ERRWWWW… ERW… Why is that sticky stuff? Don’t answer that.

The keys have been returned, the lease is done, our responsibilities… over.

Bah, only part of the above is true. The Final Inspection (sounds serious as a testical malfunction doesn’t it?) is tomorrow, and if anything is wrong, say the house is still the dump that it was when moved into for instance, then we get a chance to fix it, otherwise we get our keyesh back.

An hour-and-a-half search of our new house for our old house’s keys yielded nothing more than a couple of throbbing headaches, some colorful swearing (“Pigshitting bugfucker” was my favorite), and my forearms coated in the past three weeks worth of garbage. I DID find that damn remote though, and it wasn’t wedged in my asscheeks like it sometimes can be.

RealEstateLady was terribly nice and understanding about the missing keys though. She didn’t swear at me or demand I drop my pants and march around the office with one thumb in my mouth and the other in mah bum, and as soon as I come dangerously close to causing Shaken Baby Syndrome, one of the kids should cough up the whereabouts of said keys so that we can avoid any further hassles.

Though I wasn’t there to see the state of the old house when Wife moved in, I can only imagine what just a few young, shiftless, weed-smokin blokes can do to a place when one of ’em owns the joint, especially when it wasn’t even cleaned before they dipped out.

Heh heh… “joint”… I kill me.

Washing the walls in the kid’s room was taken on by Wife, and I didn’t envy her the task at all, though I got to spend a day or so at that madcap carnival-like place… The Kitchen O’ Unidentifiable Scum.

I shouldn’t bitch, I mean Wife cleaned the bathroom and toilet too (they’re in different rooms here, like rich people’s bedrooms ‘n shit), but the tedium of scrubbing made my mind a bit wonky as well as reminding me that certain groups of muscles in my forearms haven’t been used since… well, since I moved out here.

Married Life has been good to Judd… REAL good.

I used to think that I was a thorough enough cleaner that I could even have viable employment doing such, but the revelation that I may have been scrubbing a bit too hard when the stain got bigger instead of smaller while coating the sponge in paint chips, was enough to tell me that I should probably use a bit more of my mental processes on the task at hand.

I felt like I had reasonable amounts of logic behind this though, as I was working on a surface, previously unused by any of us, that was coated in something that could only have been created when all of the ants that were surely eating it simultaneously ejaculated onto it before igniting it, as well as themselves.

You know, like that monk during that war, except without the massive amounts of insect semen or that slimy/greasy/sugary base.

I won’t go into detail concerning the unrecognizable substances Wife cleaned off the walls of OtherBroInLaw’s temporary room, but I’ll make a brief reference to a previous surface’s description and let your li’l minds run apeshit wild with that.


The old house wasn’t really that bad, it’s probably nasty only in comparison to how Fuckin’ Sweet this house is. The kids love it, though the constant shuttling from FuckinSweetHouse to CrazyCatLady’s while we clean the old place has taken its toll on both their behavioral patterns and hygiene.

CatLady’s place is layered in… well, cat hair, and the kids receive treats from her, of much stickiness in nature, that create a veneer on their little bodies leaving me wondering if all 73 cats took turns licking and/or urinating on both of our children until some sort of ownership agreement was reached.

As for their behavior, I’m chalking it all up to the up-and-downedness of our days, though I just took a break from writing this to ask my boy if his voice had recently changed.

“Um… no?”

“Did you just start High School? Are you learning to drive?”

“Nooooo… noooo…”

“Are you growing hair in specific places?” I asked while making him lift up his arms to show his pits and causing raucous giggles, “are you dating girls?”

“HAHA! NO Daddy!”

“Then you’re NOT a teenager yet, so please stop with the attitude.”

The kids saw this, and asked Wife loudly, “Are those Gehls?!?” while gesturing to the astoundingly handsome gentlemen in the Tartans of RawWannaHaveSexualCongressWith.

My shower was then promptly interrupted, once again, with a little blonde head and the question of, “Daddy? Are you famous?”

My reply was a resounding, “Yes” and concerned something along the lines of being nekkid underneath loose fabric with the King of all Blogs, Pigmeat WeatherPhenomenon himself.

This reply was quickly clarified that we weren’t nekkid together in a vain attempt to clear up her incredibly confused countenance.

I gotta get some locks on these doors.

Gotta run, fishsticks are in the oven, our DirtKids desperately need a bath (ignore the hissing sound as I lower them in), and Wife is in dire need of consoling after she found out that the word she made up, “tardagain” isn’t as original as she thought.



Go ahead and Google it. Unless we can prove that dude tapped into her brainwaves, she’s not the first to come up with this feat of funninessitude.

And by “dire need of consoling” I mean, “once the kids are in bed it’s NekkidHole time.”

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