How To Do A Terrible Job Refinishing Furniture

The first time I decided to write about taking on a home improvement project around the house I chronicled the natural disaster that was attempting to fix a leaking sink drain in a post entitled I Suck at Home Repairs.

Never one to admit defeat after being resoundingly ineffective at man-type handy work, I recently took up my latest project: Refinishing a piece of furniture. The reason I am refinishing this table certainly has an explanation; And that explanation is some whole thing about furniture having to match the color scheme of our den instead of looking like we plucked a random assortment of home furnishings out of a dumpster and then put them inside for lamps and stuff to go on. However, I think we can all agree that nobody gives a shit about that and we just want to get to the part where I do a really bad job on a table and take pictures of it.

Bottom line, I have a table, and I want that table to be a different color than the color that it currently is so I am going to do a bunch of stuff and make it the color I want.

 
*This is literally my favorite joke in the entire post

*This is literally my favorite joke in the entire post

 

What makes me think I can take on and successfully complete a task of this nature having never attempted it before and generally ruining everything I put my hands on around the house? Two things. One: I read a blog by a lady who said it was super easy and I believe everything I read on internet blogs. Two: Since the last time I attempted and failed miserably at a home project I have grown a beard.

Having a beard adds a skill modifier of at least +4 to all of my manliness rolls, which means I should easily be able to tackle this project despite the fact that I just made a Dungeons and Dragons reference like an enormous nerd.

*mANLINESS GREATLY EXAGGERATED FOR EFFECT, Actual Moustache Fanciness may Vary. Manliness aLSO oFFSET BY wIZARD rOBE.

*mANLINESS GREATLY EXAGGERATED FOR EFFECT, Actual Moustache Fanciness may Vary. Manliness aLSO oFFSET BY wIZARD rOBE.

Anyway, what is always the first step on any burgeoning home improvement project in my household? TO LOWE'S!

Phase One Prep

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The second step is of course getting to Lowe's and realizing I don't have any idea what materials I need for this project and desperately googling "How to refinish furniture" on my phone in the paint aisle like an asshole.

I had dragged Emily with me on the quest for stuff to science a table into a different colored table, so after a considerable amount of arguing about what stuff I would need I left with the following in hand:

 
 
  • 1qt- Paint (Some kind of olive green-ish color that probably has a specific name which I don't care to learn.)
  • 1 container Wipe on Polyurethane
  • 1 baby size roller
  • 1 paintbrush
  • 1 roll blue tape
  • 1 package of dust masks (which I know I'm not going to wear but bought anyway)
  • 150 grit and 80 grit sandpaper (as if I understand what the difference will be) 

With all of my treasures acquired we headed home and I lugged the thing out into the garage to start working.

Approximately 1 hour later I had accomplished an amount of sanding so negligible that I didn't even bother to take a picture of it, worked up a gross amount of sweat for how little progress I made, and decided that I was going to purchase an orbital sander and power tool this b!%$h. 

One day, one trip to Lowe's, and $39.98 later, my new sander and I were ready to sand us a table.   

 
 

After spending an hour making the paint on one square inch of table leg a slightly lighter shade of blue when I was trying sand the table by hand I expected I would come home with my orbital sander, and melt the paint off the table with the precision and expertise of a master craftsman; paint vaporizing instantly beneath every pass of my sander leaving clean, bare wood exposed beneath. This was not the case. Twenty minutes later and:

 
 

I succeeded in making a slightly shittier blue table.  Positive I was either doing it wrong, using the wrong grit of sandpaper or some other novice mistake, and concerned by the fact that even through it was technically working I was going through a sheet of sandpaper every five minutes I did the only thing that made sense. I Got stubborn and kept going. 

 
 

The process was a giant pain in the ass, but it was starting to come along. I sanded until I was really sick of sanding and then called it a day, deciding to come back and finish it off later so that I could get it painted.

That was the last time I touched that table for two entire months. There were a number of reasons I didn't get back to it: Later that initial week my wife and I went out of town for a few days while she went to visit vet schools for interviews, then there was a big snow-storm and the cars were in the garage, then there was a long period of time where it was cold and I didn't feel like it. Then I got the flu. Then there was some more time when I didn't feel like it.

Some of you might be asking, 'Hey, what have you been doing for a table all this time that you've had this one out in the garage not working on it?' 

Good question, friend. I'll tell you. We've been using a sweet red and green plastic tub full of the Christmas ornaments as a table.

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Classy as f#@k. The candle really complements accents of the red and green plastic tub and it just goes so well with the crooked lamp shade. Someone get a hold of  Martha Stewart's people, I think I'm really on to something here.

Anyway, the guilt and shame of having left this project half finished for so long finally caught up to me and I decided it was time to get down to business. 

Full disclosure; It still took me two weeks between the "Its time to get down to business" motivational decision and actually doing anything with the table.

Once I -did- start, I was not going to be stopped, that table was going to get sanded until there was no more blue paint to be found! NOTHING WOULD STAND IN MY WAY! Except that I used up my last piece of  sand paper about fifteen minutes in and had to stop.

Two days later I found myself once more in Lowe's looking for some more sandpaper. This time however, I made a discovery that would prove critical.

Apparently THIS:

Is not intended to strip paint off of wood. It's only supposed to be used on drywall. This certainly explains why I was going through a sheet every ten minutes and used an entire pack while only managing to sand a third of the table. You know what though? How was I supposed to know it was the wrong stuff? I mean, sure it was in the section with the drywall stuff, and sure it says 'DRYWALL' on the package in all capital bold letters right at the top but anyone could have made that mistake. 

So, not wanting to repeat my mistake, I went on over to the section with the power tools and on the wall literally two feet away from where I bought the sander was the heavy duty stuff actually intended for the job I was trying to do:

You can tell it's the right stuff because of the picture of those rugged man hands sanding a deck or whatever.

Now equipped with my power sander and proper bits of sandpaper it was go-time for real.

 It was glorious. The paint came off like... paint being sanded off by a sander. After spending hours laboriously attacking this table, gnashing my teeth and cursing every time I ruined another sheet of that drywall sandpaper to get jack-all done this was like heaven. 

I sanded, and sanded some more. I may have gone a little power mad for a bit, swept up in the ecstasy of conquering the shit out of that piece of furniture. I was like "Yeah, coarse grit for paint removal!" as I buzzed away the blue paint which had been taunting me for months. Then I was all "Whammo! Medium finishing grit! Fine finishing Grit! Suck it table, I'm the human here! My opposable thumbs and not being an inanimate object make me the goddamn boss!"

I sanded until I was happy with the result and then I sanded a little bit more because I was kind of into using the sander and I got carried away.

After three months I had finally succeeded in turning that table from blue to not blue.

I was pretty pleased with myself at this point. Sanding was done, so all that was left to do was to scuff, prime, scuff again, paint three coats scuffing between each, stain the top, stain drawers and cabinets, apply the polyurethane finish put all the hardware back on and then reassemble everything. Piece of cake.

Phase 2: Prime and Paint

After a refresher Google search for how to refinish furniture I learned that if I wanted my coats of primer and paint to go on nicely without a bunch of crap stuck to the table I needed to get tack cloth to wipe everything down between sandings.

I didn't know what tack cloth was, though I guess I really should have put two and two together based on the name. It's basically just a piece of cheese cloth that is sort of sticky that you wipe over the furniture to pull off any stray dust or hairs or whatever.

Off to Lowe's again I guess.

 
 

Tack cloth acquired, I went home wiped everything down, taped off the parts I didn't want painted and applied a coat of primer.

Next day, on went the first Coat of Paint.

 
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Then a second coat of Paint.

 
 

The thing I read said to do three coats of paint but... meh. Close enough. ON TO PHASE THREE!

Phase 3: Stain and Protect

Almost done now. The end is in sight. Just gotta sand down those cabinets and drawers, re-stain it all and put on the polyurethane I got to finish it all off.

Looks like I get to go to town with my sander again.

(note: I somehow lost the photo I took of the sanded down cabinets, so please enjoy this stock photo of a grapefruit instead

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After I finished the sanding I realized two things. First, two of the knobs from the drawers and cabinets were wrecked up, so I was going to have to replace them. Second, I have no idea what I did with the wood stain I bought three months ago and was going to have to go buy more.

Guess where I had to go, again?

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Determined that this would be my last visit to Lowe's for this god-forsaken table, I made sure I got everything I needed.

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Apparently reading the labels on stuff helps when you don't know what you are doing. I left the store with my stain, something called pre-stain which I suspected might be a scam to make me spend an additional 8 bucks on a product that doesn't actually do anything, some rags, a bunch of foam brushes and four new knobs for the drawers. 

I went home, followed the instructions on my various wood treating products, and got down to business. First was the pre-stain and then stain fifteen minutes later.

Then after another fifteen minutes or so the polyurethane went on. Two coats with a few hours apart to let it dry as recommended by the good people at Minwax.

I let it air dry for a day, put all the doors and cabinets back in place and hauled my completed table outside to admire my manly achievement.

Besides one of the cabinet doors being weirdly darker than everything else and there being a few spots where you can see I did a shitty job with the sander if you look close enough it all turned out passable. In the end, we no longer have to use the Christmas ornament box in the den and that is what really matters.

Five tips to Lowe's and three months to complete, but I have conquered this table. I am the manliest of men.


P.S.

Griff photobombing my first attempt at taking that last picture


Also P.S.

As promised. The dust masks that I didn't use.

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I'm probably going to die of breathing in lead paint dust.

Milk Mustache


A man can dream cant he? Also, please ignore the fact that the milk is shaded too dark. Maybe it's chocolate milk or something, OK?! Ir maybe the way I tried to color in the glass made it turn the wrong color when I put the black and white filter over it. One of those two for sure.

I'm trying a thing I'm calling comic strip Friday. As it turns out I have a lot of stupid thoughts that don't make sense as a long form post or anything, so I've been making them into short little comics. Until I can figure out a better way to format them on the site I'll just post them on the main page.

My Friend Had a Baby!

I had a new experience recently. For the first time in my life I found myself in a situation where I actually give a shit about a baby.

Okay, so I realize that sounds bad, but I don't mean it like I'd watch a baby wander into traffic and not get up to help because I was just really into the sandwich I was eating at the time. I'm not a monster. It's just that i'm not interested in babies outside of ones that are actually related to me, unless they are actively doing something amazing like break-dancing, or they are involved in some sort of adorable hijinks  involving the family dog. 

Even though a lot of people won't admit it, I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in that feeling either. It seems to be an unspoken rule that new parenthood is just one of those things that we all tolerate people oversharing about on Facebook. When presented with people's babies, either digitally or in real life we l make the appropriate noises, click 'like' or whatever and then get on with our day continuing to give exactly the same amount of a crap about that person's baby as we did before. Which is 0.

I'm at that age where a lot of my friends are getting married and some of them are starting to have children, so my social media is particularly ripe with pregnant people, pictures of babies and other such nonsense. Now, I don't begrudge people for sharing their baby pictures and living under the delusion that anyone cares that Jr. looked particularly cute sleeping today versus when he was sleeping yesterday; I'm going to be a goddamn nightmare when I have kids. I mean, I've got an entire website to fawn over my future children with, so arguably my offspring will be a worse offender of spamming people's newsfeeds than the babies we're all pointedly not caring about now. 

Despite my general disinterest in other people's babies, when one of my oldest friends and her husband had their first baby just a few days ago, I discovered that I actually care about his existence. Not in the fake way that most of us usually pretend to be interested in babies but legitimately. Like, I want to meet him and I want to get him a tiny baby  present and whatever other stuff you do with a baby. Hold him up like Simba maybe.

When she first told me she and her husband were going to have a baby the conversation went like this:

Her: *texts photo of ultrasound* "Hello Uncle Matt"

Me: ...

Me: First of all, Congratulations. Second of all. I will pay you one million dollars to name that baby Volcano-Halfpipe.

Her: Well what if it's a girl?

Me: Last time I checked Volcano Halfpipe is a unisex name. You will have the most epic of babies.

Her: OMG, that is the best baby name I've ever heard and I will for sure name my baby Volcano Halfpipe*

*response paraphrased, but that's totally what she said. For real.

As you can see, we have a special kind of relationship where she can text me with enormous life changing news for her new family and I can immediately insist she name the baby something preposterous. And by preposterous I mean f*#%ing awesome.

The appropriate incubation period later, she sent me the following:

 
 

It's good to see she has at least embraced Volcano Halfpipe as the baby's name, or at the very least accepts the fact that I will call him this for the entire rest of his life regardless of her opinion on the matter.

In my mind that baby is the most metal baby on the planet. I want that baby to do a kickflip off a ramp while jumping over a bunch of other babies and shooting a lazer gun as an explosion goes off in the background.

It's a really weird to think that someone I've known since we were basically kids now has an entire person that they made and are going to teach to be a human. It's even weirder that opposed to the general apathy I have towards other people having babies, I'm 100% thrilled for her and her husband, and am really excited about him.

I don't know what it is that has stirred this change for me. I kind of feel like the Grinch when his heart grows three sizes and smashes that x-ray machine. At first I thought maybe it was just a by-product of the fact that I'm maturing and my values are becoming more adult and complex. I considered that I may be at the point in my life where I am starting to become a mature person with a grown up outlook on life.

Then I remembered that I spent two and a half hours yesterday drawing a cartoon of an anthropomorphic head of lettuce gingerly dipping it's butt-cheeks into a bowl of water, so clearly I've not undergone any personal growth since the fourth grade.

 However, I do think part of the reason is that as I get to the point where having kids starts to appear on the horizon in my own life, it's resonating with me in a way it never has before. Sure with Emily going to vet school it's still at least several years off, but the concept is a lot more real than it ever has been. Its a lot less foreign of a concept than it has ever been before.

Ultimately though, I think I'm just getting sentimental over the fact that it seems like I was just getting dropped off at an amusement park by my parents to hang out with my friend and her new boyfriend who she wanted me to meet for the first time and now they are married and created an entirely new human being. I love them both dearly, and although the extent of my interaction so far with their new son has been a picture sent to me via text I already love him too.

Welcome to the world young Volcano Halfpipe. May you shred harder than any other baby and may you grow up to be an unmitigated badass in all things.

It's the Future.

In case anyone was wondering, and I know you were, quite a bit of time and energy goes into the creation of those longer form stories like The Laptop Charger, Night of 1000 Dog Farts, or Star Wars

It can take weeks to complete one depending on how many pictures I have to do. Part of the reason the process is so arduous is that I do things pretty low tech.

For posts like the ones I mentioned above, the process of doing one drawing from start to finish goes something like this:

First I do an initial sketch.

 
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Next I take that sketch, clean it up and trace it onto a new sheet of paper, getting it just the way I want it.

 
 

After that I ink the drawing and put in the shading.

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Next I use a scanner to scan the inked drawing onto the computer, to get a .jpeg format image.

 
 

After that I have to crop it to the proper size and upload it to this site which has a few rudimentary tools for editing images. I mess around with the brightness and whatnot to get it as close as I can to not looking like it's a scanned piece of paper.

 
 

If at any point I mess up my lines, get a stray mark on the paper, or the scan comes out kind of funny, it usually means going as far back in the process as re-drawing a new version from my original rough sketch, then doing the whole process over again.

It's kind of a pain in the ass. Not to mention I go through mechanical pencils, micron pens and pads of sketch paper like crazy.

BUT NO MORE!

The future is here and it is in the form of thing I bought called a drawing tablet. 

It's basically a device that lets you draw on it with a stylus and use a program like photoshop to create illustrations. That means I can do my drawings for this site right on the computer and not have to deal with the 432344562 steps it takes to do everything by hand. PROGRESS!

It's a pretty weird experience using the thing as you see what you are drawing on your computer screen instead of under your hand. It's kind of like having to re-learn how to draw. Actually, a better example might be if you remember art class when you were a kid and they did that thing where you have to draw a picture without looking down at the paper? Sort of like that.

 There are about sixteen million features to learn how to use, but it's a lot of fun and at least I don't have to scan two dozen pictures by hand for every post anymore. So yay. 

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  And hey, color!

Freempf

Have you ever had a mundane experience where you thought, "Huh, That is the first time this particular event has ever happened to me" and feel like it seems super weird that whatever the thing was has never happened to you before that moment?  

For example: one time I looked down at my feet while I was walking and I saw my shoe come untied. I literally saw the exact moment it happened.

You may be thinking to yourself what a stupid example that is, but consider, have you ever seen the exact moment your shoe comes untied? Like, the EXACT moment it happens? Its not like you go around staring at your shoes all the time in the off chance your laces are about to do something slightly more interesting than hold your sketchers on your foot.  I bet its it's only like, 40 people in North America. My 39 associates and I should start a gang. With Jackets. Or top hats. And jet packs.

Not so smug about my example now, are you? My top hat-jetpack gang turn our noses up at you. But I digress.

Believe it or not, I was going somewhere with this and it had nothing to do with shoelaces. That was just a happy little detour down wishful thinking lane we all just took together.

Where I was going with this was that on more than one occasion I've had the distinct feeling that I'm experiencing something completely run of the mill for the first time ever. Furthermore, after that first occurrence it's as if some cosmic switch was flipped and that weird random thing happens like, twelve times in a row. 

This whole idea kind of seems like one of those hyper-specific feelings that should have its own suspiciously made up sounding term. If you don't know what I'm talking about google "words for really specific feelings" or something similar. Buzzfeed is sure to have at least one list of them that you "won't believe".

It would be like Schadenfreude for pointless life occurrences. The Germans have words for everything, right? Someone call the Germans and tell them to get cracking on this one. Something like Fraufingazen or, Blintzengruben, or Freempf.

I had a pretty Freempfy week this week.

I had a stranger stop me in a parking lot and ask me to help jump his car on Monday. Nothing weird about that in and of itself, but it did occur to me that I've never had a stranger ask me to jump start their car before.

Full disclosure, I may have had a moment where I tried to figure out how a stranger asking me for a jump in the crowded parking lot of a Shop-Rite could potentially be a trick to rob and/or serial murder me, but it all turned out fine. All said and done I felt good about helping somebody, I got the pasta sauce and craisins I had been dispatched to retrieve and there was 0% robbing or murdering.

The weird part is that after having my first experience jump starting a stranger's car, it happened twice more over the next three days.

I went from a 26-year streak of never having had a stranger ask for a jump to having it happen three times in a week. Granted, a good chunk of those 26 years doesn't count, as at no point in my early life did I ever find myself in a hilarious driving-baby type situation. 

The ability of babies to work jumper cables aside, it seems super weird to me that this week was the the first time it's happened and then it happened three times in a row. The first two times it happened, the person who needed a jump had cables in their vehicle.  The third time, which was in the parking lot of Wal Mart, the couple asked if I had the cables, which I did not. 

After telling them I couldn't help them and going into the store, the combination of feeling bad that they were stuck and super weird about the fact that I kept having people ask me for a jump prompted me to purchase a set of jumper cables with the intention of catching them on my way out and giving them a hand. Much like in the story of how I ended up with a box of pulled pork and an avocado, this plan also backfired. 

When I came out of the store, the people who had needed a jump were no longer at their car. The spot in front of them was open, so I moved my vehicle into place so that If they came back I could give them the jump. They didn't reappear though. I figured I'd wait a few minutes, thinking maybe they went in to buy jumper cables themselves and I'd just help them when they came back out.  

After about five minutes, when they didn't return I got super uncomfortable that it would seem really weird that I had purchased a set of jumper cables and then just sat in the parking lot near their car for them.

At eight minutes, paranoid of seeming like a complete creep, I bailed. 

And now I own some jumper cables:

At least it seems purchasing the cables was what it took to break the cycle of Freempf. I haven't been asked to jump anyone's car since getting them.

Moral of the story. Sometimes weird stuff happens. And Jetpack Tophat Gang is awesome.

Happy Easter

With today being Easter, I felt it appropriate to share this picture of my wife my mother-in-law sent me.

Dear sweet zombie Jesus, where does one even begin? I can't decide what the best part is. Is it the Easter Bunny's red, possessed demon eyes? Is it the oversized jean jacket?  The bowl cut/mullet combo that is just perfectly lopsided enough to prominently display some sort of random head wound is a pretty strong contender.

The yellow and white circus tent wallpaper behind them really pulls the scene together in just the right way to complete the nightmare aesthetic. Everything in this picture is point-for-point exactly what what you would expect a serial molester to pick out for some sort of creep wall vision-board in his basement.

 The longer I look at it the harder I laugh. I just can't decide who seems more likely to appear in a meth addicts fever dream hovering over their bed with a ball gag and a scalpel.

Candidate 1:

Or candidate two:

I honestly have nothing else to write about this. There is no post here, it just makes me so happy.

In the spirit of fairness, if I'm going to share this childhood horror of Emily, here is this little gem of me when I was a youngster. Apparently I was Sylvester the cat for Halloween one year.

Happy Zombie Jesus Day.

Night of 1000 Dog Farts: Part 2

This is the second part to Night of 1000 Dog Farts: Part 1.

When last we joined our intrepid hero, he was elbow deep in dog excrement and begrudgingly playing a game of 'find the feces' in the living room.

The foster dog, Riley, had escaped from her crate using a combination of dog ninjitsu/ Nightcrawler style teleportation and eaten her entire body weight in Olive's special fish diet chow. She then shat on every surface in the house until I came home and found her.

Upon booting both Riley and Olive out of the house I had just completed my search for all of the dog messes. 45 minutes, 2/3 of a bottle of Resolve and an entire roll of paper towels later I believed I had found all the Lincoln logs there were to be found so I let the dogs back into the house.

Using one of the 621413057129371823957 plastic grocery bags that my wife compulsively hoards in our kitchen drawers, I gathered up all of the paper towels and other disjecta membra from my cleaning spree and took them out to the garbage can. A process which takes roughly 12 seconds to complete.


 
 

I considered writing a warning before continuing on to the next bit of the story but I figure if you've made it this far, you're in to the end. Strap in, it's about to get gross up in here.

When I came back in from depositing the trash outside, I discovered that like a poo seeking missile, Olive had located a giant dog poo I had missed near a lamp in the den and was in the process of devouring it like some sort of a lumpy brown afternoon snack.

I tried to stop her from polishing off the poo by yelling at her to get away from it while I rushed over, to no avail.


 
 

 
 

 
 

 
 

 
 

As thoroughly disgusting as this was, it was merely a brief glimpse of the horrors that would soon begin.

You may recall from Part 1 that I mentioned Olive is on a fish based diet because of a food allergy to poultry. An innocuous detail at the time, but I did say that it would prove to be important later.

Later being about an hour after the last of the cleanup and the poo eating took place. That's when the farts started.

At first it was just Riley. Her system was not prepared for Olives's special fish diet at all, so the fact that she had ingested a weeks worth of completely foreign chow over the course of an hour meant there was a battle raging in her intestines. The gurgling coming from that dog's stomach was audible from across the room and within minutes of the first warning signs, a full scale olfactory assault began.  


 
 

As everyone knows there are all kinds of different farts; regular farts, silent but deadly farts, church farts, meat farts, jogging farts and so on. Usually though only human farts get their own special titles, typically our canine friends have their malodorous emissions relegated to the blanket category of "Dog Farts."

The putrid expulsion of gas that started coming out of that dog was far and away too vile and reprehensible to share a classification with something so innocuous and hilarious as a dog fart. These were not the type of farts that smell for a second and then fade away into a fond memory memory of Fido tooting himself awake. No, these were the kind that settled in the air and lingered like a heavy, deadly fog. They clung to the furniture and burned the eyes. There was  no escape from it.



Ever smelled something so bad it coated your tongue and you could taste it for the rest of the day? It was like that. The smell was so bad it was basically like being suffocated  by a hitman wielding a rag soaked in liquefied rotten eggs that somebody pulled off of a river corpse.


 
 

As if it weren't toxic enough, about twenty minutes into Riley's intestinal emission torture Olive started farting as well. That giant goddamn turd I couldn't stop her from eating had apparently created some sort of bowel movement Trojan horse situation and carried whatever biological warfare was taking place inside of one dog over to the other.   


 
 

The Symphony of death farts was like a woodwind ensemble comprised entirely of anuses playing instruments making a mockery of Beethoven's Symphony No. 9.

It literally stunk up the entire first floor our our house. When Emily came home from work a few hours later, entering at the opposite side of the house from where the dogs were she said, and I quote "As soon as I walked in the door it was like getting punched in the face by a wall of farts"



Whatever interior distress these two dogs were going through was apparently not planning on resolving itself in any sort of timely fashion. A continual stream of stomach gurgling and dog farts carried on well into the night making the entire house smell vaguely of rancid meat and death.


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By around 11:45 we were ready to go to bed, so upstairs we all went, two furry butts crop dusting the entire house on their way to the bedroom where we put them in the large crate that had their beds in it. The only problem was that what had been a neigh unbearable stench when there was a large open space for it to dissipate over became equivalent to tear gas when confined within the bedroom.

Besides not being able to breath or sleep, it was getting to the point where the stink was so foul and the two dogs looked so bloated, we were worried they might fart themselves to death. Emily called one of the vets she works with at  about 12:00 AM to explain the situation and ask what we could do about it.

The answer? Go to the store and buy an anti-gas medicine. Those pills where the commercial is various people looking really uncomfortable while watching a sports game, going on a picnic or having a job interview as tuba music plays in the background? Those.


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Apparently its cool to feed those to dogs in case you were wondering. 

So good news and bad news. Good news is we can give the dogs some of these fart pills and it should stem the tide of their murder poots. Bad news is I have to go out to Walmart past midnight on a Tuesday to purchase said fart pills.

Going to Walmart after midnight on a weeknight in order to purchase fart medicine is probably on my top list of things I never, ever want to do. Right behind fighting a wolverine with my bare hands and having Donald Trump lightly brush his cotton-candy-made-out-of-urine hair against my face.


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First of all, the Walmart crowd can be rough at any time of the day but nobody goes to Walmart at midnight on a weekday for any normal reason. I was not looking forward to the parade of sweat pant wearing zombies buying-thirty five cans of wet cat food and a pair of Dora the Explorer child's rain boots I was about to be exposed to.


Second, the thought of having to go into a store and look a cashier in the face while I buy fart medicine is mortifying enough. The fact that I have to do it at midnight makes me want to light myself on fire.

To make matters even worse, for some reason my wife decided she needed cranberry juice since I was going out anyway.

This is my nightmare. It's going on 1 a.m on a Wednesday, I've waded through a sea of super high people looking for industrial sized Doritos, and probable murder-molesters to get my items and am now standing in front of a cashier who's pissed because not only does she have to work the bullshit 1 a.m shift, now she actually has to deal with somebody because here I come with my fart medicine and cranberry juice.


 
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In my head it's like I've walked up to this stranger and announced I've got a case of the butt rumbles so severe that I had to leave my house at ONE IN THE GODDAMN MORNING to get medicine for it.

"How d'yo do ma'am? Just here to pick up some fart medicine in a desperate attempt to stem the explosive propulsion of methane that has been and may currently be firing out of my back end. Also, all this farting has made me thirsty and I've got a real hankering for some cranberry juice." 

Horrified at my predicament, I desperately needed to figure out a way to naturally slip it into the conversation that the medicine was for my dogs, not myself.


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It went poorly. I'm not even sure what I said, but there isn't really a normal way to just drop in that you are buying fart medicine at 1 a.m. for some dogs completely unsolicited. 

I'm pretty sure I just convinced her more that the fart medicine was for me because of my weird excuse dropping, but she didn't say anything so I just got out of there as fast as possible.

In the end the fart medicine took care of the dog farts and everyone was able to get some sleep. But the house smelled for like two days afterwards.

Also, the cranberry juice was good.

The end.



Eyebrows on Fleek

Sometimes I see things on Facebook and have thoughts.  

I saw this thing on my Facebook a while back as I was just nonsensing around, scrolling through stuff:

All I could think was this:

 
 

I bought and ruined a pair of those glasses with the nose and moustache for this...

On the bright side These bold brows did make my beauty look better. I'm fierce AF right now.

Just Some Stuff That Was On My Phone

Sometimes I take pictures of stuff on my phone, you know, as one does. But then sometimes I go back into my phone later and I'm like "Jesus crap, what the hell is this picture?" and "Why did I take fourteen pictures of the dogs sleeping on the sofa?"

I don't like clutter on my phone, so I pretty regularly go through and delete pictures and things off my phone to save space and keep everything nice and tidy. Folding and putting away laundry is like having hot nails driven into my kidneys, but I don't mess around when it comes getting rid of the clutter on my devices.

Besides pictures, I also regularly purge stuff like text messages, voicemails, and other junk that builds up over time. I'll be all like "Why the hell do I have six different workout/meal planner apps, a dice rolling app and an app that just makes fart noises?" DELETE!!!!

I mean obviously the fart noises app stays but the rest of that shit was just taking up space and needed to go. Cherished life moments and meaningful conversations be damned. Papa needs storage space. Plus lets be real it was 99% texts with Emily trying to figure out what we are going to have for dinner and talking about when the dogs pooped last.

In the spirit of not everything being forever lost to the digital abyss (Digital Abyss would be a sick band name) here are a few of the things that were in my camera roll:

Murder horse from a western themed restaurant near us.

 
 

I feel like I should explain. There is a restaurant near us that has a western thing going on. One of those places that nailed a bunch of cowboy and indians junk to the wall and called it a day. The food is really good though so we eat there sometimes.

We've been there a bunch of a times before but the last time we went was the first time I noticed this thing in their foyer. His creep-ass dirty doll hair, along with his inexplicably lumpy deformed body aside, its really the eyes that are the worst part.

 
 

Sweet buns on a baboon those eyes are nightmare fuel. What is wrong with them? Why does he have the eyes of a human serial killer? What does he want from me? Does he want to cut off all my skin devour my soul and then steal all of my hair to add to his own suspiciously lifelike tufts?

Looks like we're never going back to that restaurant.

This Cat.

This cat hangs out around our house. I'm pretty sure he sleeps in our garage. We've had a lot less mice in the house since we started seeing him so I figure he's hooking me up. Since hes pulling his weight I figure he's cool to chill out. I call him Muffin.

Thing is, Muffin isn't usually keen on me getting near him. Whenever I see him he runs off and watches me from a safe distance until I go away.

Except this one time when for some reason he was super friendly. I came home from the gym one time with a Pizza I was bringing home for dinner and he was just chilling on the table by our side lot. I went over to him and hopped down to check me out. He let me pet him and stuff and I gave him a little chunk of Pizza, it was pretty awesome.

After that one time he went right back to running away from me. What happened Muffin? I thought we were bros. Maybe he just wanted me for my Pizza.

The best goddamn thing that has ever happened involving a piece of string getting on a shirt of all time.

 
 

This is a shirt I own. It is a kitten attacking the empire state building like King Kong. It is awesome and if you think otherwise you have no sense of fashion. 

The other night when I was brushing my teeth I looked in the mirror and noticed the greatest thing I have ever witnessed in my life.

A piece of string got on my shirt in this exact placement:

 
 

This is the conversation that took place following this discovery:

Matt: *runs into room with toothbrush in mouth* Oh my god, look at where this string went on my shirt!

Emily: *reading her book in bed* What?

Matt: The string! Look at it, it's not part of the shirt, it just got on there in that position.

Emily: Okay...

Matt: Isn't it funny? It's like right there. It's like he's playing with the string.

Emily: ....

Matt: ...

Matt: It's a kitten, and it looks like he's playing with the string.

Emily: Okay... you're cute, go finish brushing your teeth.

Matt: No, it's funny though! Just look at it

Emily: *Goes back to reading* I saw it already.

Matt: You have no appreciation for the cosmic beauty of this situation.

Seriously guys. The string just ended up there on it's own. Just like he was playing with it. JUST LIKE IT.

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