Found on Fridge

This is part of a new installment I am calling "Found on Fridge". I'm pretty sure my fridge, Ethel, is coming on to me. I figure it's cause I'm always up in that.

I know you're hungry, girl, but seriously - no. No matter how much they get on my nerves.

I know, Ethel. But you're just so cold on the inside...

I'm not ready for that step in our relationship.

I would, but I'm AD/HD, and YOU SPELLED MY NAME WRONG, Ethel.

I'm not sure what this has to do with anything, but try giving THAT a Brazilian...

Now you're speaking my language, you big cold box you.

Does Greybeard have to choke a Fridge?!

Because live is the only way I take my fur bowl, thank you very much.

Why thank you, Ethel! Meow get me a cold beer.

I - what? Look, Ethel, I love you and all, but - your indecisiveness on verbiage is a major turn-off. 

What?!

Just like an icepick.

Ethel, you just so DIRTY!

As can be evidenced by your previous messages...

Yeah, Grace. Jesus. The poor thing looks dehydrated and mangy... 

Run, run, as fast as you can...

I can't eat gingerbread men. Or women. Gingerbread people. It's because they're looking at me. Looking at me, and smiling. What the hell, man? At least be... I don't know... disconcerted about your fate. Don't just willingly accept that someone is going to eat you. Maybe I anthropomorphize too much. But I can't eat anything with a face. I got a latte the other day, and the wonderful barista had done this fantastic foam artsy thing that was a guy sitting and reading with a thought bubble. And I couldn't drink it. I just sat there, staring at my cup, and eventually the barista came over and asked "Is something wrong with your drink?" and I looked at him, and I whispered "It's lovely, but I can't drink it. Because I just know Foam Guy's last thought will be "AAAGGGHHHH!!! HE'S SUCKING OUT MY BRAIIIINS!!!" And if I just stirred him in, his last thought would be "BOOBLE GLUDLE SPORP MACHIG!!!" " Once the barista had recovered from what I can only guess was a seizure, he remade my drink. Without a person in it.

There is one exception to the "No Faces" rule. Gummi bears. I will nosh the shit out of a gummi bear. But not because they're delicious and chewy. No,the little fuckers deserve it. If for nothing more than they are the effigy of a creature that has scared the shit out of me since the beginning of my existence. Bears are scary as fuck. And most people I know (okay - a few girls I dated way back when) talk about how they bite the heads off gummi bears and giggle about how "twisted" they are because they do this. FOOLS! Have you not heard of the Hydra?! Cut it's head off, 2 more grow back? That's some disturbing shit! I'm not taking any chances. That's why I bite the fuckers in half. Right down the middle. Rent asunder. Gummi guts and brains spilling everywhere, carnage incarnate, eviscerated and masticated to nothingness. It's a gruesome image, but it's gotta be done. Not chancing a fucking hydra-bear invasion of the gummi persuasion. 

I also think of them as little voodoo dolls, each one representing a member of the coming bear apocalypse. Oh, it's happening, people. You may not want to believe it, but bears are smart as shit. They must be STOPPED. If I have to eat a million gummi bears, then so be it. I'm doing this for my country!
And my wifey-wife does it too. I'm not sure of the specifics for her reasons, but in one of our first snuggle conversations - you know the ones, where you whisper, and caress, and get punched in the boner for ruining snuggle time with your prodding advances -  she revealed this secret to me, and I to her, and we knew it was love.  Gummi bears must DIE! And gingerbread persons must live. Nothing that happy should ever be eaten. I want to start a gingerbread reservation, where the gingers can roam free, in a land of colored frosting and cinnamon candies and gumdrops and candy canes, free from the fear of being devoured by some slobbery 2-year old. We'll have gummi bear hunting excursions, and it will be grand. Fucking gummi bears. 

Yippy-kai-ay, melon farmer...

Hey! Dude in the Santa PedoBear suit... You come near my kids again, and intentionally antagonize my Biscuit, and Greybeard's gonna spork a bitch.
Granted, I can be a little overprotective at times. I love my kids, and I don't EVER want to lose them. But I like to think that, lately, I've been more relaxed about people getting in their bubble. My bubble. The D'Agobubble. Until this guy. 
I understand he's a representative of the company. Still, I'm always wary of a guy in a mask. I can't see his soul if I can't look into his eyes. But I'm willing to let this slide, as it's daytime, and we are near a place of business. I even hold back when he grabs the twins by the hand and heads off into the restaurant. It was when we got to the table and Smokey the Ursine Creepoid was still following us, and Gaius put up his hand in the "back-off, bitch" gesture that is universally acknowledged as the leave-the-baby-alone signal and dude not only didn't listen, he pushed Gaius to the freak-out point, that I lost it.
I looked directly into his eyeholes while addressing the waitress in my most...protective tone - "He is seriously in my son's bubble, and if he doesn't get the fuck out, he's going to get kicked in the nuts."
She took immediate action and stepped between the Bear and the baby - "You need to go. NOW." He sauntered off, secure in his manliness for having intimidated a baby. Fucking prick. That waitress got a hell of a tip, though. 

It's the gift that keeps on giving

I managed to get the kids to watch "The Yule Log - Christmas by the Fireplace" for 11 minutes before they figured out nothing was happening.

"What's gonna happen, Daddy?"

"I dunno - watch."

...

"When's it gonna start?"

"It already has."

...

...

...

"I bet it's gonna explode."

"Yeahhh...watch and tell me when it does."

...

...

"Probably when the music stops it's gonna explode."

"Probably."

...

...

"It sounds like the fire is slapping itself."

*giggles*

...

...

...

"Nothing's happening."

"Just wait - here comes the really good part."

...

...

...

Kids *cracking up* "It's not a MOVIE! It's just music and a fireplace."

Me:TIME!?

Mama:11 minutes.

Me:Sweet.

Patty Cake

Giovanna: "Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man. Bake me a cake as fast as you can Rooooollll it... Paaaaaaaat it... and mark it with an O, and..."

Me: "An O? Why an O?"

Giovanna: "Because I want mine to be a (mimes a circle in the air) pie!"

Do you feel lucky, punk?

I got to go shopping yesterday without the kids. *Hallelujah Chorus sounds* Sweet, blessed freedom! Just me and Costco, Mano a mano, tête-à-tête, poco a poco…So I took my time. Wandering those great aisles, browsing the bulk underwear selection…and it was Sunday, so you know what that means - SAMPLES! aka FREE LUNCH! My day was going swimmingly. And then, on the cookie aisle, little Miss Angsty-emo Dark-cloud Prostitart pipes up, and tries to ruin everything.
I was whistling Winnie-the Pooh - the go-to tune for the “shopping without kids“ whistle aficionado, followed closely by “The Fishin’ Hole”, better known as The Andy Griffith Show theme song - and a voice from beyond - or, behind me, and a little to the left - snidely tosses out “You, know, with the whole big, ugly, whistling - you look like a total creeper.” I was totally flabbergasted. It’s like I’m a magnet for crazy. A big, ugly, whistling crazy magnet.
Princess Poppet’s mom is standing there, 10 feet away, pretending that she’s not related. All gloaty, the Goth tot turned and started to flounce away.
“Wait- do I get to rebut that? At least defend myself?”
“Ew, mom - he’s talking about butts…”

Her mother tossed her a look that was so very, very tired.

“I may be big, ugly, and whistley, but at least I have enough intelligence not to poke a grizzly. You’ve got dummy written ALL over you. I expect we’ll be seeing you on “Teen Mom” sometime soon. My suggestion? Instead of talking, INHALE the oxygen you expend on spouting meaningless tripe and put it towards saving whatever is left of your brain. I happen to be the father of 3 AWESOME kids, and I pray to all the powers of the universe - including A’Tuin, the Almighty Unicorn, and He-Man - that they never turn out like you. You are a sad, sad little girl.”

“You’re a fucking ASSHOLE!”

“Charming. And witty.”

Oh, MAN it was awesome. Probably a little mean, but still awesome. Because seriously. You have got to be out of your goddamn mind to come up on me during my quality alone time and insult me. Especially on Sample Day. And more so if I come across as a “creeper.” Whatever the fuck THAT is. Creeper used to be weed that snuck up on you, and suddenly you were all “Man, I could totally eat a whole PLANET of nachos...” Now, apparently, it’s big guys walking through the store whistling to themselves. Kids these days. Meh. Her mom thought it was funny, though. She smirked when her daughter got all flustered and stomped back to her cart. Mama knows. Sometimes, you just gotta let them learn the hard way.

Clouds in my coffee

Consumption of my morning cup of coffee was halted abruptly when, nearing the bottom, I discovered a mass of something mucous-ey and - well, mucous-ey was enough. Turns out, the Biscuit had decided to backwash some of his oatmeal out while taking a sneaky sip of my coffee. Since our oatmeal is the groat kind, and having soaked in a bit of coffee, it looked like a wriggling mass of something putrescent. Combine that with the ill I already have, and the fact that Boogie was up every hour last night, which meant I was up every hour last night, and it's making for a rather nauseous morning.