My Wife Had Crabs

Not that type of crabs. Pervert.  I'm talking about the seafood. It should be noted that we saw our Game Night Friends on Friday. It was an impromptu meeting, as we thought we were going to be launching our website. Instead, my wife prepared a crab dinner for everyone. I'll tell you, though, there was a problem. She bought live crab. Not only were they alive, but she put them in the fridge to kill them. As it turns out, they did not die. Nay, they chose to link arms/claws in a sign of solidarity and protest. That's right. Five (5) crabs were staging a sit-in.

So what did we do? We Googled how to kill crabs. As it turns out, the most humane way to kill a crab is to lobotomize it. You take a screw driver and crack the crab in the top and bottom of the shell. Evidently that neutralizes the nerves so that the crab doesn't feel pain when you flash-boil it. Or, if you don't have enough orange juice for a screwdriver, you just boil the suckers. Of course, while we figured all this out, a few of us started to get into the moment.

Tod-d names one of the crabs Jack, after Jack Daniels. I named on Rhonda. And I think a third was named Steve. The other two were unnamed extras. My wife gave Tod-d and I a look of disgust, and promptly explained, "Al the crabs are girls. What girl is named Steve? Or Jack? The fuck's wrong with you?" I immediately mentioned Stevie Nicks, while Tod-d mentioned that Jack could be short for Jacqueline.

My wife's response:

Of course, this was around the time that my wife came in to say farewell to the crabs, and thank them for their service. That also happened to be 10 minutes before we got the water to boil. I joked that it would be like going up to someone diagnosed with a terminal disease and offering to help them into the grave. Sure, they may not have a long life to live, but that doesn't mean they are ready to be buried right away. 

(Okay. Technically I said it was like finding out that someone has cancer and then thanking them for willing their Walkman to you. And technically I think I am still going to hell. At the same time, there is a problem when the Jew, who cannot eat crab, is the one responsible for killing and preparing crab.) 

Even so, everything was fine until the crabs got near the water. Little known fact: Crabs will projectile launch their limbs as a defense mechanism. I had to use two sets of tongs to grab the rally chain and move them to the water. As soon as the steam hit one, limbs were flying everywhere. Somehow, one managed to launch their claw and pin one of the tongs to another burner. It was like Jack had laid down the block, "GO! GO! I've pinned his metal pincher!! Run, Steve! Run!" 

Steve is sitting over there, like, "I can't! I shot my legs as a diversion! I ain't got no legs!"

Meanwhile, Rhonda landed in the water. Her sacrifice would be in vein. And yes I misspelled vain. And yes, I am planning to reference the word-play. What word play? The fact that someone ate Rhonda, digested her, and the nutrients were transported through the circulatory system. And yes, I know that it works differently. And no, I don't care. Fuck you. SCIENCE!

Moral of the Story: My wife ate crab, and I'm probably going to hell for my joke. 

(It was this day)

Reflux and My Return

Ah yes, I finally ave time to write again. My wife is wrapping up her research (for now). I have achieved Level 3 certification in Krav Maga. Work is settling down, before ramping up hard. My wife and I have a tenuous grasp on our companies - trying to bust ass on a website for one, and trying to prepare for business for another. And while I am doing this, I am slowly nurturing the concept behind yet a third company. My editing job has simmered down for the summer, and the kiddo is starting to sleep more. On a side note, we learned that our child has reflux. So not only does he sometimes look like a grumpy old man, he also has the digestive tract of one. Good for him....I guess?

On another note, I have been trying to write this goddamn post for three goddamn weeks. Do you know what that means? It means that I have enough one-liners to write a book and few stories to write a post. What the shit am I supposed to do? Well I'll tell you. Nothing. This is going to be a relatively short post, as I am going to start writing more in the near future.

Transformation, Protests, and Other Dribble

I know!! I've been gone for so long. I feel like I am in that Dr. Dre song, where he was gone for so long. That keeps mixing in my head with the song that goes, "My boyfriend's back, he's gonna save my reputation. Hey na, hey na, my boyfriend's back". Of course, it makes you wonder what her reputation is, and why she needs her boyfriend to save it. I see this going one of two ways. One, people doubted that the "boyfriend" existed. In reality, his name was "Hoover" and he was a vacuum. Two, the boyfriend is back and that shows that the woman was loyal to him. If that's the case, it makes you wonder what happened that she was accused of being a hussy. And yes, I said "hussy". Because there are classy ways of accusing people of sleeping around.

(Maybe her boyfriend's name is "Hank")

In other news, and speaking of sleeping around, I watched 13 Reasons Why on Netflix. It is a thoroughly depressing show about a girl who was bullied until she kills herself. And no, that's not a spoiler. I watched it so that I can be prepared to understand what kids experience. Why? Because I need to be prepared for my kids to experience that shit. And I need to know what people did wrong in this girl's life. To be fair, I imagine that Hollywood gave a romanticized version. And to be fair, that show was fucking brutal. I mean, damn. Be ready. But I digress.

So what is the purpose of my post today? Read the goddamn title. Seriously. My kid is around 6 weeks old now, and I am finally getting through part of my transformation. People say that kids will change you. They don't say that they will fuck your world up. I mean, damn. I was training in Krav with a guy, who happened to be training with his teenage son. I happened to be talking to them after a night of not sleeping. When the kid asked how it was, I turned to him, and said, "You need to know, at least once in his life, your father hated you. Don't get me wrong. He loves you, and would take a bullet for you, but at least once in your life he hated you. That deep, soul crushing hate.' Of course, the kid's father was next to him as I said this. The father said he never hated his son, but there was this one time....

And that's how it is. Every parent, whether they admit it or not, has hated their child(ren) at some point in their life. In other news, my wife and I went to the Science March. For those that don't know ("Oh you didn't know? Your ass better call somebody!"), there was a Science March to raise awareness that political denial of scientific fact does not change said fact. Now this was an exciting time. Why? Because it was my wife's first protest. That's right, she did something that most Chinese people will never be able to do: protest without fear of a tank.

Of course we had fucking great signs. For those that don't know, the "I Give A..." sign shows the mathematical equation for flux. So it literally says, "I Give A Flux About Science". The other one is just a simple history lesson. The first cure for syphilis was discovered in 1910, as a derivative of penicillin. So there you go. We not only shared science, but history. And boy, did people appreciate it. We continually got the same two reactions to our signs. Older people saw the STD sign and laughed because they survived it. Younger people saw the STD sign and laughed because they knew they were safe to be hussies. People 5-10 years older than us gave us dirty looks, and that was because they had little kids asking what an STD was. HA!

Moral of the Story: I'm back and I am hoping to write stories more frequently. Also, I did not take the time to thoroughly review this for grammar and shit. Read the stories, watch the video links, and be happy. Suck it.

Baby Daddy 34: Shit, Sex, and Shit Talk

Oh goddamn. This is my jam. Keep me partying until the AM. Except really it's not my jam, and I'm not partying. I'm changing dirty diapers. At 3AM. Little known fact, my kids shit smells like bread and pasta. It also looks like Dijon mustard. There. I hope I have ruined those meals for you, just as they have been ruined for me.

So it should be noted that I am starting to slowly enjoy this child more. He still screams like a son of a gun, but he's getting better. I have started to recognize when he's either hyper-stimulated, or needs to poop. His poop face is a bit awkward. He starts with bugging his eyes and almost puckering his lips, like he is pleasantly surprised. He then hunkers down and tries to poo. That's where everything turns south. Why? Because he hasn't completely figured out how to poo on command. So he goes from looking pleasantly surprised, to looking like he's lifting weight. Once he fails, my son will bitch and moan for a while. Then he'll purse his lips, look to the side, and the room will smell like a bakery.

 

No, that is not my child. Why don't I post a real picture of him? Because fuck you, that's why. Let's be honest. With the shit I post, and the trash I talk, someone is going to get pissed. Last thing I want is to give that motherfucker an opportunity to know what my kin looks like. Fuck that.

In other news, the kid has taken to wining and screaming like it is the goddamn Olympics. On a positive note, I have found my new coping mechanism. Rather than wait, I have elected to go ahead and tell my child about the Birds and the Bees. As it turns out, I can go into explicit detail and he won't recall. It's like a two-for-one special. I get to have the talk with my son, and neither of us have to have the awkward moment.

My wife, on the other hand, does. She walked in one day, as I was changing the child, and I was talking about how a man and a woman make babies. I then talked about how, if the two people are not ready for kids, they can take precautions. Worst case scenario, they go to Chinese Baskin Robins and get an abortion. I also explained some of the other nuances of pregnancy, sexual activity, and respect. I told my son all about how, if he isn't ready for children, he needs to keep his penis to himself. As a rule, he should probably do that anyway. Last thing he needs is to trip, fall, and I become a grandfather before I'm 40. It was somewhere between the AIDS and the auto-erotic asphyxiation that my wife asked why I was trying to ruin our son. Clearly she missed the part where I congratulated him on out-swimming his half-brothers and half-sisters.

It was during this time, and during a conversation with several of our Game Night Friends, that I realized that I am a liberal. Now for the conservatives that read my shit, really?! You were reading my shit and thought I was conservative? Wake the fuck up. The reality is that I believe in rights. I believe that people should be allowed to say and do what they want, as long as it does not cause harm to others. You want to smoke weed? Go do it. You want to carry a firearm? Cool. Please keep it safe. You're a person that does not identify with an assigned gender, or with a heterosexual orientation? Alright.

When it comes to the kid, I'm still the same. Our friends were talking about how, if someone does not want profanity around their children, the rest of the group should acquiesce. Now I'm not opposed to that. If someone doesn't want me cursing like a sailor around their kids, I will bust ass to keep it clean. At the same time, I know I am going to use profanity around my son. My wife is expecting to also. The reality is that we come from a generation that is more liberal with our language. We also think a carefully timed "fuck" can result in hilarity. A poorly timed "fuck" can result in baby. While I do plan to work with my son to be more civilized with his language, I'mma laugh my ass off when he has a perfectly timed curse word.

Now do not get me wrong. My kid will need to know respect. And I will be working with him to know when best to say a curse word. But when a popular children's story is titled Go The Fuck To Sleep, you cannot tell me that kids don't know this shit. And it is so much easier if they learn how to curse from the parents, than it is from the streets. At least this way I can prepare the child. And to be fair, he's likely going to know how to curse in four different languages. He can always hide it.

Moral of the Story: My son has a funny poo face and knows more about sex than some people in this world. Also, I secretly hope his first word is "fuck", or something similar.