Taking a Pill... The Hard Way...

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

Crabbydoc I'm Not...

The one thing I really hate about being a parent is the uncertainty of it all. Especially when the spawnage are sick. Colds I can handle pretty well but this flu shit leaves me a tightly-packed shitball of neuroses.

Example 1: Miss O wakes up this morning with a nastyish sounding cough. Other than that, though, she seems fine -- no fever, the cough is dry, spunkiness intact. Thing is, yesterday, Mr. Z had a little cough and he ended up coming home with a fever and the flu. So, do I send her to school and take the chance that she's going to take a turn for the worse, or do I keep her at home to stew in the viral hell-cloud being spewed willy-nilly by Mr. Z and the Old Lady?

Solution? I sent her to school. And I've been sitting here waiting for the call from school all fucking day. It's killing me.

Example B: Mr. Z has the full-on plague. 103 fever, hacking cough, flushed complexion, sleeping in the middle of the day -- the whole sack-o-shit. Last night, he woke up burning hot, and this after giving him two Advil. No effect. Now, I know it's a virus and fevers are part of that, but usually they respond to Advil. So I'm sitting there at three in the morning trying to decide whether or not to wake the fucking doctor up and ask him what the shit to do. I didn't call.

He was still alive this morning, so that's a plus. I called the doc this morning and they said to just keep monitoring him and make sure his temp doesn't hit 105 and to keep him well-hydrated. Okay, fine. He crashes on the couch for about an hour, out cold, then wakes up kinda babbling. Half coherent, half Nutty Professor. I walked him upstairs to his bed and he said...

MR. Z: Can you put the crush on the bed?

ME: The what?

MR. Z: The crush! (points to a fuzzy orange pillow of his... that he has NEVER called "the crush.")

ME: Oh, the pillow. Sure.

MR. Z: And can you pull up the Oprah?

ME: Huh?

MR. Z: The Oprah! What, are you deaf?

ME: [no idea what the fuck he's talking about] Uh... the comforter?

MR. Z: Duh!

So, clearly, his brain is melting and I'm sitting here with my thumb up my ass doing nothing about it. Holy shitfuck, this kinda shit kills me. And it doesn't help that the Old Lady is sick, too, so I have no reality check to turn to. She usually yangs my yin (though, sadly, not in a while...) so I don't freak the shit out when they're sick.

So here I sit, waiting for them to either get better or expire. Frankly, in my mind, it could go either way. The only sure thing is that if this stomach acid continues squirting into my colon at the rate it's currently a-squirtin', I'm going to be able to feed myself through gaping open hole where my belly button used to be.

The Score, Thus Far...

Old Lady: flu

Mr. Z: flu

Miss O: beginnings of a cough

Grover: licking his balls

Me: looking for ass that this week has ripped clean out

On Second Thought, DON'T Pass the Rolls....

Tonight, during dinner, Mr. Z was explaining how he successfully guessed the passwords of two of his friends (the passwords were "bobthebuilder" and "callofduty4").

I then chimed in with the nightly crabbydad nugget-o-trivia, asking if anyone knew what the most common password was. No one did, so I explained that it's "password."

Everyone busted a gut but Mr. Z laughed so hard that he literally blew a nickel-sized snot ball out of his nose that just happened to land, appropriately enough, on the green Incredible Hulk Popsicle he was eating. Miss O and I thought that that was fucking hilarious but the Old Lady, not being a champion of nosely excreta, went into a sort of convulsion-of-revulsion and nearly ralphed on the proceedings.

Grover, in turn, started barking his no-longer-functioning balls off and it turned into some sort of rip-snortin' snotenanny.

We finished dinner by coining some Sniglets that best describe the act of laughing so hard that you hork snot outta your schnoz...

We came up with "snocket," "blowger," "blowjectile" and "snart."

Feel free to add your own.

Some Pig(s)...

Well, I've tried to defend and advocate for as long as I could but after this morning, I've realized I must relent and admit that, indeed, men are fucking pigs. I throw up the fucking white flag. You were right, women, we're disgusting. It only took three dudes in the locker room, this morning, to finally convince me.

Dude #1: Johnny Ballsack. Not a new character to the locker room, mind you. Johnny struts around naked as a fucking jaybird, airin' out his mandibles for all to see. It's like he's a retiring hacky-sack salesman who's desperately trying to unload the last of his wares. Yes, Johnny, I see your nuts... they're super. And thanks for putting one leg up on the bench while you towel off your hair so I can see them dangle there, weighted down like a Hobbit's weathered coin pouch filled with magical elfen nuggets.

Dude #2: Danny Diarrhea. Every fucking day the dude walks into the locker room, drops his back on a bench, enters a stall, shuts the door and then blasts a fucking shitstorm into the defenseless bowl that sounds like Ernest Borgnine explopding in a sensory deprivation tank. I mean, what the fuck does this guy's diet consist of, Beanie Weenie casserole, poured over raw scrapple, smothered in nitro-glycerin gravy... stuffed inside a polska kielbasa? Seriously, his asshole must look like fucking Chernobyl. Ring of Fire?! This dude's probably got a goddamn Necklace of Fire.

Dude #3: Clippy McToenails. Okay, picture a portly 70-ish Pakistani man in a maroon tracksuit, sitting in the middle of the lockerroom clipping his motherfucking toenails... with no regard for hither and/or thither they might be landing. And the dude must have like 40 toes 'cuz he was a-clippin' when I got in the shower and was still a-clippin' after I was fully dressed and leaving the locker room. "Tink... tink... tink...." 70 year old toenail shards shooting all over the goddamn place like a fucking cartilaginous meteor shower. Fucking disgusting.

And who knows what the shit these fuckers are doing in the goddamn pool. Where's my Speedo haz-mat suit when I need it?

Bark-in' up the Family Tree

So, the vet offered to give the Grovernator a DNA test to see what the fuck kind of mongrel he is and we, being insufferable yuppie-fucks, said, "Bring it, Doc!"

Well, one crisp hundy and two weeks later, the results are in:



Just as we expected... he's a fucking mutt.

Thank you, science!

Puppy Got Back...

I haven't had the energy to post lately but I did want to jot down Mr. Z's new name for Grover...

Sir Licks-a-Lot

Carry on.

I Know That Bitch!

The Old Lady thinks she may have stumbled upon Grover's sister:

Sis?

She's also from Toledo and she looks pretty much exactly like the Grovester. Of course the first thing I said was, "We're not adopting another fucking dog!" But deep down, I thought it would be pretty fucking awesome if a) it actually is his sister and 2) they could hang out together.

But no fucking way.

So, I call upon one of you to adopt Sage and then swing on by for the big family reunion. If she's anything like her brother, she's energetic, fun-loving, loyal and loves to lick her balls. Ready... adopt.

Knock it Off!

Mr. Z got me in trouble at camp, today. He came home with this note:



Lessons learned?

1. When busted, Mr. Z will sell me out in a fucking heartbeat and lie about not knowing what a "peter" is to save his skinny ass.

B. Camp is a fuck of a lot wimpier nowadays than when I was a kid. Shit, in my day you'd be hard-pressed to find a camp song that DIDN'T mention a dick in it.

3. I guess I should postpone my plans to teach the "Diarrhea Song" to Miss O this weekend.

Better Call Encyclopedia Brown...

The Grovester shits about three times a day -- one or two "on the road," during his walks, and then another couple in the backyard. Until recently, it's been pretty easy to find the ones in the yard and bag 'em up. Usually, I'll see him all hunched over into that I'm-pinchin'-a-big'n, doggy question mark stance but sometimes I miss it and have to go a-huntin'.

In the past week, though, an assload of leaves have started falling into the yard -- brown, curly leaves. I think there must be a B.M. tree nearby 'cuz now everything looks like a fucking turd. Tonight, the Old Lady and I couldn't find his late-night leavings and we were trying to sniff the lil' smokies out.



That's when I came up with my idea for a dogshit-locating detective show. Each week, the private dick would show up at a different yard and try to hunt down the missing dumps.

Okay, it's a shitty idea, but it gave me an opportunity to come up with some half-assed, dogshit-related detective show puns, so indulge me.

Here are the potential show names, so far...

Turder She Wrote
The Rockford Piles (or as Mr. Z amended, The Rockfart Piles)
Barna-B.M. Jones
Poo-lice Story
Hill Street Poos
Homicide: Turd on the Street
Nancy Poo (Miss O came up with that one)

and my favorite, Magnum P.U., starring Tom Smellit.

Holy shit, I think the fumes have gotten to me. I need to wash my hands and get some sleep.

Just Call Me Hairy Howldini...

I think I know what my next job is gonna be... Dog Magician!



====UPDATE====

Alas, my delusions of animal magician stardom have already been coopted by the Japanese...

http://www.boingboing.net/2009/08/27/chimp-enjoys-magic-s.html

One Dog, No Cup...

I hit some sort of dog-owner milestone today.

I pulled a clump of shit-caked, long grass strands outta the dog's asshole after he hunched and strained all over the backyard for about five minutes trying to pinch the motherfucker off.

From this day forth, please greet me by shaking my left hand.

Right Back at Ya...

I've gotten my second comment from 家出, in as many days...

"最近様々なメディアで紹介されている家出掲示板では、全国各地のネットカフェ等を泊り歩いている家出少女のメッセージが多数書き込みされています。彼女たちはお金がないので掲示板で知り合った男性とすぐに遊びに行くようです。あなたも書き込みに返事を返してみませんか"

I ran it through an online Kanji translator and this is what I got...

"Net cafe in nationwide various places etc. stay and are written a lot of messages of the walking runaway girl in the leaving home bulletin board introduced with various media recently. It seems to go to play at once with the man who got acquainted on the bulletin board because they do not have money. Will you also return writing the answer?"

All I have to say is, Walking Runaway Girl -- do NOT got to play at once with the man who got acquainted on the bulletin board! Not only do he not have money, but I'm guessing he got acquainted on bulletin board with many walking runaway girls in nationwide various places. Please, do not return writing the answer... him. Stay away from leaving home bulletin board and various media.

Trust me, you'll thank me later.

Non-Dog post...

Conversation this morning, as I dropped Miss O off at camp:

ME: [after spraying her with bug spray] Okay, don't forget to put more on in the afternoon.

MISS O: Who are you calling a moron?!




My work is complete.

The Ghost Chicken and Mr. Grover...

The Grovernator hasn't been drinking as much water, lately, as we think he should -- especially since it has been so fucking hot and humid that my fucking Balzac has been hanging to the ground like a leatherette kilt. He seems to dig ice cubes but he's not lappin' up the agua fria very much.

So, the Old Lady found some dog forum on the ingernachts that suggested:

You can get your dog to drink more water by adding low sodium chicken broth to it to enhance the flavor.

Not a bad idea, actually. So we poured a little chicken water in there and this is what happened:




We're guessing he smelled the chicken and was just searching around for the goddamn hunka meat. It went on for about 10 minutes... until all the chicken squeezins were splashed all over the kitchen floor. The whole house smells like a fucking poultry bathhouse now.

The dude's either brilliant or he's a fucking dumbass... I can't tell. We'll see what happens tomorrow when I dip the end of his tail in some Clamato.

Bathtime at the Crabbshack...

Losing My Dognity...

5 Things I never thought I'd do before owning getting a dog:

A. Put a dog turd in the refrigerator.

2. Lather up a doggy dick.

3. Pay over $700 in two days for 2 pet hospital visits.

C. Pull a dingleberry off of a canine bung-hole.

5. Walk around the neighborhood with a purple bag of shit in my hand.

[Okay, I had done three of those before owning a dog, but they were done recreationally, not out of obligation.]

I Almost Stepped in a Poodle...

So, whatta you do when you have to take your dog out to shit and there's a fucking thunderstorm raging outside?

Fuck if I know, I'm asking you.

Well, I didn't want the Grovester to drop a steaming deuce in the house, so I grabbed the umbrella and out we went. There's was actually a momentary break in the downpour, so I figured we could get in a quick trot around the block, he could pinch off a dugan, and we could get back home without getting drenched.

Yeah, right.

We got about halfway around the block and the fucking sky opened up like god's sphincter and just doused us with his holy ass water. The umbrella was fucking worthless. I figured if I could just get the dog to the little strip of grass in front of the big fancy house where I always get him to dump, we'd be able to book home and not be completely douched.

So, just as we get there and Grover is squatting down to lay some puppy pipe, a fucking elephant-sized ball of white-hot, blinding lightning exploded, literally, like a sac hair away from my face. I swear to shit, I thought I was dead. I not only pissed my pants, I pissed Grover's pants, too.

The dog's asshole slammed shut like a snapping turtle on a pinkie toe and he fucking bolted down the street, dragging me behind him. We started racing toward home like the two of the Three Stooges being chased by a gorilla (I was Moe and Grover was... let's say Shemp). We got about halfway down the block and I had to stop -- I had a fucking cramp and I didn't care if I was gonna get zapped. I couldn't run anymore.

(And by the way, thanks for nothin', swimming. I think I'm in shape from all these fucking laps I do and then I run half a block and almost pass out. Stupid water.)

Anywhich, we finally made it home without getting kilted and we went inside. Of course, now Grover was soaked and he smelled like a pile of inside-out rectums wrapped in asparagus-pee-soaked wool,army-surplus blankets. But he wasn't dead, so that was a bonus.

And there you go -- we made it a whole week and the dog's still alive. Pretty excellent. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a dog to clean.

They can go in the washing machine, right?

What the Shit? Gland...

Here's something I learned today from the dogs.lovetoknow.com (I added a few of my thoughts while reading)...

_____________________________
For Die-Hard Do-It-Yourself Types

Many breeders and owners feel capable of expressing their dog's anal glands themselves. They're dicks. However, one should be prepared for the anal gland secretions to appear and smell quite disgusting. Seriously?! That surprises me. If you feel this is a task you are willing to perform, here are some basic directions. Please be advised, that you should only perform this procedure on your own dogs and never someone else's. Because the bible says, "Thou shalt not express thy neighbors' dog's ass sacs."

1. Prepare a warm moist washcloth.
1b. Shove moist washcloth up dog's "bung."
2. Locate your dog's anal glands by raising his tail and using your other hand to feel for two lumps at approximately five and seven o'clock on either side of his anal opening. Whatever you do, don't feel at "midnight." This is known as a "rusty dogbone."
3. Holding the cloth over his anal opening to prevent an unpleasant squirt (You mean like that Jonathan Lipnicki kid?), begin applying firm but gentle pressure to the sacs (which is what he said). This should cause some of the fluid to be expelled through the rectal opening, thereby emptying the glands. Some people call this "shitting." Wipe your dog's behind clean, and the job should be finished. As should be any shred of self-respect you had left.

If you notice blood or pus in your dog's anal gland secretions you should probably get yourself a hobby. It is likely a sign of infection, and you should contact your vet for an appointment and treatment. But it's a good idea to wash your hands before making the call.

_____________________________

A) Who knew dogs had fucking "anal glands."

2) Who knew said fucking anal glands might some day need "expressing."

iii) I ain't expressing no fucking anal glands.


We couldn't have just gotten some fish...

Dog Day of Summer Deux...

Actual conversations I had with Grover today...

ME: [grating Parmigiano Reggiano] This is CHEESE Grover. CHEEEEESE.

GROVER: ...

ME: Tell you what. If you can say "Cheese," you can have a hunk.

GROVER:...

ME: Nope. No cheese for you.

___________

ME: [6 AM, standing outside in my robe, waiting for Grover to pee...] Are you gonna go potty?

GROVER: [not going potty]

ME: C'mon! You wake me up at 6 AM and you're not gonna pee?! Just piss, okay?

GROVER: [pees about a thimble-ful of whizz]

ME: You win this round, my scruffy friend. But don't come running to me when you have a dried turd affixed to your ass hair.

GROVER: [sneeze]

____________

ME: [throwing frisbee in backyard] GO GET THE FRISBEE, GROVER!

GROVER: ... fuck off.