Archive for the ‘You Damn Kids’ Category

Lucky Shot

December 15, 2008

Howzabout some privacy?


The Disturbing Facts of Life

May 17, 2008

In the wake of having The Talk with the boys about all things biologic, the hits just keep on coming.

The other day, Mrs. Sarcastro gave out the warning that she was starting her monthly reign of terror as determined by the lunar cycle.  As always, I am appreciative of such information as it gives us time to stockpile supplies in an interior room of the house such as a bathroom or closet where we can wait out the storm until the danger passes.  They boys were fairly non-plussed.  They only had one question:

“So are you wearing a pad or a tampon?”

Life Is Shit

August 15, 2007

More accurately, Life is dealing with other people’s shit.

Here’s a perfect example. Last week, we took the boys to the orientation before school started. They go find their classroom, meet the teacher and find out all the stuff they need to know before the first day of school. Also, I suspect, so they don’t have that recurring nightmare where they find themselves at school without knowing their class schedule or wearing pants.

On the way to this goddamn waste of my morning excellent method of reducing childhood anxiety and screaming nightmares, Nine started acting strange. Normally, he’s a very confident and cocky kid. Lately, he’s been a little clingy and nervous. It may be his recent move from youngest to middle child.

We get to his school a few minutes before the whatsis is supposed to start. While waiting in the lobby with the entire student body and their parents, he starts to get a little jittery. He announces his intention to go to the bathroom. He then makes a bee line into the women’s. After an awkward second, he turns and goes into the men’s. A few moments later, he comes out still looking like he just survived an Eli Roth film.

“I need to go lie down,” he mumbled.

After rolling my eyes and muttering under my breath about what little hothouse flowers today’s kids are, I took him out to the truck. In all fairness, he has had some dizzy spells recently, probably related to messed up blood sugar. The kid consumes almost nothing save pizza and coke for breakfast, lunch and dinner. What could be wrong with him?

In fact, he had pizza for every meal the previous day. Papa John’s+Nervous About School=Upset Stomach. We get to the truck and he curls up in the back seat.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” is the next bit of moaning I hear over NPR’s morning drumbeat of how the planet is doomed and how some obscure West African dude who raps and plays the bagpipes is the next big thing amongst the hyphenated last names of the public radio audience.

“I thought you just went.”

“I need to poop.”

“Why didn’t you poop when you were in the bathroom?”

“I don’t know who else has used the toilet.”

I am unable to go into detail here, but suffice to say, that particular bit of neurotic jackassery is totally his mother’s fault.

“Fine. We can be at D-Daddy’s (‘Grandfather’, for those of you who don’t speak Tennessean) house in a couple of minutes.”


I let Mrs. Sarcastro and Twelve know what we are doing and start flying down Waldron Road to get the kid to a suitable crapper in time to get him back for this goddamn waste of my morning school thingy. Whaddya know. A booger-eating inbred with Kentucky plates is going three miles an hour right in front of me.  Oh, what I would have given for a rocket launcher.  Or three.

From the back seat I hear, “I really have to go.”

“I know, buddy. Just hang on. We’ll be there in a minute.”

“I don’t know if I can make it.”

“Son, I really need you to try to hold it until we get to D-Daddy’s.”

“I’m trying.”

“Get off the fucking road you fucking retard! I got a sick kid! Fuck!”

“It’s coming! I can’t hold it!”

I don’t know what sound a blood vessel bursting in one’s head makes, but I know what it feels like.

“It’s running down my leg! Ugh! It’s all over your seat! I’m sorry!”

Then the smell hit me.

Immediately the windows all went down. Even so, it wasn’t enough to keep me from starting to gag. I called his mother, who was still at the school meeting the teacher and whatnot.

“We have a Code Brown! You have to get to your parent’s house immediately!”

“Why? What happened?”

Let me just add here that I love and adore my wife, but asking stupid questions in the middle of a crisis situation is one of her favorite things to do. You never saw Dixie McCall asking DeSoto or Gage stupid fucking questions did you?


We pulled into D-daddy’s driveway and I told Nine to get inside and get cleaned up. The poor kid was covered in diarrhea from his new school shorts all down his legs to his Crocs.

I staggered over to the front yard to start an aggressive round of the dry heaves. There along the driveway and into the house is a trail of poo. I make my way back to the truck to size up the damage.

There, on the seat, with drips of it on the floorboards and oozing into the seatbelt holder thing, is a pile of runny shit, roughly the size of a medium pepperoni pizza.

I go into the house and get another “What happened?” interrogation from my father-in-law. Must run in the family. I guess the sight of his grandson covered in shit and leaving a trail of it where ever he went wasn’t a big enough clue.

Now keep in mind, it is already at least 85 degrees in the shade at 7:30 in the blessed a.m. The temp inside the truck will hit about 350 degrees by the time I get off work. Hot enough to bake the shit into the upholstery. The smell will never go away if I don’t clean it up, stat.

Nine has showered and changed into some spare clothes by the time I get all the cleaning supplies together. I’m outside cleaning this shit up and he’s happily watching TV. For some reason I began to recall Samuel L. Jackson cleaning brains out of the back seat in Pulp Fiction.

It all came out in the wash and the car smells like daisies.

As for Nine, he now has a crippling addiction to Immodium.

Now this story would be bad enough were it not for a few things.

One, the indignity of the daily handling of the feces of our youngest child. His bowel movements seem to occur exclusively after his mother has gone to work, but before I take him to daycare. Now that he is starting to eat food-like stuff, his scat now resembles a mixture of roofing tar and strained pears.

Two, the condo board has decreed that we have to start picking up the dog crap. There is an area where all the broken down vans and boats are stored in our little neighborhood that no one uses. A small grassy area that no one walks by, except for the folks who walk their dogs to that spot to take a dump. That’s it. Apparently, they are going to start dusting the dog shit for prints and fine us fifty bucks per turd.

Three, the crawlspace I was in yesterday brought this whole thing into perspective. A contractor had been there the day before. I was supposed to fix what he had screwed up. He, too, must have been nervous about school starting.

There was a pile of fresh diarrhea under this house.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
To you, this I submit
Either way, there will be a lot of shit.

Has It Come To This?

June 21, 2007

If you asked me two years ago, “Do you ever foresee a time when you will say the following?

Hold still.  I’m trying to wipe the shit off of your balls.

I would have called you a damn fool.

Hotter Than A Pepper Sprout

June 16, 2007

There is no shade in Jackson, Tennessee. Nor is it ever cloudy. Ever. At least that’s what I thought last weekend.

We had another damn travel team tournament last weekend. Hell, we have one this weekend, but at least its in the Donelson Sportsplex/Mosquito Research Station. Sitting out in the heat with the bugs is one thing. Driving two hours and spending two nights in a motel for the same privilege is quite another.

Let me say this about Jackson. You have a first-class ballpark. Other than your policy about not being able to bring in outside beverages, I could find nothing to complain about. Kudos to you for not making a big deal out of me bringing in my own beverages, by the way. It was brain-frying hot out there. Paying the criminally high prices for concession stand sodas and water was not an option.

It was so hot, we left the baby and the dog at home to fend for themselves rather than sit and watch a baseball game on the surface of the sun. No telling what adventures they had.

I found a great pizza place in Jackson. Picasso’s Bistro has a decent beer and wine selection with gourmet pizzas. Even the boys, with their philistine tastes enjoyed it. As the Howard Johnson’s we stayed in didn’t have a bar, it was the only place I could get any booze.

This HoJo’s had a pool that was so small, it barely fit the legal definition of a pool. With all the children staying there and swimming, it was more like a piss puddle with a deep end.

After gaining the number one seed in the tourney, we thankfully got beat in the first game on Sunday. This meant getting home early for the Sopranos Anti-Climax.

The only trophy gained was the photos of a kid who looked


incredibly like Eric Cartman.

Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One…

May 25, 2007

I hate travel team baseball.

It isn’t that we are having to go out of town THIS week for it.  Although, in the near future much money will be pissed away on petri dish-like motel rooms, over priced fuel and meals at Golden Corral Steakhouses.  That will all be soon enough.

Can we not find teams to lose to around here, without having to drive three fucking hours and stay in the Bates Motel?  Being on a travel team doesn’t mean you are playing more competitive ball.  It means your parents are dumb enough to buy into the whole travel team hogwash.  Plus, write a check.  If you can write a check, your kid can also play travel team ball.

I think the thing that is really pissing me off is that this weekend, we are privileged to shell out fifteen bucks a head for a weekend pass to watch our eldest child (who went 3 for 3 tonight with two doubles) play baseball in what was formerly the Dharma Initiative Mosquito Breeding Research Station, now known as the Donelson Sportsplex.

That’s thirty damn dollars to watch kids play baseball.  It doesn’t cost that much for good seats at a Sounds game.

Does it make me a bad parent to actively root for our team to lose, so I can go home earlier?

Quit Buggin’ Me

May 13, 2007

I’ll start posting more when he starts sleeping through the night. He has a penchant for demanding food anywhere from 1 am to 3 am.


UPDATE: Granny Sarcastro chimes in, as she is prone to do, with a picture she prefers to the above one of the squalling baby.

As serene as a cranky Buddhist monk.

This is SOOO much better.

It’s Already Beginning To Suck

March 16, 2007

A few more months of this and I’m going to start looking like Khalid Sheikh Mohammed.


“Yeah, I blew up the WTC, and the Hindenberg, and kidnapped the Lindbergh baby, and was on the grassy knoll in Dallas, and fathered Anna Nicole’s kid, and killed Christ. Whatever. Just let me sleep.”

And Introducing Connor as Baby Sarcastro

March 9, 2007

A truly obnoxious amount of pictures and video of the whole Family Experience will be forthcoming. You will have to satisfy your curiosity with these few for now. I have to get back to the hospital. Plus, the Mrs. was quite clear about no photos of her in the Blogatorium. More glory for me.


“Which one of you suckholes think you can whip me and my dad? We’ll take on this whole maternity ward. I just kicked one pregnant woman’s ass. A couple more won’t make a difference. Right after this nap.”


“Wake me when all the relatives leave. I have an early tee time with a Dr. Circumcision. He said we were going to play for skins. Or something like that. Where’s that woman with my bottle? How ’bout some service…zzzzzzz.”

“My dad thinks he’s hot shit. Just wait until he gets a load of what’s in my diaper. He’s going to need turpentine to clean this mess up with. I’ll just lay here all quiet and peaceful like so he will remain unsuspecting. I love the way this stuff hardens to the crack of my ass. He’s gonna freak out!”


Let’s Get Ready To Rumble

March 7, 2007

We are ready.

The bag is packed.  Plans are in motion.  Relatives have arrived.

Quasi-dangerous car seats have been installed.  Potentially poisonous  baby bottles are ready for milk.  Highly flammable pajamas with trademarked cartoon characters are washed and folded.

Let’s light this candle.   Poor choice of words.