Dad Blogs Aggregator: June 2008

Thursday 26 June 2008

crabbydad - Cheese (b)Log...

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Cheese (b)Log...
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Well, tomorrow we leave for our first vacation in... uh... I think it's forever? It's nothing fancy, mind you -- first, we stop off in Chicago for my parents' 50th wedding anniversary party, and then it's off to tropical Lake Geneva, Wisconsin for... well, basically the same shit we do here, but in Wisconsin. We're meeting an old college chum of the Old Lady's who has spawnage the same ages as Mr. Z and Miss O, so it should be hunky-fucking-dory. For them, at least.

I don't know how much posting I'll be doing over the next week and a half, but I'm taking the ol' laptopper along, so we'll see if they have any fucking wi-fi in WI.

I do need a serious break, though. I'm just wiped the fuck out. I think I'm finally getting over my Boola-Boola, but I've got the energy level of a goddamn banana slug on 'ludes. I'm hoping the fresh dairy-air of the badger state will help air my pale, withered ass out. I am lactose-intolerant, however... well, either way, air and my ass will somehow be involved.

Hopefully I'll return with renewed vim and/or vigor and I'll be rarin' to walk amongst the living, once again. I'd like to rare... I haven't rared in quite some time. Rarely do I rare. That doesn't even seem like a word anymore... rare.... rare... eh, what is that?! Oh semantic satiation, you are a fickle mistress.

See, this is why I need a vacation. I'm pretty much clinically a moron at this point. Maybe a dolt. Or a simp. Probably more of a dunderhead, actually. I'd know what I was if I weren't such a clod.

I better stop before someone gets hurt. I'll check in as soon as I can. In the meantime, hey, enjoy your vacation from me.

Toodles.

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Wednesday 25 June 2008

crabbydad - It's Not Me... It's You....

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It's Not Me... It's You....
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It's Not Me... It's You....

Well, it's over. I'd be kidding myself if I said I didn't see this day coming. We were just too different -- different needs, different passions, different ideas of what exactly constitutes "cleanliness." It was just there, hanging over us for all these years... not a question of "if" it was going to end, but rather "when."

I'm leaving you, YMCA.

Don't get me wrong -- I loved the over-chlorinated pool, the scalding cauldron-like temperature of your bilge-y water, the roving hordes of locker room septuagenarian coots lathering their sagging ballsax in my general direction. The final straw, though, was that they've changed the summer lap times to 5 a.m. - 7:30 a.m. Yeah... THAT'S gonna fucking happen. The only things swimming in this house at that hour are my kidneys, engorged with a nightfull's-worth of crabby-piddle.

Plus, after Bob-the-guy-at-the-front-desk died, no one knows who the fuck I am over there, anymore, so the time is ripe for an exit.

Today, the Old Lady and I got a family membership at Court One, the fancy-schmancy tennis club that's literally a 5 minute walk from the Crabshack. It's not really fancy-schmancy, but compared to the Y, a club foot is fancy. And we didn't sign up for the tennis part. We're not tennis people. We're not even racquetball people. Nor ping-pong people. No, we're more like whacking-dirt-clods-with-a-stick people.

But we did get the membership that includes swimming (indoor AND outdoor pools), the bigfuckingass cardio room, the basketball courts, the steam room, the whirlpool, and the all the free classes we want, like kickboxing, yoga and other shit that I didn't read about in the booklet... jazzercise, maybe?

And it's basically the same price as the Y, so what the shit, ya know? I don't owe the Y any fucking loyalty. I mean, what am I doing at the Y.M.C.A. anyway? a) I'm not "young." 2) Okay, I am mannish. iii) I'm definitely not Christian. And D) I've never trusted "associations." So I'm not even their target demographic. They're probably happy to be fucking rid of me -- fucking godless heathen.

So now, I can just stroll on across the road and swim any goddamn time I want. Oh, and did I mention that this new place hands out free towels... as many as you want. Free! Towels!!! I'd be lucky to find a soiled wet-nap stuck to the bottom of my shoe, at the Y.

Yep, it's definitely over, Y. Time to move on. I'm cleaning out my locker. Aw, c'mon, don't start crying. You'll find someone new. Some young Christian man, straight outta college. Your individual membership is still very alluring to someone like that. Besides, I'm no good for you, clogging your shower drain with my hair, and making all the old ladies uncomfortable when I ask if I can "share their lane." And you were never into my kids. Sure, you had that half-assed climbing wall, but I could tell your heart just wasn't in it. You can barely take care of yourself, let alone the spawnage. No, it's best that I just go.

Let me just leave you with this... there's no need to feel down.
Just pick yourself off the ground.
Because you're in a new town
There's no need to be unhappy.

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Sunday 22 June 2008

crabbydad - 2:22 -- Time to Move On....

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2:22 -- Time to Move On....
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2:22 -- Time to Move On....

Last night the Old Lady basically gave me the Olympia Dukakis from "Moonstruck" treatment re: my current sickliness and anemic-attitude -- "Snap out of it!" I realized at that moment that, sure, I may feel like crap but I've basically been a shitball to live with, of late, and I'm not doing anyone any favors by bellyachin' all the fucking time.

So, I tried the only sure-fire way of snapping-out-of-it -- I recorded a song with the spawnage. And it worked. I give you "2:22," a musical tribute to Mr. Z and Miss O's favorite time of day. And, best of all, it's exactly one minute long. With a little luck, it will be voted "The Official Song of 2:22." Fingers crossed! Of course, you can do your part by playing it every day (and night) at 2:22. Enjoy.

2:22 by Mr. Z and Miss O

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Wednesday 18 June 2008

crabbydad - BuTt There's Nothing to Do...

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BuTt There's Nothing to Do...
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BuTt There's Nothing to Do...

Miss O started camp this week but, unfortunately, Mr. Z's camp doesn't start until next week, so he's been moping around the house, bored off his ying-yang and begging to play the goddamn Wii all day. Oh, and did I mention he's sick... again?! Woke me up at 4 a.m. this morning with a fever. I'm beginning to think our house is built out of that toxic mold shit... or maybe WE are. All I know is that, in some way, shape or form, there's a fungus amongus.

Anywhich, I'm not taking the easy way out and letting the boy diddle around with the Wii for half the day. Call me krazy, but I don't think it's healthy for him to virtually kick Meta Knight in the throat for 15 hours in a row. Nine hours, maybe. No, we're mixing things up with a little TV here, some reading time there, some drawing time, some practice-your-fucking-piano time, and even a half-hour a day of "Hey, let's go over some math problems and see what you remember!" That's his favorite.

He's spending most of his time drawing, though. He's like a boy possessed, bent over his notebook, huffin' marker fumes and whipping off ream after ream of wildly decorated dead tree skin. Some of it is most excellent -- new characters, stories and video game ideas. A lot of it, however, is this:

It's like a Tourette's Graphic Novel. Or a shitty version of Dr. Seuss. Dr. Deuce, maybe. It really is all about butts and shit for that boy, though. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm the first one to laugh at an errant turd sketch or blow snot out of my nose at the sweet sound of a well-timed fart, but Mr. Z is truly an excrement expert, a crap connoisseur... a fartuoso, if you will. I guarantee, that lad will grow up to either be a proctologist or.... I dunno... a scat singer?

I wonder where he gets this shit? Must be his mother.

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Tuesday 17 June 2008

crabbydad - Your Lips are Sealed...

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Your Lips are Sealed...
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Your Lips are Sealed...

So, here's what Blogger is teaching me -- if I take about 12 seconds to crap out a three word post, I get eight comments. If I actually sit down, reflect for a moment and then spend 3 to 5 minutes crapping out a somewhat introspective 403 word essay, I get zilch. Basically, you're reinforcing me to shut the fuck up. I can take a hint.

Last week, we started our CSA thing (Community Supported Agriculture) and I have to say, kudos to Burbanmom for turning us onto this thing -- it's farmfuckingtastic. Every Monday, we show up at the pavilion where they normally hold the local farmer's market, and we load up on our share of veggies and shit. (And it's real shit, too -- clinging to said veggies!) Here's a pic of last week's harvest:

Dug straight outta nature's asshole and into my mouth! It's fucking awesome. It really gives you that holier-than-thou feeling that gives you license to look at all those planet-killers in the Kroger produce section and say, "How DARE you, ma'am?! How DARE you!"

And it's tasty, to boot. Here's the dinner I made for the Crabbyfamily tonight with the spoils from today's harvest:

A little penne with cannellini beans, kale, Swiss chard, Parmesan and an assload of garlic. Mmmmm-mmm! Can't you just taste the moral superiority? I sure did, you imported-from-other-countries-vegetable-eating-bastards.

And speaking of bastards, I'm WAY over my word limit for tonight. This post is over.

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Monday 16 June 2008

crabbydad - Crabby Father's Day...

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Crabby Father's Day...
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Crabby Father's Day...

It's Father's Day, and as I sit here, a week of flu-funk beginning to slough off my gray and withered frame, the virus-veil slowly lifting from my sheet-white crabplexion, I salute not the fathers of the world but, rather, the mother of the crabbyworld. Happy Father's Day? Nay, today I say, Happy Old Lady's Day.

This woman, this SAINT, has basically nursed me back to health from her already spawn-crowded (yet still amazingly pert and shapely after all these years) teats and today, a full nine days after I initially succumbed to this diabolical indisposition, here I sit, on the road to wellness and engorged with her restorative, loving life-milk.

Figuratively, of course. She'd never let me near those things in the shape I've been, lately.

She has endured end-of-the-school-year functions, grocery shopping, movie-attending-with-the-spawnage, weekend birthday functions, breakfasts, lunches, and dinners, and countless other thankless parental obligations, all without the slightest help from yours truly, Johnny Deathbed.

PLUS, throughout it all, she's endured countless hours of my non-stop puling, bellyaching and disease-speculating. "I don't think it's the flu -- maybe it's appendicitis!" "Who has the flu for a fucking week?! This isn't the flu... it's definitely something more in the cancer family of ailments." "Wait... does this rash smell like Ebola to you?!"

I SO would've divorced me by now, it's not even funny.

And how is she being rewarded, this paragon of parenthood, this matriarchal marvel, this fetching Freda? Well, she wanted to go see the "Sex and the City" movie tonight, by herself, and so, that's what she did after dinner. And she just got back, and apparently some skeevy douchebag came up to her, in the completely empty theater, and asked if she minded if he sat down next to her. Apparently, he also said, "It's so loooonely in here." What the shit?! She looked at him and, in her best stern mommy voice, said, "Yes, I MIND!"

He high-tailed it to the other side of the theater and then apparently bolted before the movie was even halfway over. The shitball's lucky he got outta there with his fucking grape-sack still attached. You don't fuck with the Old Lady, especially when she's out solo for the first time in nine days.

So, there you have it. I dedicate this Father's Day to the Old Lady -- the best dad a whiny, sickly 43 year old baby could ever ask for.

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Tuesday 10 June 2008

MY DEAR

My dear, I am miss Angelina from Asmara , Eritrea , single and 19 years old and a christian by religion. After going through your information i copied out only your email address and i made up my mind to contact you for long term relationship, and for you to be my financial and investment manager because you are my choice of trust and i see nothing wrong with the choice that i have made in you.

After you reply this letter and agree for long term relationship and to be my financial and investment manager, I will email you all information concerning me and all the reason why i have chosen you to be my investment and financial manager.

I am waiting for your reply,

Miss Angela

with all my love

crabbydad - Will Someone Just Pull the Plug, Already?

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Will Someone Just Pull the Plug, Already?
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Will Someone Just Pull the Plug, Already?

After just about hocking the snot-hydrant/lung-oyster plague out of my feeble system, you know, the one that's been ripping me a coupla fresh new ones every day for weeks, I've been inexplicably stricken with the goddamn flu. What the shit, immune system?!!

Friday night my puny muscles started feeling all achy, and I just chalked it up to the crunches I've started doing at night, to rid my puny frame of the spare tire that suddenly morphed into existence at age 43 -- okay, it's more like one of those mini-wheel spare tires --something you might find in the trunk of a Hyundai Accent.

Anywhich, I woke up Saturday morning all dizzy and shit and I had a fever. And that was it -- down for the fucking count all weekend and today, and if this fever doesn't break soon, tomorrow, too. Guess it's official -- my parents bought the 42 year warranty and it officially expired this past March. Oh well -- it was a good run, ol' paint.

Oh, and have I mentioned that I haven't squeezed out a Lincoln in, like, two days?! I'm so goddamn dehydrated that my colon's like a toboggan run in the middle of August. I'm tellin' ya, the system is shutting down, and I'm not sure a reboot is in the cards.

And the poor Old Lady -- it was just her and the spawnage all fucking weekend as I lay comatose in my fever-induced funkage. Not really sure what all they did. I know that she did take them to see "Kung Fu Panda" in Lansing, yesterday, at the exact moment when a tornado was spotted... in Lansing. I guess everything turned out okay -- they came back. All I know is that once my Boola-Boola clears, I'm gonna be picking up a shitload of the slack. Which I will do readily, if'n I can punt this pandemic.

Fuck it, I'm going to sleep. Again. My bedsores are exhausted.

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Thursday 5 June 2008

crabbydad - Narc, Narc... Who's There?

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Narc, Narc... Who's There?
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Narc, Narc... Who's There?

Today I had to drag my buttock on over to the spawnages' school, during my lunch hour, to watch Mr. Z graduate from the D.A.R.E. program that they've apparently been indoctrinating him into all year. See, the end of the year is chock-full-o this kinda shit, day after day -- D.A.R.E. graduation, end-of-year parties, some outdoor classroom thing Miss O's doing, Mr. Z's actual graduation from 5th grade, ice-cream socials, rummage sales, talent shows, music programs, donate a kidney week, stool-collection day -- you know, myriad events that I have all the time in the goddamn world for because it's not like I have a fucking job to do, or anything.

So, I truck on over, video camera in hand, and watch the cops hand out their certificates and goodie-bags, as they remind all in attendance that one sip of Schlitz or a puff off an errant "marijuana-cigarette" will ruin their lives FOREVER and cause their blossoming bodies to break out in weeping chancres and fistulas, and then the terrorists will have won, so don't even fucking think about it, got it?!!!

And Mr. Z is still in his total law-and-order phase, so he's lapping this shit right up. He told the Old Lady and I that he's never going to have sex because then he'd catch AIDS and HIV (which he pronounced "hihv"). He also wants us to put the D.A.R.E. bumper sticker on our car -- you know, it's kinda difficult to explain to your child why you don't want an anti-drug plastered on your bumper. We ended up just saying, "Uh, we're just not bumper sticker people." We told him he could put it on his car, when he gets one -- right next to the NORML and the "Gas, Grass or Ass: No One Rides for Free" bumper stickers he'll be sportin' by then.

It's strange, though. Of course I don't want him to go nuts with the drugs (and certainly not until he's old enough to buy his own bong), but at the same time, there's something that creeped me out about that D.A.R.E. graduation thing. It just seemed kinda brown-shirt-y to me. Then again, I first started smoking pot when I was 13, and that's only a little over three years away for Mr. Z. So, you know, maybe striking a little fear into the lad at this point is a good thing. I dunno. Wish I had a fattie to light up so I could ponder all this shit a little deeper.

Anywhich, the boy made this incredible poster for the event and I thought I'd share a bit of it with you. He didn't win the poster contest -- the four that won were bullshit do-gooder numbers with fancy lettering, pretty colors and lots of trite "stay off drugs" messaging. Buncha fucking amateurs. Mr. Z did things his own, twisted way. Check its look:

The Smokes!

The Hooch!

The Doobage!

The Peer Pressure!

And finally, his analysis of the rampant deception found in today's cigarette advertising:

And he's coming up with that shit without smokin' a blunt. I guess the boy's on some kind of natural high. Though he may be copping a contact buzz from inadvertently huffin' his magic markers.

Hm. Where's that Sharpie?