Yeah, that's right. I'm goin there.
It all started with a conversation I had with Miss Ellie awhile back. See, Ellie has a plot all set out for herself right next to Mr. Miss Ellie. Only Ellie doesn't want to be buried there. You're wondering why, I bet. Me too and I asked.




Ellie: It's a bad neighborhood!

Me: So. You're gonna be dead. Worst that could happen....somebody digs you up and turns you into a lamp or something.

Ellie: But you won't be dead.

Me: I certainly hope not.

Ellie: what about when you come to visit? Who knows what might happen to you?

Me: Why would I want to visit a dead person? They don't talk or do anything interesting.

Ellie: Well, most people DO bring flowers!

Me: What for? Dead people can't smell and they sure can't see anything. Not with all that dirt on top of them.

I don't know if it was the conversation with me or what, but now Ellie has decided to be cremated. ICK!

I told Bob, I have decided I want to stay on the sofa with the tv on.

He said, "No way. What if I want to bring home a date?"

My feeling...if his date ends up in the living room, watching tv with me, he's probably not gonna make it to first base anyhow. Besides, why would he need to date when I'd be right there? If he was thinking he'd realize that it would be the first time in our whole lives that I wouldn't be able to talk. Seems like he'd be all over that like white on rice.

So what are you gonna do with yourself after you kick off?

It was bound to happen. Nobody in our family can stay nice and sweet forever. It's not in our genes.

On Christmas Day evening, I had just come in from loading up my car with gifts and walked into the kitchen in time to hear the heated whispers of my two sisters who were obviously trying to be discreet because Miss Ellie, Bob's mother, 84 and blind, was sitting in the next room.
(apparently they are both unaware of her super hearing powers. The woman can hear through walls)

Manny: YOU CAN'T DO THAT! It's not right. I made that cake especially for Miss Ellie. I promised her.
Squirrel: She can't eat a whole cake. Anyway, she'll never know the difference.
Manny: It doesn't matter. I'll know. You're stealing from an 84 year old, blind woman!
Squirrel: She's still getting cake.
Manny: It's not right. Give the woman the cake I made for her! I mean it!
Squirrel: Pleeeease! I like this cake!
Manny: You have one of your own. Anyway it's easy to make another one.
Squirrel: (now panicked and whispering loudly) People have eaten off of mine already! I won't have as much. Look. Just look at it. It looks like a whole cake. She's blind! She won't know the difference. Seriously, she can't eat a whole sheet cake. She's old!
Manny: (turns to me) Look what she's done!

I looked. I even took pictures. It was hard though because I was laughing so much my eyes were watering.

Manny: She's trying to keep a blind woman's cake for herself! Is that right?
Me: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
Manny: Oh fine! Do what you want then. If you can live with yourself after stealing from a helpless old blind woman.
(insert Miss Ellie's voice from living room)
Miss Ellie: Isn't that coffee ready yet? I'm waiting.
(Not the first time I've heard these words from Ellie.)
Looking at squirrel, I said, to Manny's dismay ........ "Do it."


After proper surgical proceedures were completed, this is the cake, Miss Ellie ended up with. Basically left-overs, skillfully reshaped to look like an entire cake. ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh ha ha ha ha!

It's been a year since I came onto Blogger. In that time I've made mistakes for which I am deeply sorry. New friends for which I am grateful. And hang true and fast to old ones who remain dear to me and precious beyond words.

You are, each of you, special.

My wish for you and my family is no more and no less than this.

When you lay down to go to sleep, turn out the light, and find yourselves alone with your thoughts.....I wish you peace.

When you open your eyes in the morn, I wish you hope.

Lastly, when the dark times come, I wish you the comfort that comes from, forgiveness, loving well, and being loved. More than this, I wish you ability to believe in what you can not see. Because that is where you'll find your heart.

Merry Christmas to you all.
Love,
Crabby

Ms. Claus has long been known as an apron clad, fat old, lady with a white bun on the back of her head.
NAY! TIS NOT TRUE!
Mrs. Santa is a femme fatale! A rare beauty, admired by men and animal alike. (except for small, possibly edible animals.








Mrs. Santa smells cake.


















Mrs. Santa sees cake.

















Seconds later, belly filled to brimming, the ever sexual Mrs. Claus is ready for the big guy to come hither and play.

(unless of course the chocolate cake runs thru too quickly. In which case several time-outs will be called to release painful gas bubbles.)

I don't know about you, but I think Santa's a pretty lucky guy.

On our timbit run this am we saw a BMW with a vanity plate that said LAW 52. It was housed in a spiffy Purdue Alumni tag holder.
IMO, this would have been a better Vanity plate for the guy who also was wearing one of those borg earpieces for a cell phone and reading the paper while he drove.



Here we have a popular Vanity plate among Gay guys.









Sandie, you forgot to include your address and phone number so the bad man can find you easier.







Ok. Me too. I blog but.......dude! You are beggin to be picked on here.


So guys, if you had a Vanity Plate, what would yours say?

I'm gonna get fat mona lisa off top and put up a new header all by myself. WOOT!
Let's see how good I do. I think I have this all figured out. I am....a techie genious! Pretty sure. I've been book learnin in my spare time.

WOOT! and WOOT again.
My dog has decided to get a job.
Since she doesn't have fingers, I'll be spending her paycheck for her. Did I mention WOOT?

Here is her application for employment that she will turn in tomorrow morning.
Cross yer fingers and toes. I have my eye on a new video game. Er....I mean....she REALLY wants this.

A copy of her written note is below. Just in case you guys have some advice for her.


















PS. I have already advised her not to lick herself during the interview.

I was out yesterday. And I will be out today. Shopping...shopping, hauling bags bigger than me. Eventually lips parched, pits damp, throat raspy, I WILL head for water or 7 up anything wet. Soon after it will happen, as it always does.

The bladder being a viscious betrayer, will scream out, GOTTA GO. GOTTA GO. GOTTA GO, RIGHT NOW! And I'll have no choice but to obey.

I'll juggle my bags, overcoat, and purse to get into the bathroom without knocking children and/or old people unconscious. Then......the horror begins. I'll open a stall door, eager to obey the hateful bladder and the toilet seat will be sprayed with urine so yellow it looks as if it's wearing a mustard mask.....on I'll go bumping into things, to the next stall, where inevitably I will find a nasty brown smear across the seat. and so it goes....worse and worser.

On this new day of shopping I pray.....for a fresh seat. Only that and nothing more. Surely, surely, this is doable?

ON SALE! Today only this one time offer!
The answer to the question millions have asked.
"What's he wearin under that kilt?"

Down below I was sellin the secret for $19.99. But sadly, uncle Bob obviously isn't doin it for ya. So today only the secret is yours along with a glimpse of my own fantastic gams for just $9.95.

That's right folks. For $9.95 I am willing to sing like a canary. Tell it all. Every thing I know.


Leave your money in that box by the door.

(pay no mind to the classless dog in that first picture.)

This, folks, is my Uncle Bob. Uncle Bob is my Dad's brother. I believe he's almost 90 or something. He received the purple heart in WW2, has something like 17 kids scattered hither and yon and yes......he wears a skirt. So, does my Dad. Or he did. I have it now. That side of my family is Scottish. Now I don't know if it's all Scots but I can tell you that the men in my Dad's family reproduce like bunnies. I have at least one brother and a few sisters in different parts of this country. YOU could be my sibling. Think about it. Scary, huh?

The point to my post is......I....the crab of crabs....possess the answer to that age old question.....do they wear unders, under those kilts?

For the one time low, low, price of 15.99, I'll give you the answer. (Gareth, I'll give you half of the cut if you keep quiet) Gareth is Irish. He knows the answer, but for a few bucks, I'm pretty sure I can buy his silence.

Ah. Christmas. That peaceful most loving time of the year when everybody loves each other and gets along.
Riiight.

Not at my house. At my house, we have animal feuds. Not unlike the Hatfields and McCoys. To the left you will note a tiny white puppy. That was Lola 18 years ago.




I rescued Lola. (had to pay $150 to do it) the breeder was going to have her put down because she had a hunched back. She grew up a hunched, toothless, poop eater who smacks her gums when she eats. She also snores like a truck driver. Lola got this mouse when she was 3 years old and became obsessed with it. Took it everywhere, guarded it, cleaned it...yadda yadda. She and the mouse were inseperable until...I brought home Lucy 16 years later.
Lucy ....... well......she ate the mouse. Now Creepy Lola hates her, passionately.







This is Webster. A foul mouthed, nasty little bird who enjoys calling the dogs over to his cage by name when he has anything tasty to entice them with. He calls out, "here! Here! c'mere Gorg. it's goood." Each dog being food driven falls for it, always. They stick their nose into his cage for the offered treat, he bites them, then laughs hysterically as they run away yipping in pain.

Webster clearly is King of the animal kingdom here ..... until yesterday.

Lucy, possibly the biggest, dumbest, lunk on the planet earth foiled him. He was eating a slider, a.k.a. white castle burger (his favorite) when Lucy lumbered by, tail wagging. Lucy has a big, tail and somehow her tail whipped into Webby's cage and knocked him and his burger off the perch. Webster looked down as the burger fell throught the cracks then began to yell like a crazy person. "BAD DOG! BAD! GET OVER HERE! C'MERE."
Lucy, blissfully ignorant, continued wagging and tried to play with him as he repeatedly lunged, nearly knocking himself out on the cage bars.
I fear he's coming for her. And payback will surely be a bitch.


The expression you see on her face here, pretty much mirrors her thought process. Basically, she has no idea the pain she is in for. I promise you, that bird will nail her. He holds a grudge. And he's out for blood.

The last dog I had went to her grave with a big chunk missing from her nose. Smilin George has a hole on the tip of his ear, and Lola was practically snatched bald-headed one winter when she tried to scatch an itch on her humped up back along the bars of his cage. The bird is EVIL!

Say it with me folks, Poor, dumb, Lucy.

It's CHRISTMAS TIME!
Which means, we can now EAT CRAP and like....totally get away with it.

So to further support those of us who like to dine on cookies, snacks, eggnog, and such....how 'bout sharin your favorite receipies? (unless you're willin to cook us up something which would be even more greatly appreciated)

If you wanna share your good stuff send me an e-mail at freefallingfriday@yahoo.com
and I will send you an invite to become a posting member of the design board which is now being used as...... a good food and fancy shmancy decorating board.

Ok people....come on and GIMME SOME YUM!

PS. Don't forget to check out our hunk o'burnin luv man below. You ain't heard singin like this since.....well....I'm guessing maybe never. LOL!

PSS. Shirley, though your receipe for slippery luv butter was greatly appreciated, um....I think we'll pass on that one. but.... thank you. Thank you very much.

PSSS. check out how I spelled recipe up above. If Dzer comes by he's gonna red pencil the hell outa his monitor. ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh ha ha ha ha!

Ok, here is my contribution to all the happy Christmas Cheer here at The Crab's Blog. This is MilkMan singing his special Christmas Carol to me, in his mis-matched flannel jammies. Can it get more romantic than this? I think not.


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In an attempt to cleanse my black soul so I might spread the true meaning of Christmas to all of you...I have sacrificed and confessed the thoughts that dance 'round and 'round inside my head during the Christmas season.

I needed somebody to confess to and since I'm Lutheran and not Catholic, I nabbed Rainy Pete doin' his elf bit at a local department store. (no I don't know why he does it. Let's get back to me.)

My Confession.

1. When I see a department store Santa I have to fight the urge to pull a gun outa my britches, take aim at his booted feet, fire, and holler..."DANCE FAT MAN! DANCE!"

2. I would like to take all the little animated , singing animals off the department store shelves, rip their little heads off and roll them across the nearest busy street. It would tickle me to hear the pop, crunch, splatter of their bitty singing heads as one car after another rolled over them.

3. I like fruitcake.

4. In my head, parking space theives are melted by my super power laser eyeballs, into a puddle of stinking goo.

5. and finally, family members who threaten to cancel Christmas because they're not happy about some thing or another, can kiss my droopy, white, ass cheeks.

There, now I am officially cleansed. All ready for Christmas fun and frolic. Who wants eggnog?

PS. somebody might have to revive Pete.

HELPFUL MAN TIPS
A PUBLIC SERVICE by, CRABBY.



I saw my first street walker the other day, follwed by 2 or 3 more. The convention center apparently is a very lucrative area for them.

Thing I noticed is..... on TV the street walkers look more like this gal.



But in reality, they look more like these ladies (see below). Now, I don't mean to be rude but...guys pay for this??? Really? Seems like it could be .....er....hazardous to your health possibly. If I was a guy and I needed sexual release that badly, I'd buy a dirty book, wig up a nice little sock, maybe draw a pretty face on it and slip it over Mr. Hand. Gotta be safer not to mention, cheaper. Or maybe one of those life sized dolls even. That'd be safe. Stupid, yes. But safe. I mean, do you seriously wanna be walkin around with genital warts on your crotch?