy Island" talk about goddamn PUDDING CUPS for four fucking hours. I shit you not. Pudding!
Cups!
Oh, and in what seemed like the last 30 seconds of the movie, some kids get kidnapped, Benji saves them and they get to keep him.
And after that, I kicked in the TV screen.
The End.
I sure as fuck hope that writer/director Joe Camp was spayed and/or neutered after the first screening of this shitball. God DAMN what a piece of turd.
Can't wait to see the next movie in our queue: "Benji the Hunted."
If you've got "Benji" in that queue, blast that fucker outta there, immediately.
Holy fuckstain, that is a steaming, worm-studded dog-turd of a film. And I use the word "film" only because watching it left a silty, shit-flavored film on my goddamn teeth. And no amount of brushing can scrub the B.M.-y aftertaste outta my kibble hole.
Here's the actual minute-by-minute breakdown of the movie:
For the first 19 hours, Benji trots down the sidewalk, stopping to see some moron kids, eat shit out of a trash can, visit with a cop in the park and get a bone from Uncle Joe from "Petticoat Junction." (No, Uncle Joe doesn't actually "bone" Benji, but that would've at least spiced this fucker up a bit.)
Then Benji does THE SAME EXACT SHIT AGAIN. Same. Exact. Thing. Kids, shit, cop, bone. It's like that fucking Teletubbies show. Lather, rinse, repeat. Enough to make me wanna cave my skull in with the remote.
Then, the guy who played Eb, from "Green Acres", and this guy who was on four episodes of "Fantasy Island" talk about goddamn PUDDING CUPS for four fucking hours. I shit you not. Pudding!
Cups!
Oh, and in what seemed like the last 30 seconds of the movie, some kids get kidnapped, Benji saves them and they get to keep him.
And after that, I kicked in the TV screen.
The End.
I sure as fuck hope that writer/director Joe Camp was spayed and/or neutered after the first screening of this shitball. God DAMN what a piece of turd.
Can't wait to see the next movie in our queue: "Benji the Hunted."
Monday, December 01, 2008
Road Drip!
Spent Tanksgibbon with the spawnage at my folks' house in suburban Chicago. You'll notice no mention the Old Lady in that sentence -- no, she decided to stay home to "get some work done." Something about "making sure she gets tenure" so she doesn't "lose her job" and force us to "live in my parents' basement" and "only eat Ramen."
So, I'm not gonna go over all the myriad ways in which the trip was a pain in the fucking shitterhole, and how I didn't get any sleep and how the spawnage argued constantly and how my parents keep their house so fucking hot and dry that my skin turned all Slim Jimmy and my lips are so fucking chapped that they resemble what I would imagine William Hickey's anus used to look like.
I will, however, tell you about how I almost pissed my pants. See, I drink a lot of coffee in the morning. I don't necessarily LIKE to... I have to. This, combined with the fact that my bladder can apparently hold only one fluid ounce of liquid at any given time, makes close proximity to a bathroom pretty fucking crucial. So four hour car trips kinda blow donkey balls.
So, I peed before we left, and then I peed again at the BP station about five minutes later, just to make sure I was gonna be golden for at least an hour or so. Ha, golden. Get it? We hit the highway and things were pretty good... that is, until we hit the first toll on the Skyway that was backed up for about a mile. As we sat there, parked, I could feel my ureters filling up like a coupla giant, taut balloon animals, if balloon animals were filled with steaming, water buffalo piss. The spawnage were going nuts in the back seat, asking me for snacks and telling me to change the DVD and I really started to feel like I was gonna piss my fucking nappies.
Traffic finally got moving after the toll booth, but there's really nowhere to exit on the Skyway and I started thinking about pulling over onto the shoulder and draining it right then and there. But it was starting to snow pretty fucking hard and it was getting pretty slick and, frankly, sliding into a ditch is bad enough without pee-soaked trousers, so that was a no-go.
I decided to tough it out and get to the 94. I floored it and we started hydroplaning eastward. While the pain in my schvantz-sphincter was becoming unbearable, I was fairly confident it would remain pinched-shut for at least another 20 minutes, or so. And, to make things even more exciting, Miss O was now screaming that she had to pee, too. I plowed forward, the tinkle practically gurgling in the back of my throat by now.
Finally, just as a fine, misty pre-pee was starting to dribble outta my dingus, I spied the first exit with a gas station sign. It was in a town called Chesterton, and we were barely gonna make it. Now remember, the Old Lady wasn't with us, so I had to take Mr. Z and Miss O into the men's room with me, which is always a fucking joy. We skidded off the highway, slammed into the parking space, ran into Speedway, threw open the men's room door and there we stood, face to face, with the nastiest fucking shit-sprayed, hellmouth I've ever seen. Seriously, it was spattered with so much shit and random effluvia that is looked like a giant, 3-D Jackson Poo-llock painting. And the smell? Well, I'm imagining it's what walking into Dom DeLuise's transverse colon might smell like. But worse.
But it didn't matter, 'cuz we had work to do. I yelled to Mr. Z, "Go pee but DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!!!!" Then I ran Miss O into the single stall that HAD NO DOOR ON IT, and stared into the hellmouth portal. It was truly a work o' fart. The outside of the bowl was caked in B.M. and the seat had about 3 gallons of piss puddled upon it. Miss O shouted, "I'M NOT SITTING ON THAT!!!!" I agreed. So I pulled out an entire roll's worth of toilet paper, wrapped it around my hand like a fucking boxing glove and wiped that fucker down. Then I piled another entire roll's worth on top of the seat and had her sit upon it. She ended up sitting about two feet above the rim with all the padding underneath her.
Now, if you've been following closely, you'll realize that I still haven't peed yet. My eyes were bulging outta my urine-filled head at this point and I danced around, waiting for Miss O to finish. She finally did, I told her to run to the middle of the room and stand next to her brother and to "NOT TOUCH A FUCKING THING!!!!" as I bolted to the urinal and unleashed a raging torrent of steaming bladder juice that would've had a fucking elephant cowering in fear. Steam poured outta that urinal like a fucking bathhouse.
Twenty minutes later, I was done.
After we scrubbed every nook and/or cranny of our bodies with paint thinner, shaved our heads and burned our clothing, we were ready to get back in the car and continue the trip home.
So, despite your crap-spackled nastiness, Chesterton, the crabbyfamily thanks you from the bottom of our farts.
Or, as Mr. Z likes to call you, "Ches-turd-ton."
[SFX: toilet flush]
So, I'm not gonna go over all the myriad ways in which the trip was a pain in the fucking shitterhole, and how I didn't get any sleep and how the spawnage argued constantly and how my parents keep their house so fucking hot and dry that my skin turned all Slim Jimmy and my lips are so fucking chapped that they resemble what I would imagine William Hickey's anus used to look like.
I will, however, tell you about how I almost pissed my pants. See, I drink a lot of coffee in the morning. I don't necessarily LIKE to... I have to. This, combined with the fact that my bladder can apparently hold only one fluid ounce of liquid at any given time, makes close proximity to a bathroom pretty fucking crucial. So four hour car trips kinda blow donkey balls.
So, I peed before we left, and then I peed again at the BP station about five minutes later, just to make sure I was gonna be golden for at least an hour or so. Ha, golden. Get it? We hit the highway and things were pretty good... that is, until we hit the first toll on the Skyway that was backed up for about a mile. As we sat there, parked, I could feel my ureters filling up like a coupla giant, taut balloon animals, if balloon animals were filled with steaming, water buffalo piss. The spawnage were going nuts in the back seat, asking me for snacks and telling me to change the DVD and I really started to feel like I was gonna piss my fucking nappies.
Traffic finally got moving after the toll booth, but there's really nowhere to exit on the Skyway and I started thinking about pulling over onto the shoulder and draining it right then and there. But it was starting to snow pretty fucking hard and it was getting pretty slick and, frankly, sliding into a ditch is bad enough without pee-soaked trousers, so that was a no-go.
I decided to tough it out and get to the 94. I floored it and we started hydroplaning eastward. While the pain in my schvantz-sphincter was becoming unbearable, I was fairly confident it would remain pinched-shut for at least another 20 minutes, or so. And, to make things even more exciting, Miss O was now screaming that she had to pee, too. I plowed forward, the tinkle practically gurgling in the back of my throat by now.
Finally, just as a fine, misty pre-pee was starting to dribble outta my dingus, I spied the first exit with a gas station sign. It was in a town called Chesterton, and we were barely gonna make it. Now remember, the Old Lady wasn't with us, so I had to take Mr. Z and Miss O into the men's room with me, which is always a fucking joy. We skidded off the highway, slammed into the parking space, ran into Speedway, threw open the men's room door and there we stood, face to face, with the nastiest fucking shit-sprayed, hellmouth I've ever seen. Seriously, it was spattered with so much shit and random effluvia that is looked like a giant, 3-D Jackson Poo-llock painting. And the smell? Well, I'm imagining it's what walking into Dom DeLuise's transverse colon might smell like. But worse.
But it didn't matter, 'cuz we had work to do. I yelled to Mr. Z, "Go pee but DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!!!!" Then I ran Miss O into the single stall that HAD NO DOOR ON IT, and stared into the hellmouth portal. It was truly a work o' fart. The outside of the bowl was caked in B.M. and the seat had about 3 gallons of piss puddled upon it. Miss O shouted, "I'M NOT SITTING ON THAT!!!!" I agreed. So I pulled out an entire roll's worth of toilet paper, wrapped it around my hand like a fucking boxing glove and wiped that fucker down. Then I piled another entire roll's worth on top of the seat and had her sit upon it. She ended up sitting about two feet above the rim with all the padding underneath her.
Now, if you've been following closely, you'll realize that I still haven't peed yet. My eyes were bulging outta my urine-filled head at this point and I danced around, waiting for Miss O to finish. She finally did, I told her to run to the middle of the room and stand next to her brother and to "NOT TOUCH A FUCKING THING!!!!" as I bolted to the urinal and unleashed a raging torrent of steaming bladder juice that would've had a fucking elephant cowering in fear. Steam poured outta that urinal like a fucking bathhouse.
Twenty minutes later, I was done.
After we scrubbed every nook and/or cranny of our bodies with paint thinner, shaved our heads and burned our clothing, we were ready to get back in the car and continue the trip home.
So, despite your crap-spackled nastiness, Chesterton, the crabbyfamily thanks you from the bottom of our farts.
Or, as Mr. Z likes to call you, "Ches-turd-ton."
[SFX: toilet flush]
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
It's Like Taking A Bite Outta Uranus!
Holy fuckstain, is 28 bucks too much to spend on a chance to take a choco-rubbery chomp out of my childhood?!
I'm leaning toward "it ain't."
I'm leaning toward "it ain't."
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