Unfortunate Headstone Name

[Don't ask who this ho is. I don't know. I just needed a damn photo of a headstone for this post. She looked nice though, didn't she? I am hoping if my family gives me a laser headstone, they will use a photo of me in my bathrobe, holding a glass of wine, with a cigarette dangling from my lips. That's how I wish to be remembered. Keepin' it real even in death, motherfuckers.]

The obituary thing in the former post reminded me of the local cemetery I walk the Diarrhetic Wunderkind in. There is a large stone at the back that reads:

C. R.

"Dick"

Stauffer

SB's ass is easily amused.

The Whole Fucking Family Held Each Other and Cried Because They Were Frightened as Piss of a Damn Thunderstorm

[Maybe that post title could have been longer, but I'm not sure how.]

Well, we are having another goddamn thunderstorm here in beautiful Ohio right now. And this reminds SB of a story. Actually, it's the best kind of story, because it's true and it involves FUCKING BATSHIT BEHAVIOUR.

Anyhoo, my family used to have some friends who were originally a very wealthy family from Lexington, Kentucky. We're talking social register types here, peeps.

The father was an attorney who did pretty well for himself, until he was unceremoniously disbarred from practicing law. Unfortunately, because my ass is nosy, I never did hear why the old man was disbarred. But Evan (the name has been changed to protect the less than innocent) did so well before the unceremonious disbarring, that the family, which included Evan's wife and three pretty teenaged daughters, lived in a mansion with an O-lympic sized swimming pool.

However, as commanding as dear old dad was as an attorney, whenever the family would set out on a car journey someplace and encounter a thunderstorm, Evan would pull over to the side of the road, and THE ENTIRE FAMILY WOULD HUG EACH OTHER AND CRY until the storm passed. I kid you not.

That shit still makes SB laugh whenever I hear thunder. I just picture it in my mind and can't stop laughing. Bunch of pussies.

My dog Ginger doesn't like storms either, and her ass is probably pissing all over the wooden floor at home, so that will be nice to have to clean that shit up when I get home tonight. I keep telling Ginge that my Uncle Bob said that thunder is just Jesus bowling (and evidently Jesus gets a lot of strikes!), but it doesn't help her a damn bit. She just shakes and quakes and dribbles piss and even tries to follow my ass into the 1/2-bath. I have to tug and pull and war with her ass before I can get her out.

NOTE: The Moms said I needed to add a note to this story of the crying family and let you, my beloved readers, know that Evan was 6 foot 4" and a REALLY BIG guy. She thought that added to the ridiculousness of the whole thing, as if that shit wasn't ridiculous enough in the first place.

The Diarretic Wunderkind Eats Cat Shit

Ginger, the Diarrhetic Wunderkind, has picked up a new habit. We had to move the Disdainful One's litter box recently, and it is now in the utility closet, nearer to the door. Said door is kept propped open, obviously, since Mercer can't open it her-damn-self (she doesn't have opposable thumbs, people, and besides her ass is not tall enough to reach the knob).

Anyhoo, Ginger has now taken to eating Mercer's shit when the door is inadvertently left ajar. I do laundry in the utility room, so the door is left ajar from time-to-time. Of course, every time I catch the Wunderkind, I threaten to beat her until the PETA intervenes, but she has a VERY SELECT and short-term memory, and the yelling is fairly ineffective.

Sometimes, Ginger tries to sneakily eat the gourmet cat poo, and I go to pet her, and her fucking nose is covered in Tidy Cat. There is also motherfucking Tidy Cat Multiple Cat formula in the bottom of her water bowl, so I have to empty it and refill it all the time because I'm just sure the perfumey shit they put in Tidy Cat probably causes THE CANCER.

There are also occasionally Mercer turds that do not pass muster for whatever reason (these turds are not up to Ginger's obviously lofty culinary standards), lying on the carpet outside the utility room. Then I yell, "MOTHERFUCKER!" And the Diarrhetic Wunderkind shoots up the stairs, only to sneak down again when the yelling dies down, which sometimes takes awhile.

Ginger is also into trying to eat Mercer's new expensive-as-fuck gourmet cat food, so I spend the morning yelling stuff like: "GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN MOTHERFUCKER OR I AM GOING TO BEAT YOU TO DEATH AND THEN THEY WILL HAVE TO CALL THE PETA AND THEN YOU WILL GET TAKEN BACK TO THE POUND, NEVER TO BE REUNITED WITH YOUR LOVING MAMA, WHO IS SHUT UP IN THE POKEY FOR DOG ABUSE!" or some shit like that. This does not exactly make for a peaceful morning, and you know how much I enjoy mornings to start with.

I am afraid Ginger will not be the winner in the Doggie Obedience category at the county dog show this year. Apologies to those prepared to root for her.

Hurry Only 14 Days Left to Vote in the SB Best Serial Killer Poll!

Okay, I just thought that subject line was funny. I'm tired today, and my ass is punchy. I stayed up late last night watching (don't laugh, you fuckers) Marley & Me. SB cried and wept and cried and wept copious tears of complete and utter sadness. Did I mention I cried? I clutched the diarrhetic Wunderkind and sobbed. It frightened her in a big way. She tried to run away from me, but I held on. Anyhoo. . .

I try to rent girlie or more arty movies when Mr. SB is on the business travel, because they bore the shit out of him. I like cute puppies and Owen Wilson, so there you have it. I was sort of embarrassed when the young man at the Blockbuster checked me out. It's such a goddamn schmaltzy movie. I had to ask him when The Wrestler would be coming out because I didn't want him to think I was totally tasteless when it came to rental fare. Don't ask me why I give a shit, but I do. I don't care what the people close to me think most of the time, but it is DAMN IMPORTANT that the 20 year old at Blockbuster approve of me.

I don't know where I'm going with this post, so don't look for a damn point. It was just a chance to post this really cute picture of PUPPIES!! (The photo is dedicated to my friend, sKILLz, because we really dig animals.)

IMPORTANT SIDE NOTE: Notice the CUTE PUPPIES were photographed sitting in a Papasan chair. Does anybody still sell this 70s shit? I'm just curious. My brother's fat-ass best friend busted a big hole in his Papasan chair and ruined that classic retro antique. Fucker.

SB Has a Bad Association with Mr. Spock

SB has good news: Ginger, the Diarrhetic Wunderkind, seems finally to be improving. I have only had to let her ass out once each night for the past two nights. I have also had to clean up no excrement on the fucking floor. I feel nearly optimistic this morning, and that's equivalent to an ecstatic morning for most of you fuckers, who for some twisted reason, actually like mornings.

We had BIG WIND (no, not Ginger) here last night. It was so BIG in fact, that when I looked outside, the goddamn fully-loaded-with-cheap-beer-cans recycling bin was gone. Smack dab gone. I looked this morning, but it is as if the recycling bin had just performed some sort of Star Trek-like beam-up. And no, SB is NOT A TREKKIE, so don't start trying to strike up a friendship based upon a mutual appreciation of Kirk or Spock or some shit because frankly my ass would rather watch paint dry than watch Star Dreck. BORING.

My old boss, David Mazer, did remind me of Spock though. He had all the human warmth of Spock, and his dumb ass was always asking for "data." Do you have data to support that? So Spock sort of has a bad association for me.

Sometimes, when I argue with Mr. SB, I tell him that I don't buy what he's saying, and I've got to see some data for that shit. I AM NOT BELIEVING ANYTHING UNTIL I SEE SOME FUCKING DATA!

SB had a great time with her old friend, L., last night. We drank some vino (okay, mostly ME drank some vino), and I showed her our heinous laundry room, which is so fucking small, SB is always banging her elbow, putting the damn wash in the dryer.

I wonder if Extreme Home Makeover would consider knocking our entire house down and building SB a new home with an EXTREMELY LARGE LAUNDRY ROOM AND ALL NEW SEARS APPLIANCES, INCLUDING A FRONT-LOADING WASHER AND DRYER WITH STEAM FOR WRINKLE REMOVAL because of my persistent misery and elbow handicap. SB is suffering! Help Ty! The soldiers from Iraq missing limbs will just have to wait.

Another Journal Entry from Sorry-Assed Stalker Ed

I made a mistake and checked for a weekend journal entry from psychotic-stalker-loser Ed's blog that I have been reading for entertainment. [SB knows this really says more about my life than the loser's. I get it fuckers. Thanks.] Anyhoo, Ed's already setting his psycho ass up to stalk ANOTHER chick. He met this chick when she made the mistake of asking his dumb ass for directions. Poor woman.

[Excerpt from sorry-ass entry below. Again, names have been changed to protect the innocent and the psychotic. The words in parentheses are mine.]

Though I've professed to myself, Leroy, Jon, and Sherri that whatever happens with Frieda happens and will not be adorned with hope, I am [sexually] excited to be seeing her again. There is no spark of romance [at least on her part], just a feeling of newness, of stepping off in a new direction, not simply without fear, but with ready anticipation. Call that hope if you like, but that would be premature [ejaculation], and I want nothing about this to be premature [ejaculation]. Everything in its due time. But as I was bathing [and pulling on my peen], I thought it would be nice to have a tale to tell on Monday, if anyone should care to ask about my weekend [they won't]. And I would want Elizabeth to hear it [she's not going to give a shit--the only thing Elizabeth might feel is relief that your psychotic ass is no longer stalking her]. In the moment, at the restaurant, I will make nothing of anything [sure, right], and afterward, on paper, I shall subdue the event in reportage [Ed's ass doesn't subdue anything in reportage], but Monday, at work, I will breathe life into it, deservedly or not. I'm a storyteller [pretentious fucktard], after all.

[End boring fucking excerpt]

NOTE: Maybe this fucker should give up journaling and take up greeting card writing. He could probably have a good career at that. Yes, I am grouchy and extra mean today. It's Monday, and the Diarrhetic Wunderkind kept my ass up all night. What do you damn people, want?

Canadians Are Like Americans with Brains

Okay, it's 9:30 in the p.m. in the eastern part of the U.S. right now, and I just got out of the shower. I was starting to smell like a homeless person's ass, so I decided to clean up some. It was either that, or I would have to wash the damn bed sheets in the morning. The easiest thing won out, but I do get credit for doing one of the two things. Right?

Anylazymotherfucker, I'm still working on trying to improve my ambition-level overall, due to President Obama's being elected and asking us all to bust a nut. As a result, I just couldn't go to bed without at least washing my dirty ass. I think we Americans need to be just a little bit less lazy and a little more smart and productive. In other words, we should be more like Canadians, who are basically like Americans with brains. [I just like to stir shit up.]

I guess SB doesn't have much else to report. I was in my pajamas all day, and now I put on another pair of PJs, but at least they're clean, so I feel like I have made an improvement. I have made my little corner of America better. I can go to sleep tonight with some self-satisfaction and personal pride in what I've accomplished today. I even clipped my toenails and the toenails of the Diarrhetic Wunderkind, Ginger. Unfortunately, I couldn't catch Mercer.

Anyhoo, here is a picture of Ginger looking all sharp and groomed. Imagine that she smells nice, but in reality, she smells kind of like ass, because it's winter, and SB is afraid to bathe her. She's old now, people! She's like 90 in dog years! So just imagine Ginger smells like orchids or some shit.

The Grouchy Grandpa

SB is back! Probably no one even noticed I didn't post a goddamn thing yesterday. But I like to think hundreds of you WERE TERRIBLY DISAPPOINTED that I didn't post and that you were checking the site countless times and groaning in disappointment that there were no NEW posts. Let me have my damn illusions, people! How would any of us live without illusions? And also, when you picture me, I want you to picture Angelina Jolie in your minds, because we are practically twins.

Anyhoo, the fucking washer went out, so I had to be at home yesterday for delivery of the new one, plus SB had to run the diarrhetic dog to the vet for an early morning blood test because--get this--her pancreas may be the issue causing her intestinal difficulties. Just like her mom! It's her pancreas, people! The irony. Naturally, the blood test and the scheduled delivery of the damn washer overlapped, so it was a chaotic morning. And you know how SB LOVES MORNINGS anyway!

Also, on the two-mile or so drive into the office this morning, some dumb fuck headed straight at me on my side of the road because he was talking on his damn cell phone, trying to score drugs or meet up with a hooker or some shit. He stopped with his goddamn front bumper about two feet from my front bumper. Then, get this--the asshole waved at me like: I'm sorry I'm a dumb preoccupied fucking asshole. I see I am in your lane, so please pardon my stupidity.

Sometimes, as in this case, I am grateful for my depression, because I don't get worked up over anything, including impending death. I'm like: Is this damn sonofabitch coming at me? Is this fuck in my lane? I didn't see my whole life flash or anything. I didn't even get nervous. I think my reaction time is a bit slow. Fucker could have hit me, and I would have reacted about the time the ambulance techs got me to the nearest hospital. It's a good thing, people! I have very little stress overall.

As a result of all of yesterday's washer/diarrhetic turmoil, SB and Mercer, the Queen of this damn blog, slept poorly last night. When I did sleep, I dreamt that Gordy and his Real Dolls were chasing my ass around, trying to grab me and dip me in plastic to join the old hareem (harem). So, please forgive the quality of the posts that may emanate forth today, due to SBs lack of sleep. On second thought, FUCK THAT SHIT! I don't owe you damn people anything! No one's forcing your ass to read this shit! Go read Ann Coulter's damn blog, if you don't like it. I am a wee tad grouchy this morning.

Being grouchy reminds me of my Grandpa Heeter--no, not the Grandpa who took me to the liquor store with him--the other Grandpa, who owned a carry out. Grandpa Heeter was the grouchiest person SB has ever known. He used to yell at me and my cousins: You damn kids stop running around upstairs! You damn kids stop making so much noise! As a result, for the longest time, I thought the word kids was always preceded by the adjective damn. [I would have my revenge, though. Grandpa H. was prejudiced, so I used the photo of a black grandpa to represent him above. HA, HA!]

Anyhoo, Grandpa even used to bitch out some of his carry-out customers. He was no business man. This one poor hapless regular customer used to come in and buy Natural Light beer, and one day, Grandpa told him to get the hell out of his carry out if he was going to buy that goddamn cheap beer all the time. After the poor flustered guy left, I had to ask: Well, if you don't want him to buy the cheap beer, then why do you stock it?

Gramps DID NOT LIKE THAT SHIT, let me tell you.