Mmmm, delish!

So, during the course of searching for a bastardized crab rangoon recipe (to include shrimp, or something along those lines), I came across this recipe, and I'm going to make it right this very minute! Very excited. Went to Wally World this afternoon to buy the neighbor boy a present (he and his folks were supposed to come over and surreptitiously blew us off, which really pisses me off and over which I'm still rather stewing....steam / steam) and I threw a sleeve of won ton wrappers into the basket (together with the Star Wars(tm) Lego (tm)* sets and the tackle box thing I figured the neighborboy would like - given that all young kids seem to go ape shiat over filling random containers with random shiat, removing said shiat and repeating endlessly). I was fixin' to make something like crab rangoon (either using shrimp or relying on the crab cake mixture I have left over from Xmas Eve). So the recipe. Looks DELISH, and I'm adding the foodie blogger to my WIN list. Said foodie is in good company, methinks.

More Xmas Shizzle

The elder, 'The Little General' as I lovingly refer to her, decorating the tree. And by decorating, I mean taking ornaments that I had already used to decorate a window and using them for her own devices.






Here's the younger demon vexing Mr. Absurd.







Here's how I feel about the 2.75 days of snow we received last weekend...




Christmas Eve 2008. Note the death grip on the wee demon. Also note the smile on my face. I cracked the wine at about 11am, and by this time, I was pretty steeped in holiday cheer of the long-chain carbon type. Being that I'm not a chemistry major, I'm uncertain that my attempt at foofing up "alcohol" was anywhere close to correct.

Merry Fuckin' Christmas, biatches.

Ah, delicious! It's christmas - so in my house, that means:

* I'm opening the booze at like 11am. I fuckin hate christmas. However, I hate this one far less than those that have come before.

* both of my parents are here this lovely Xmas eve - now, keep in mind they got divorced when I was 11, and now....I'm wicked fucken old, and it saves me a shitload of money on therapy that they can come up, hang out, get along and chill with me. I love those old bastards.

* we're watching our first round of "A Christmas Carol" - the lesser one (1938) with Sir Reginald Owen. Up on deck is the quintessential Christmas Carol with Alastair Simm (1951) that I paid $21.95 to have delivered overnight just so my dad could revel in it's awesomeness. WTF - totally worth it - he won't be around forever. And when he's not, I'll dissolve into a hysterial ball of snot and tears. yeah, I said it.

* Did the quick and dirty shopping trip this morning, and made crab cakes, celeriac remoulade, stuffed mushrooms (that haven't been touched yet, cuz we're jrunk and full), artichoke dip, shrimp, suasage rolls (that also haven't been touched yet - ibid).

* Kids kinda BLOW - ungrateful asshats. Yeah, I SAID IT.

*I love you, my peeps - those of you I commune with / travel with / live with / chat with / identify with - I love yas. You each bring something so special and unique to my life, and I'm blessed in a wicked ghey way to know you. I appreciate you for who you are, I applaud your moxie (because that's apt. APT!) and I'm utterly fortunate to have made your acqauaintance.

* Now they're opening presents and because of the shiat assed weather and my retarded work-life schedule, I haven't wrapped my parents' presents, nor have I wrapped two of my children's presents. Sux 2 B U, people.

* My wee goober face, Natalie, is the goddamned cutest thing on two legs. She's wearing the older one's shoes and screwing around with ribbons and wrapping paper (which makes her awesome in my eyes) as opposed to the older one, who is busying herself being the EPITOMY of ungrateful bizznatch, and for which I'm resenting her. Yes, I know my english sucks - John - I'm sorry, but I've been drinking since about noon, and frankly, I'm filled with piss and vinegar, so I fail at literary. Fortunately, I suspect you will still commiserate with me, and will share alcoholic libations with me within the confines of our Shiny Metal Box (tm).

Happy Christmas and Haunukkah and shit, bitches. I send you my love / props / hugs / all that ghey shiat.

Mmmmm I also ate oysters tonight. YUM!

My parents are now bitching at me, so I fear I must close here. Frickin' parents. Hug em if you got em. They don't live forever.

Road Warrior: A life!

Yeah Baby! Quoted in the Globe again, for my tenure as one of the proud, the brave, the semi-sane...

http://www.boston.com/news/local/massachusetts/articles/2008/12/21/down_in_the_dumps_on_the_downeaster/

I love the reporter dude, Noah. He always picks my best material for the articles!! Props, Noah! :)

I'm available for parties, lectures, appearances, etc. Just holla!

Don't touch the planer!!

In every high school in the universe, there resides a shop teacher upon whose hands there are(n't) missing digits. So it's funny when they growl at you "DON'T TOUCH THE PLANER!!!".

Yeah, no kidding dude. You have 3 fingers. This is me, not touching the planer!

In other news, I'm once again home bound, as the hAmTrakk once again fails the rails. Sweet Jesus on the cross is this making life....annoying. So, now I'm watching the sanitized version of the Sopranos with the 2 year old and, as I hear gunshots and screaming, I am thinking this isn't a wise choice. (Yeah, yeah, you're so cool - you're thinking "well NO SHIAT SHERLOCK!". I know. I didn't put it on. The stay-at-home Mr. Absurd did. Whatever - a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

Should I go make cookies with the children? (I cheated, and bought the "slice-n-bake" kind, which is normally wholly and completely against my nature).

The 2-year old is tiring of her high-chair, and wants to "go go!", so I suppose I should attend to her. All the while, not touching the planer.

Time to make some American Chop Suey and cookies, biatches!

Ice Ice Baby!

We're gonna rawk down to Electric Avenue. And then we'll take it higher.

Lost power Thursday night at 10pm, got it back on yesterday afternoon some time, and, depending on where you were, you may have heard me outside on the deck howling like a damn crazed monkey with joy.

Depending on who you are, you also probably heard me rambling on and on in your voice mail - sorry 'bout that, heh heh. What can I say, other than that's how we roll here. When there's some sort of natural disaster (ok, not quite a disaster, but losing power tends to blow, as do blizzards n stuff), my peeps and I band together and help each other out. So, we had lots of fun, lots of people staying over (thank god for the wood stove, the generator, and the water we gathered from the river) and kind of hunkered down expecting to be without power for longer than we were. So, I pretty much called all the people I know in the area to see if anyone needed anything we had and probably sounded like a raving lunatic.

Anyway, here's some pix of the fun!

Blog about Blagojevich.

That's what I have to say about that. What a COLOSSAL ASS MUNCH. Hey BlagoBitch: DIAF, EABOD, and I hope you rot, rot, ROTSKY in some circle of Dante-esque hell for being such a MASSIVE LOSER.

You suck, sir. And p.s., you have the UGLIEST HAIR EVAR.

Ultimate Tool.

Rick Wagoner. The GM guy. ULTIMATE TOOL/

DIAF, GM.

Long Live Ford!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

NEWSFLASH!

This just in.

In case you missed the first 9,586,782 memos, Rush Limbaugh is a bloated sack of shit. Film at 11.

Jesus H. Christ. Are you watching Baba Wawa (cuz you were doing other things and left the tee vee on and whatevs)? GOD he is Such. A. Goddamned. Ass. Hat. It makes me want to f*cking STRANGLE him.

Yuck. Dickhead. For all my Hindus in the house, can I get an AMEN when I surmise that Rush is coming back as one or more of the following, next time around?

(Shit Rush Lamebag might return as, in the afterlife):
-toe jam
-traffic
-petrochemical pollutant
-chicken sponge after three days in the trash (oohhh, THAT SMELL)
-storm clouds
-auto-damaging hail
-yeast infection
-diverticulitis
-cellulite
-halitosis
-vaginosis (duh)
-leftover cooter stew you left in your car / in August / for 3 months
-tainted blood transfusion
-dental surgery
-anal fissures
-glass shard in one's eyeball
-infected wound / oozing pus
-skid mark
-stench of rotten corpse
-murder scene
-road kill
-temper tantrums
-President Jenna Bush
-Vice President Sean Hannity
-Secretary of State Bill O'The Clown
-the douche that drives wicked fast through a deep puddle, splashing the shiat out of you with stank assed, dirty city water. Cold water.
-drunken molesting uncle breath
-angry mean step mother scream

I could go on. But now Baba Wawa is talking about the pregnant man - and THIS shit I have to see. Are you farking kidding me>?!?>>!> (ok, right off the bat - THAT IS NOT A GUY - that's a broad who get a peener). DUH.

Oh you know it's Thursday night when...

...after a long, hard day at work and on the rails, you come home, pour a glass of wine, throw in a load of dishes and laundry and then hit the can for a few minutes peace when your two year old decides to throw the MOTHER OF ALL TEMPER TANTRUMS outside the bathroom door. And I mean, DIRECTLY OUTSIDE the bathroom door.

OMFG - normally, I would have died of an anneurism by now, but since I'm no longer PMSing, I am actually kind of finding this funny. She's farking SCREAMING at the top of her lungs, the husband and the older child are mercilessly mocking her, we're ALL laughing and I know, I just KNOW, that this moment will be relived on a shrink's couch over and over and over again, probably on MY F*CKING DIME.

I love my family. The only thing keeping those jackals out of here is well, the pervasive scent of burnt doll head / petroleum distillates / poop. There, I said it.

(yay! she's winding down!!! now you KNOW, since I put my ONE pair of jeans in the laundry a little while ago, that the moment she crashes out for real will be the very moment I need to put them in the dryer - and I will be faced with the age-old quandry of "do I enter the sleeping child's room because tomorrow is Friday and I MUST wear my jeans to work, or do I forsake my comfort for the greater good of the planet and not wake the demon?".

Jesus. She's winding up for round two. And I'm almost done. Oh help me lord jesus in your golden fleece diaper...all 6 pounds 2 ounces....

Ode to the Loo

Were I to tell you
you would not believe me -
But alas, tis true,
that despite it's solid composition
whiz has conquered the loo.
Even one of average intelligence
might logically surmise
that such a metal box as this,
would surely be unmolested!
Left wholly unaffected!
...yet ye would be surprised
that the plastic, glass and metal sheath'ed
watercloset for the masses
falls prey to the slings and arrows
of the urine and the gasses.

I heart you, at times, Shiny Metal Box.

WOW!!!!

Wow, do the politicians in this country disappoint the living SHIAT out of me. Just sayin'.

To the auto companies: the Gubminties should tell the auto cos, especially GM (first and foremost) to go pound some SERIOUS salt. We saw THIRTY YEARS ago how screwed up the oil crap was and was surely going to be.. THIRTY YEARS they've had to revamp / retool / rethink. And what did they do? NOTHING. They decided instead to RE-TARD. That's right, they went FULL RETARD on this crap. And now they're doing Round II (in their plebe-mobiles....WAKE UP CALL - that's the shit we drive to work / school / birth / death in EVERY DAMN DAY, you damn bag of CHUMPS), remaking Mr. Dipstick Goes to Washington. Yep, Mr. Dipstick(s) go to Washington - this time in their commoner cars (versus their private gotdamned JETS, asshats!) with their hands out, grovelling for a piece of the taxpayer pie. "Wahh, bail us out!! WAHHHHHHH".

Hey nozzles! Guess what?? We're BROKE! And why? In part, because oil went up AGAIN to psychotic levels - $4 and $5 a GALLON!?!?!?!? And it made the price of EVERYTHING go up - food, clothes, supplies, things we actually NEED. Thanks SOOOOOOOO much for gargline the petro-gawk for the last 30 years, when you COULD have been oh, I dunno, NOT BEING RETARDED and say, maybe thought about FIXING THINGS. I know that's not profitable though, so I guess I sorta understand. Or I don't. Perhaps you can infer from my tone that I'm being perhaps just a little facetious here. Oh, and DIAF.

And now on Maddow, we have this ULTRA-ASSHAT Big 3 Lobbyist Apologist piece of crap whargarbling about some shit I've already forgotten. yargh.

Bring on Uncle Pat! I'm having a existentially-political crisis.

If I were Santa...

Ok, so friggin' ThanksfortheturkeynShiatGiving is OH VAH. If you're not already out at the Mawl / Mawl-Maht snaggin' up those "soon-to-be-marked-down-even-more, but-buy-that-shit-NOW-because-it's-allegedly -good-for-the-economy" pieces of crap you and your loved ones really don't need, if you think about it, then sit back (if you can still even follow this) and set your phasers on "relax" as I tell you a tale of what life would be like if I were Santa.

If I were Santa:
* you'd hate me, because I'd rape your ears with bullshit like "when I was a kid... / you're a greedy little asshole / those aren't your real parents";
* my jolly red suit would be smeared with snot, coal dust, cigar ashes, smell of despair and generally be cause for concern if you happen to find body lice troubling.
* I'd show up to the Mawl, plop myself in the throne and be drunk off my ass, because you feed your kids too much caffeine and chain smoked while you were pregnant,and well, they're kinda tarded.
* I'd probably also blaze a couple of fat, stinky joints prior to planting my dimpled, white, pickled lard ass on aforementioned throne in the center of the Fiesta Of Overpriced Garbage the Mawl represents. My eyes will be so red, you'll wonder if your kid stabbed me in both eyes with a pencil. And you know I'll milk that shit, you overpaid sack of crap corporate placeholder.
* On Christmas Eve, I'd roll my rusted out heap of shit, 10 miles to the gallon, muffler-less beater down your manicured cul-de-sace and I'd get my ass stuck in your cheap-assed, poorly constructed chimney. Then, when either my ass caught on fire or your chimney broke and caused me egregious bodily harm, I would sue the crap out of you! Better still, because it's Christmas and I'm dressed like Santa and stupid enough (drunk enough?) to attempt the shimmying down of your chimney, I would completely prevail in court (representing myself, I might add) and you wouldn't have the "that crackhead was trespassing / breaking and entering / sodomizing our heirloom baby Jeebus in the Manger" defense to win you the verdict. HA!!
* My red suit, including the "white" fur, would be all pilled - it would have those annoying balls of schmutz that form on poorly made, cheaply constructed man-made fabrics. The ones that scream: I fail at life and shiat!
* I would antagonize the men-folk by fondling their wives, and would then pretend like I didn't, and I would accuse you of being a soulless asshole because you sucker-punched Santa.
* I would hand out flyers to my gang of awesome transvestites, homosexuals, fetish-folks, meth-heads, anarchists, whores, gang-members and brown people (cuz I know you Christmas fucker fundies HATE the brown people - quit frontin'. It's insulting.) and I would have them all show up at like 8am on Saturday morning, on like the Saturday before Xmas, and they would pepper the line. Oh yeah. I'd have gay guys making out on my lap, and would delight in watching the stink-eyes being shot in my direction like 347 angry laser beams. Yeah, I would.
* I would listen to my iPod-like device - loudly - and would play oh, maybe some thrash metal, or some rap (OMG brown people!), or, more likely than not, some gay-assed 70s music that would cause me to wax horribly nostalgic for a simpler time, a time when my family members weren't all shattered, broken, plauged by dimentia or dead, and then I'd cry. Oh hell yeah, I'd sob like only an old, angry, drunken fuck can. Then I'd laugh. But I'd still be crying on the inside. Your child would be soggy and scarred after his 38 seconds on my lap. Sorry - I had a bad childhood.
* I'd have a tip jar. And if you didn't tip me, I'd swear at you - loudly - and then I'd blame it on Tourettes and make you look like an asshole for sucker punching Santa. Again.
* I'd wear a garter belt and stockings under my suit. Even Santa needs to feel sexy every now and then.
* I'd eat turkey before each and every shift. Nothing is quite as rank as turkey farts. Except gravy farts. Pass the gravy!
* I'd smell just a little teensy bit like urine and your parents would be left wondering if it were at all plausible that Santa went to the dive bar (the one that takes food stamps) last night, got shiatty off his month's worth of gubmint dole and passed out in an alley in a pool of his own sick. Always keep 'em guessing, that's what Santa says!!
* I'd wear roller skates while sitting on the throne, which would cause all kinds of logistical problems for you and your satan spawn demon-children.
* I'd take bathroom breaks every 15 mins or so, blame it on my "incontinence problem" (so, again, you'd be the asshat for bitching at Santa), and while I was in the can, I'd guzzle as much Wild Turkey as humanly possible from the Big Gulp of Shame I keep stashed under the 'Throne'. It's grain alcohol mixed with grape Fanta, so it's doubly-stacked with White Trashy goodness.
* I'd be dippin' the whole time. And you know your kid is going to be the one who kicks over my dip cup. And when he / she does? That kid's going to have an unfortunate accident, if you know what I mean, one that includes (but is not limited to) said child's clothing sopping up the better portion of the contents of said dip cup.

Yep, that'd be me. I must go now - I have to finish filling out the application to be a Santa at the local Mawl-Mart. Smellya!

Thanksgiving update...

Oh, i love them dearly. I do. Srsly.

But it's now 5:34. They've been here since like 1pm. (I'm a HUGE biatch, I know, save it - preaching to the choir and all that). And it would be OK, except that they keep managing to a) turn the fuckin' TV on and b) turn it up to like a FUCKING HUNNET and it is pissing me off on such an inordinately high level, I just feel like at any moment it's going to be like SLPATTAGE and I'm going to have an anneurism. The kids are all downstairs watching Shrek, and yet, the other folks insist on keeping it on UPSTAIRS (when I FINALLY got the upstairs free of children) and they of COURSE have to have the television on so goddamned loudly that there are astronauts in space going "jesus, that shit is LOUD, yo!".

I'm going out to have some "special" brownies. Sans brownies. Pinkie where am you! My intarnets dint work from yesterday afternoon til this morning and I'm a little jonesy! Surely you'll have similar tales of fambily mayhem for me?!?!?!?!


p.s. Folks, when you're at someone's house and you're fucking YAWNING and shit, it means it is MOTHERFARKING TIME TO GO HOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Don't sit there for hours on end, into the night, stealing any chance your hosts may have of mellowing out, relaxing, etc. Oh no! Make sure you stay and stay and FARKING STAY wayyyyyyyyyyy too long, so you suck the latsw tender juices out of the entire affair, by staying TOO DAMN LONG and not leaving when it's utterly and completely appropriate to do so!!! YAYYY I FUKKIN LOVE THE HOLIDAYS.

oh god oh god oh god

Anyone know where I can pick up like 6 hearing aides REAL QUICK? My In-laws are over and like 6 of them are like upstairs watching some delightfully uber-Xtian (yay! FUN! /not >:( ) video and the volume is like on farkin'

ELEVENTY

...and I can't f*ckin' TAKE IT. I swear to Jeebuz, I want to poke my f*cking eardrums out with a pencil, like, 10 mins ago.

For now though, I will have to continue drinking wine and hope that eventually the pain is mitigated to the point where I no longer give a shiat.

Happy Turkey Day, biatches!

Get your WOOT on!

At the WOOT OFF!

OMG, I wicked HEART the WOOTOFF. For the REALZ. If you click on TEH WOOT and you don't see crazy flashing lights not unlike the Drudge RPt, then the WOOT OFF hath endeth. If, though, you see the lights (ah dun seen the light!), it's WOOOOO WOOOOTOFF time -watch and enjoy!

cutie patootey!

I feel a great disturbance in the force. Do You?

I have a general sense of ... something. Malaise? Unrest? Discord? Reverberation of some bizarro world angst?

Send me some good vibes or share your tale of "wtf?"

Shiny Metal Box: The Chronic (11-17edition)

It's one of those friggin' days where everything is agg-avatin'the SHIAT out of me. I am, of course, sitting on the rolling shiat mobile I somewhat lovingly call home for 3 hrs a day, marvelling over how f*ckin NOT on-time this damn train is, consistently, and just generally being surly. Even the scotch doesn't taste that good tonight. Must be PMS. Or maybe just the ass-grind that this all is. Still, though, I'm thankful to have a job, at this point. Found out that a firm I used to work at had layoffs last week - Jesus H. Chriskringlestein, that blows.

Ahhhh, I like my electronic chronic. OK, it's not chronic at all, but i does deliver the nicotine and for that I'm grateful. Had a nice, cold, semi-palatable turkey sangwich, and am now working on scotch #2 an suffering from the hurty knees, the scratchy throat and the general ennui that colors my life. Ah, what to do? I suppose I should be very, VERY thankful that I do not live in SoCal -- what, wth all the shiat burning the fark down and all. YIKERS!

Oh and now the free wifi is shiatting the bed-- you get what you pay for, I guess. Is that why my f*ckin monthly pass is going up by 10% -- which is about the on-time rate for this bucket of bolts? Oh, irony. Or something.

Welcome to Tardtown. Population: You!

Whiskey Tango Fuckin' FOXTROT?

Please, comment and tell me what's wrong with this picture. Get drunk first. Think of it as an adult "Where's Dildo" or something, mkay?

I heart you SO MUCH, Gore Vidal.

It isn't even always about the substance off what he's said. At times, it's the way he says it.

Gore Vidal, you are my hero, my Planet Earth Idol. Your life, your words, your existence have had a profound effect on me, and for that, good sir, I humbly thank you.

Read Gore here. J'adore!