Attention drunk drivers!

If you need a ride home desperately enough to steal (and operate) someone else's car, YOU SHOULD not take one that stands out in a crowd.

Like this guy.

Thank you, Carol!

Stupid dog

It's all Cooper's fault.

Last night we had a lot of rain, which he hates. So he was up pacing and growling, jumping on and off our bed, and randomly barking (he hasn't figured out yet that barking at rain won't make it leave).

At some point Mrs. Grumpy decided to take him to the other end of the house to try and calm him down, and fell asleep on the couch.

As the night progressed the storm scared Craig, who came to our room. When he discovered my wife was missing, he climbed into the bed and fell asleep.

Then Marie woke up. When she realized her partner-in-crime was missing, she came to our room. She found him, and got into bed, too.

Frank got up to pee, and noticed the twins were gone. So he came to our room, discovered the situation, and jumped into the bed.

After the storm ended Cooper and Snowball came down to the bedroom, and jumped up with the rest of us.

I woke up early this morning with my left arm and leg, and most of my body, hanging off the bed because I'd been pushed off. And I was freezing cold because the kids had taken all the covers.

Mrs. Grumpy got a good night's sleep on the couch.

Stupid dog.

But wait! There's more!

Ok, it's time for more of your submissions showing the insane overuse of the word "artisan" and it's derivatives these days.

Before we get started, I should note that many of you have recently sent in excerpts from the J. Crew catalog using the words to describe their clothing, fabrics, and (for all I know) toilet paper. There were just too many of those to choose from.


First, I'd like to thank Doris for submitting a special banner for me to use here.




And we're off!

For those of you who find your nose is easily offended by generic pseudo-pheromone smells, there's now artisan cologne:



Need something artisanal for your artisanal home? Maybe you should visit:







If you can't afford the premium charged by companies for using the word "artisan" (usually it seems to be a 50% or more mark-up) you can get discounted artisanal products with on-line coupons.






After the cheese, maybe you'd like some chocolate.





If you've had too much cheese and chocolate, you might need to see a dentist.






And while YOU may get to enjoy artisanal products, let's not forget about your best friend.




At this point, I think it's time for all this artisanal overuse to STOP!

Attention patients!

When I ask if you're taking Coumadin, PLEASE remember that you are BEFORE I start putting needles in you for an EMG, not suddenly saying "Oh, wait, I think I am taking Coumadin" as blood goes flying everywhere.

Thank you.

Dear Sam's Club,

Thank you for the letter I received yesterday, notifying me that the Christmas cookie trays we bought last year, for office and family parties, have been recalled due to "undeclared food coloring ingredients".


(Click to enlarge)



From what I can see on your website, it was a nationwide recall. So I'm sharing the letter with my readers, in case they still have some Christmas cookies lying around.

Your letter requests that I return the cookies to my local Sam's Club. After carefully questioning family members and employees as to their current whereabouts, I am unable to bring them back to your store at this time.

If it's absolutely critical that you get the cookies back, I suggest you contact the Grumpyville Sewage Treatment Facility. I think they give tours on Mondays.

Yours truly,

Ibee Grumpy, M.D.

P.S. Mary says you can have them (and some PB M&M's) back by doing liposuction on me.

BUSTED!!!

The following message was left on Mary's voicemail at 10:08 this morning:

"Hi, this is Karen Java. I have a 10:00 appointment with Dr. Grumpy, and I'm running late. Traffic is horrible (whispered: grande, please, with whip cream), and I think there's an accident or something (whispered: and a blueberry scone, too). Anyway, it's bumper-to-bumper, so I may be a few minutes late (whispered: Thank you, I have a gift card, here). Sorry. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Wedded bliss

Dr. Grumpy: "Ma'am, have you noticed if you wear one shoe down more than the other?"

Mrs. Marcos: "I'm not sure."

Mr. Marcos: "You can't tell. Doc, you should see her closet. I don't think she's ever worn the same pair twice."

Drug interactions

I'd like to thank Effenormous Pharmacy for this fax. They sent it yesterday, warning me that a drug I'd prescribed (Drug A) had a potential interaction with one from the patient's internist, Dr. Tutone (Drug B).

Except for the names and phone numbers, I haven't changed anything.

(click to enlarge)




And thank you Dr. Pissy for volunteering his handwriting!

I guess that would be Dr. Grumpy then

Guy walks in, stands at front desk.

Mary: "Are you here to see Dr. Pissy or Dr. Grumpy?"

Mr. Guy: "Sure! Which one works here?"

Mary: "They both do."

Mr. Guy: "Yeah, I'll see that one."

Taking requests

Mrs. Znot: "I brought my head MRI films. It was done yesterday, and I want you to show me something."

(hands me a DVD)

Dr. Grumpy: (loading disk in computer): "Sure. What are you wondering about?"

Mrs. Znot (pulls out plastic baggie with disgusting little green slimy object): "This."

Dr. Grumpy: "Uh... That's..."

Mrs. Znot: "It's a huge booger..."

Dr. Grumpy: "Yes, I can see that."

Mrs. Znot: "... and I blew it out of my nose about an hour after the MRI, so can you show it to me in the pictures?"

Day at the races

This past weekend, for those of you who were fortunate enough to miss it, was (at least in my area) the Boy Scouts Pinewood Derby.

This annual event was actually once rated as one of the 100 greatest things about America (Reader's Digest magazine, 2006). I can only assume that the author had never been involved in one, or that in 2006 the country had absolutely gone to hell.

The point of this "friendly competition" is to build little cars and race them down a slanted track. Each 8-11 year old is given a standardized block of wood and 4 wheels, and can do what they want with them. Since the stakes are so high (winner gets a plastic trophy from Big Lots), the cars are carefully examined, weighed, and locked away 3 days before the race. This is to make sure that illegal modifications, like adding a jet engine, aren't carried out.

The whole part about this being a competition among the boys is absolute BS. It's between their testosterone charged fathers, living vicariously through the kids. Dads build the cars, and (occasionally) let junior make a few finishing touches (like putting a Pokemon decal on).

Of course, no one actually admits to this. So at each derby one of the finest moments is when the person in charge brings in the cars from the nuclear-bomb proof hiding location, and boys go ask dad which car is theirs. "Oh! That's mine? Cool job, Dad!"

(In our family, it's actually Mrs. Grumpy who does all this. I'm just a shill).

You can always tell the ones that the boys actually made themselves because they have uneven paint jobs, strange angles, and an odd number of wheels. Of course, they never win a race, because they're no match for the ones that some dad, who by day designs jet fighters for Lockheed, built (and claimed his kid did, using a wind tunnel testing facility that's coincidentally in the basement).

They ask you to arrive at 6:00 p.m. SHARP, which is a joke. The races never start on time.

So we arrived at the Wingnut Elementary School cafeteria at exactly 6:00, to find they'd just started setting up. To lend atmosphere (and help us forget that we were in a school cafeteria) some guys were hanging racing posters and pennants everywhere. A bunch of moms were off in one corner setting up a bake sale. And, most importantly, several dads were putting up the racing track, grading it with a computerized angle & level measuring device, as if it were made of gold.

While this is going on, to get you in a cheerful mood, they show fun racing moments on a large screen: cars and drivers in gory high-speed wrecks, flaming rocket boats hurtling out-of-control into screaming crowds, Indy cars exploding as they fuel up, and other humorous stuff.

Finally the races begin. This is kicked off by them blasting early 90's dance music. So if you've had a burning desire to hear C & C Music Factory, M.C. Hammer, and (not early 90's) ENDLESS replays of "The History of Rock & Roll, part 2"*, this is the place to be.

Each race features 4 cars, and they run them 3-4 times each, changing lanes each time. The race itself takes 5-10 seconds. Then they hand-carry the cars back to the starting point. Each is then reinspected (to make sure their owner didn't, say, use a blowgun to secretly attach a V8 engine while they were going down the track), carefully returned to the starting gate, and we begin again. And in the background 2 guys are still busy putting up racing poster decorations.

The race results are presented on a constantly-changing computerized time sheet, projected on the wall. This, I swear, measures finishing times TO SIX DECIMAL PLACES (i.e. 5.756381 seconds). Because, you know, that kind of space-travel level of precision is absolutely necessary when small wooden blocks are rolling down a track. And the dads obsessively stare at this like it's a topless dancer, while the kids play their Nintendo DS.

At some point your kids come to you asking for money. Why? Because they're selling pizza and various other junk food. They even asked you to bring something, because it's "for a good cause" (they never tell you what the good cause is. For all I know it's Botox for the counter lady). So you stop at Costco, pick up a HUGE box of Oreos, and give them to her. The Oreos are then marked up to 50 cents each, and the box is now worth more than an equivalent amount of plutonium. We discovered it was best to feed the kids before leaving our house, and making sure we have nothing but credit cards when we get there. "They only take cash? Sorry, kids."

This insanity goes on for 3-4 freakin' hours. Most people start to leave as soon as their kid is disqualified from the finals, but some parents (due to, say, their wives secretly signing them up to be involved in taking apart the damn track and not telling you about it until you ask if you can leave yet, for example) are stuck there until the bitter end. So you tap your feet and watch 2 guys continue to heroically put up racing posters.

Toward the end you start looking for something to do. Like helping the school janitor put away the folding chairs (he wants to go home, too). So if anyone stands up, you grab their chair and toss it in the closet, hoping they weren't planning on sitting down again. I figured if anyone fell and hurt themselves, I could hand out business cards.

Finally, it's over. If your kid didn't win, you don't care who did. As you're leaving, you notice the 2 guys are finally finishing putting up the last racing poster.


*Kind of ironic considering how Gary Glitter ended up, eh?

We all scream for ice cream

My kids (okay, me too) like ice cream. Who doesn't?

And whenever a new, cool-sounding flavor shows up at Local Ice Cream Shoppe, I'll usually try a taste spoon, and maybe order it.

This one, however, I'll have to think about... Even if it is artisanal.

Thank you, Wellillbe!

Early Sunday morning rounds

I got dragged into the hospital to do a consult, and discovered this line in another doctor's dictation:

"I warned the patient that potential problems could include death, serious complications of death, and severe death."

What a deal

Webhill sent in this non-artisanal restaurant sign that she passed on the street recently.





Personally, I don't want to pay $21.99 to get crabs. Even if the lady in the picture is the one giving them to me. That special shampoo is expensive.

But I do like the camera angle, which appears to have been used so you can personally verify whether or not she does, indeed, have crabs.