Why Grandparents are like a Ball of String

Yes, Grumpy has been writing a lot about his adventures surrounding being a grandparent. Look folks, it comes with the territory. You know Grumpy is from the school of “Who has more fun than people!” (His father’s favorite saying) as well as the “Growin’ older but not up” philosophy espoused by Jimmy Buffett.

Being a grandparent is just plain fun. If you are a grandparent or a parent dealing with grandparents then you might just enjoy what follows. However, if you are a humorless old busy body then, “Go take a bun”. (My Grandma Black’s favorite substitute for, “Shut up!”)

To begin with, comedian Sam Levenson once said “The simplest toy, one which even the youngest child can operate, is called a grandparent.” Grumpy agrees with these sentiments. That’s why, Ogden Nash the esteemed poet said, “When grandparents enter the door, discipline flies out the window.”

Grumpy believes that GRANDCHILDREN are God’s gift to us. They are something to bring us back to feeling young again, even as we age. Heck, you and I know Grandparents around little kids can act like they’ve regressed to back to being four year olds. Grumpy thinks regression is a good thing. He’s all for it.

You see kids just get it and accept this as fact. Take a look at what these kids say.

Now, take a look at this video to see what Ogden Nash means when discipline flies out the window. Grumpy is sure you all have your own tales of reckless abandon to tell about.

And, wouldn’t you want to be around these folks if you were a little kid: This video is from the AARP. Yes, the American Association of Retired People is infested with fun loving grandparents.

Grumpy is a fan of Jeff Foxworthy of “You might be a Redneck” fame. Here’s some hitchhiking Grumpy did along those lines. He created a list for “YOU MIGHT BE A GRANDPARENT IF . . .” one liners he thought might bring about a smile or two.


Your grandkids see you as nothing more than a piece of string – handy to have around and easily wrapped around the fingers


You are sent to buy diapers at the local Shoppers Drugmart and you ask the clerk where might you find the diaper aisle and she/he asks you, “Adult or children’s?”


That non-spillable Sippy-cup looks like a pretty good replacement for your scotch glass.


You look at your grandchild and say, “He, little buddy, you and I are exactly alike. We both have no teeth, we’re bald and we wear diapers!”


The person who wasn’t good enough to marry your child can be the parent of the smartest grandchild in the world.


You catch yourself whistling the title tune from either Caillou or Toopy and Binoo!


The fastest thing withdrawn from your wallet is not money or credit cards. Rather, it’s pictures of your grandkids!


You’ve pulled out the back of a diaper, lowered your nose and sniffed like blood hound.


You reach into your pocket for your car keys and come up with a handful of those Goldfish snacks. And, you eat them.


You tell your grandchild you are on Facebook and they BLOCK you!


The consistency of baby food is appeals to you and you find yourself eating as much as the baby.


Your grandchild giggles and laughs to hiccup proportions as soon as you ask them, “Pull my finger.”


You considered purchasing one of those safety panic buttons to hang around your neck when you crawl on the floor and wrestle with the rug rats. As in, “Help, I’m crawling and I can’t get up.”


Pushing a stroller is like having the best damn walker money can buy.


You think that potty training insert thingy would be practical and might look good on your commode.


Your most common command to your grandchild is, “Now don’t tell, mommy!”


You smile and chuckle when your grandchild says, “Papa, mommy says I shouldn’t do that!” and quickly the  words related in the item above transform into, “We won’t tell mommy then, will we.”


Your teenage grandchild asks, “Hey, Grandpa, can you TWEET on that cellphone of yours?” and you reply, “No, they only thing I know how to do is TOOT!”

“Wanna pull my finger, sonny?”


Your children worry that you aren’t prepared to care for their child’s safety; however, it’s you who ends up in the ER because of your antics! (Refer back to video above)


Your most common vocabulary includes, “Do you have to poop?”, “Did you poop?”, “I think he pooped? “Maybe he/she has to poop?”, “I think I smell a poop?”, “Is THAT poop?”, and “Let’s go poop on the potty”, even though you’re the one eating all those prunes and taking downing the Metamucil Shots.

Grumpy feels like the best way to add credence to this list would be to suggest some videos that might have you understand how being a grandparent can be loads of fun. They might even give you a licence to go out there and create more chaos and hilarity. You’ll surely read more about Grumpy’s adventures here.



Even our grandkids find us funny. Here are three quick videos Grumpy knows you will enjoy. Take a few minutes to watch them.




And, finally Grumpy will leave you with this classic from Mr. Cosby.


“Ryder, look at that BIG BLUE TRUCK!”



Let’s begin with a given: if you were raised on Dumfries Street (Galt), in the 1950’s and 60’s, and attended St. Andrew’s School for nine years you might just have developed a strong case of potty mouth.

In fact,  while roving the playground in Kindergarten little Grumpy was taught how to spell “ass” by a group of nefarious eighth graders.

“Grumpy, spell ass,” they would call to the impressionable five year old.

And, little Grumpy, aiming to please, would proudly respond “A-S-S, ass!”

They thought this was hilarious and howl with back slapping enthusiasm. Little Grumpy was as proud as punch that he could make these really big kids happy.

Grumpy also grew up in a family where most of his uncles swore like longshoremen and never ever put on a filter in front of the kiddies. And, it didn’t help that his own mother’s favorite expletive was the word “shit”, as in, “Oh, shit!” or just plain “SHIT!” You see Hellfire Helen grew up in the same house as her cussing brothers.

The only word our uncles never used in front of us was the F-word. That word was a sacred cow of sorts. Indeed, Grumpy heard his own father use this word only once. Grumpy was 18 and the two of them were working on replacing a gasket on this $100 Studebaker Lark Grumps purchased. When Old Joe banged his hand he softly said, “F * *K!”

Grumpy nearly fainted dead away with that. After all his father was longshoreman “light”. However, this was the first and last time “Whistling” Joe ever uttered “the F-word” in Grumpy’s presence.

Actually, Grumpy recalls the time years ago when teenaged son, Matt, and his buddy Dustin taught Josh (Grumpy’s youngest), “THE SECRET WORD.” The secret word was so secret that he wasn’t to use unless prompted by them.

They’d approach little four year old Josh and say, “What’s the secret word?”

Little Josh, like his father Grumpy, also aimed to please and would cautiously whisper back, “F*****K!

Indeed, we had our own code words back in the 1960’s such as substituting “Cheese and Rice” for the obvious blasphemes expression. Hence today’s use of “Frigging” and “Freaking” by another generation of citizens that cuss.

The bottom line is that Grumpy, along with his cousins and his friends in and around Dumfries Street could cuss with the best of them. Cussing became one of the “Grumps” worst habits, and it was difficult at first for him, as a classroom teacher, to maintain a strong filter. Nevertheless, over nearly thirty years in the classroom it was rare that he’d “slip”.

Now, what went on within his Dumfries Street head was a different story.

For example, when he’d say to a student, “Stop that now or you’ll be spending time with me after school, young man!” his mind was saying, “Cut that out you little as*h*le, before I FN brain ya. You’re such a little pr*ck!”

That’s a filter my friends.

Actually it was funny when a former St. Andrew’s student met Grumpy as an adult. The guy was probably four or five years younger than Grumpy; likely in Grade Four when Grumpy was in the Eighth.

He asked, “So what are you doing now, Grumpy?

Grumpy responded, “Well, I’m an elementary school teacher.”

With eyes wide and expression of shock he said, “Really?”

I guess he couldn’t believe this given Grumpy’s track record and street urchin appearance as a twelve year old. You see, St. Andrew’s playground was a “survival of the fittest” bully infested prison yard. It was a kill or be killed s jungle out on the yard.


Every recess you could hear the cry of, “Fight, fight, fight” and then view the gathering mob of spectators surrounding two combatants.There was a lot of blood spilled on that playground over the years.

Grumpy was smart enough to hang with a group of tough guys. The toughest of them all was Kenny Cripps. We roamed the playground like super heroes, garnering respect and adulation. We also provided “protection” for a lot of our less aggressive friends. Kenny was like Robin Hood and we were his band of Merry Men.

Thank you for that, KENNY!

(BTW, Grumpy actually ended up teaching both of Kenny’s children: Kasey and Corby.)

Grumpy rarely had to put up his “dukes” except of, of course, with Kenny, who liked to wrestle, punch and play fight. A play fight with Kenny could leave you bloody and bruised. But, the outcome was that Grumpy was a lot tougher because of his training in hand-to-hand combat and the constant sparring with Kenny.

Nevertheless, Grumpy suspects being associated with a foul-mouthed gangster-like group of tough guys brought on that response of “Really?” from that younger guy. He could not believe that Grumpy had cleaned up his act enough to actual TEACH children. He probably assumed Grumps was out on a weekend pass from the big house.

“Really, you’re a teacher?” he said again.

“FN right,” Grumpy responded, easily reverting to the rap picked up in the hood.

 Now, you probably are wondering where this ramble is leading.

Well, Grumpy is now a Grandpa in the care of a two year old child. It goes without saying that he needs to apply a strong FILTER to his language or he will be in big trouble with his little girl and her mother. He doesn’t need little Ryder expressing any “secret words” or otherwise. The word “POOP” is the only exception because that really makes Grandpas and two year olds laugh.

“Did you poop, Ryder?”

“Ha, ha, ha, nooooooooo! Tee hee hee!” the little gaffer giggles.

Nonetheless, being a senior citizen, a charter member of the Od Fart Fraternity and being just plain Grumpy at times, causes problems. This bad attitude often has the Grumps regressing into the full blown expression of that Dumfries Street homeboy lingo.


“You’re tailgating me, as*h*le!”

“I can’t get this FN sock on, honey!”

“The GD dog wants out again! GEEEEZ!”

“Cheese and Rice, I can’t find my keys!”


You get the picture. The frustrations of life at 64 bring out the worst in Grumpy.

So, just the other day, with Ryder deposited in the car seat in the backseat and the Good Wife driving shotgun, the “poop” hit that proverbial fan.

We were entering the parking lot at Tim Horton’s in Port Dover. It was so busy there was actual gridlock in and around the drive-through line. The Good Wife exited the vehicle, suggesting that going inside to get our coffee would be faster. Grumpy would find a place to park and all would be well with the world.

Well, not quite.

You see when Grandma leaves the car Grumpy’s filter goes out the window with her. When she’s sitting in the passenger seat, her very presence reminds Grumps to tone down his language. It’s like his “cue” to speak properly.

However, when it’s just Grumps and Ryder in the vehicle, Grumpy often forgets that his grandson is even there. He becomes focused on the environment outside, always looking for someone, somewhere to piss him off. This is what old guys do.

And, that’s just what happened.

Grumpy spotted an empty parking spot up ahead. The drive through line was blocking easy access. No problem, once the line moved forward a wee bit, Grumps would slip in. That was his plan until a guy in a pickup truck decided to bail out of the line and take Grumpy’s spot.

An outraged Grumpy, with his face turning scarlet, yelled the loudest F-bomb in the history of F-bombing.

“F******K!” he screamed. “That was my spot!”

Instantaneously, as if there was an echo in the car, he heard the little parrot in the backseat sweetly say, “F**K!” Then, after a long pause, he said, “F**K”, again and then again.

It was not unlike what happened earlier in the day when Grumpy taught Ryder the two syllable word “eyebrow” and his grandson, liking the sound of that word , repeated “eyebrow” about a gazillion times. Each time he said it he got louder and louder.

But, now Grumps was in trouble because this Ryder repetition routine now sounded like, “F**K, F**K, F**K, F**K, F**K!”

And, upon each repetition, the volume was going up and up and up!

Out of the corner of his eye Grumpy spotted his Good Wife strolling toward the vehicle, coffee in hand. It was then that Grumpy envisioned “death by a thousand cuts” or worse.

The situation required quick thinking. It required some type of logic that Grumpy has never been known for. But, with street smart savvy, Grumps did come up with a plan.


The teacher toolkit never leaves you, you see!

“No, Ryder,” Grumpy stammered, “I said that TRUCK took my spot. See the TRUCK over there. It’s a big TRUCK! It’s a BIG BLUE TRUCK.”


With a quizzical expression, witnessed by Grumpy in the rear view mirror, Ryder repeated a long drawn out, “TTTTRRRRRUUUUUCCCCCK?” His little voice escalated from low tones to high tones.

“Yes, Ryder, do you see the BIG BLUE TRUCK?”

“Boo truck,” he smiled. “TRUCK, TRUCK, TRUCK, TRUCK, TRUCK!”

Just then, the Good wife slid into the passenger seat.

Grumpy looked at Ryder and said, “We saw a big truck, Grandma. It was a BIG BLUE TRUCK, wasn’t it Ryder!”

 “Yaaaaaaa,” he cooed. “Boo truck, gamma! TRUCK, TRUCK, TRUCK, TRUCK, TRUCK!”

Later, as he always does, Grumpy confessed his transgression to both his wife and daughter. He promised to be more careful while in the care of is grandbaby. They both nodded using an expression that could melt metal.

Translated it would say, “You can bet your life on that, Grumpy!”

The bottom line is, that when it comes to a debate about whether it’s “nature” or “nurture” that makes you the person you are today, we’ll chalk this one up to “nurture”.

Really, Dumfries Street had big role to play towards making Grumpy what he is today and that’s pretty hard to shake 64 years later. I’m afraid Grumpy’s “Ka Ka Mouth” is here to stay, at least until he gets his filter working at 100% efficiency. But, like anything else as you age, the prospect for getting things working at 100% is very unlikely.

You can rest assured that the Good Wife is monitoring the situation. You see, Grumpy is currently on PROBATION!


The Day Grumpy Sprung A Leak

Yes, Grumpy is on the Chopping Block -literally.

As has been duly noted in Grumpy’s medical blogs, an irregular heartbeat has him taking various medications that provide a definitive TIMEX effect – effectively assisting him to keep on ticking. One medication called Apixaban is a blood thinner that prevents clotting, as blood clots leading to strokes are the big danger when your ticker tends to hop, skip and jump.

Grumpy told Dr. Kennedy that it is more likely that Pumba the Farting dog will be the cause of Grumpy’s stroke. He asked the good Doctor if he might have a remedy for that.

Dr. Kennedy kindly replied, “Sorry Grumpy, you can’t fix stupid!”

Now when you take powerful blood thinners you are susceptible to heavy bleeding. As Doctor Kennedy stated, “I don’t advise you to be around power tools or chainsaws.” This made Mrs. Grumpy very happy given her husband’s propensity for pratfalls, injury and sketchy construction skill.

The doctor also said that a serious car wrecks could be a problem.

“You see, Grumps, there is no antidote for Apixiban like there is for Warafin.”

(Warafin is blood thinning Rat Poison ingested by humans, by the way.)

“No problem, Doc,” Grumpy insisted. This effectively gave Grumpy permission to drive even slower, even though he already was drawing frequent two finger salutes and an occasional horn blast.

Nonetheless, Grumpy decided to sign up for this therapy, promising himself to be exceedingly careful and to avoid sharp or pointed objects at all cost.

Well, a year went by and Grumpy did experience the odd nick and scratch. Indeed, blood oozed easily out of these wounds, but his clotting factor was duly instituted – eventually – and there ended the leak of bodily fluid. These trickles were no big deal.

Yesterday was a different story.

Grumpy was using a cleaver to chop some chicken wings into delectable pieces. Yes, he knows that a cleaver might have been a poor choice of tool. However, he wasn’t about to get into a rumble with roaming zombies like in the movies. He was splitting wings for crying out loud. This task was Puppy Chow – right?


Chop! Chop! Chop!

Chop! Chop! Chop!


The cleaver was splitting those wings apart like a hot knife through butter. There’s nothing like a sharp tool to make life easier.

Mrs. Grumpy demonstrated her concern when she said, “Do you think you should be using THAT, Grumpy?”

 “Ah, I’ll be careful, hon,” Grumpy smiled, taking his eyes off his task for but a moment. “It’s not going to be a problem!”

That’s when he felt a slight pain during his subsequent down chop. Yes, he had struck his left index finger a glancing blow. It was on the hand holding the wing.

Withdrawing his hand, he removed his finger from the chicken parts and stared. He had neatly and deeply sliced off a dime sized chunk of skin.

At that point Grumpy expressed his mother, Hellfire Helen’s, favourite expression of surprise and consternation


But, for an instant, no blood appeared.


Not a trickle.

Suddenly pin prick red dots emerged around the wound and the oozing began. This oozing quickly turned into a torrent. Grumpy grabbed a tissue in order to apply pressure just as the Good Wife bellowed, “What did you do now, Grumps?”

“Oh. Nothing, dear,” Grumpy lied.

He was now holding his injured hand high over his head, while continuing to split wings with the other. Unsupported chicken wing parts were beginning to become airborne on each chop. The zombies of Pinegrove were running for the hills. It appeared to them as if Grumpy was on some sort of rampage.

Seeing this behavior, Mrs. Grumpy sighed and said, “You cut your finger, didn’t you?” You see, after 27 years with Grumpy, she too is of the school of you “can’t fix stupid.”

Well old Grumps tried everything to staunch that bleeding. He raised his hand high, he applied pressure, he applied ice, ran the thing under cold water and finally applied a pressure bandage but to no avail. His dang fingertip began to turn blue because his bandaging was too tight. After tearing the damn thing off (the bandage not the finger) Grumpy was seriously considering a quick trip to emergency because nothing seemed to work. He was looking at one hour bleed that only stopped when pressure was applied.


Grumpy can imagine the scene in emergency as he held this insignificant “boo boo” high over his head whilst those from the car wrecks, coronary events and severed appendages wondered, “What the hell is that old fart doing here? What a baby!”

Now, if this were you, the bleeding probably would have been just as severe. However, your coagulants, under continuous pressure would have stopped the bleeding forthwith.

In Grumpy’s case, the bleeding finally stopped about an hour and a bit from chopping time. Grumpy had placed a giant blob of Polysporin on the wound and then bound it up with a loose fitting bandage. Like the Dutch boy’s finger in the dike, this plug of messy salve seemed to do the trick.

Later, as Grumpy was roasting the wings in the oven, he wondered where his severed flap of skin had fallen. You see human skin appears almost similar to chicken skin in colour, texture and touch. He wondered if it also compared to chicken skin in flavour. That, of course, is what he was hoping as long as ingestion of human skin didn’t turn his family into a pack of flesh eating zombies.

Zombie Family

Until this is proven false, Grumpy will keep his handy-dandy cleaver at arm’s length. It would be just plain stupid to do otherwise, right?

The Ants Are Marching ONE BY ONE Harrah, Harrah!

The Ants Are Marching ONE BY ONE Harrah, Harrah!

As you well know, Grumpy spends a lot of time in his garden during the summer. There are plenty of chores to get done in a good week, including trimming the jungle that it has become.

You also know that Ole Grumpy is prone to “Jimbo Moments”, many of which have been documented here. These pratfalls and slapstick events have kept Grumpy one step away from the emergency award and even closer to constant ridicule.

So, as it happens, Grumpy was out in the garden trimming the other day. He was adding to the pile in his yard known as “Compost Mountain”. Everything was going well until he had to slip between several shrubs in order to pull weeds around the little pond adjacent to the deck. And, slip he surely did.

His rumpled old shoes, with the undone laces dangling, caught on a root causing a tumble that could only be broken by grabbing a small fence nearby. A shelf on that fence held a small pot with some lovely vine hanging beneath it. As the top of the fence bent, a slingshot effect was created which in turn sent that pot catapulting high over Grumpys head. Soil flew up into the air to rain down upon the gardener, covering him in a sooty blanket; a blanket that Grumpy noticed was now beginning to move – this way and that.

Without his glasses Grumpy is less visually acute than Mr. Magoo. Indeed, those moving dots that covered Grumpy’s arms, legs, face and under the shirt torso appeared to be frenzied fleas, all of whom were scrambling for cover in Grumpy’s warm spots and nether regions.


Grumpy was about to scream like a little girl but held that back, knowing that the cops who live in adjacent houses carry handguns and are trained to drop perpetrators and rabid racoons in one shot.

Instead, Grumpy began to sweep his hands over his body, attempting to fling this infestation every which way but loose. The more he swept, the more pests appeared. It seemed as if the little beggars were procreating on the spot, not unlike fruit flies in your kitchen.

Then the “picky” feelings began. You know the ones you get when you find a bug in your bedroom or turn over something in your yard to find a gazillion earwigs scrambling for safety. Suddenly you imagine these creepy crawlers – crawling all over you, even under and within your clothes!

Grumpy threw off his hat and began swatting his almost hairless head. He stamped his feet and shook his body this way and that. He had developed the heebie-jeebies as well as the boogie-woogie flu. He even blew air from his mouth, sending more of the creeping crawling dots airborne.

Grumpy considered jumping in the pond like you see someone do in the movies. You know, when they are attacked by bees. But that would only drown the pests on his feet because pond at Grumpy Villa is only ankle deep. Also, splashing might cause some water to spray on his face, leading, no doubt, to a case of the notorious Beaver Fever.

Instead, Grumpy took a deep breath and calmed himself. He had one strategy left, knowing well that he usually selects the most logical one last. If this didn’t work he would run in the house, strip buck naked and jump in the shower and thereby fumigate, extricate and illuminate this infestation. And, in the privacy of his own home he could legitimately SCREAM LIKE A LITTLE GIRL.

He quickly removed his reading glasses from his pocket and plunked them on his face. First, he would identify these moving specks for what they were and then he’d make his final decision.

Streak or stand and stay for the fight?


Once Grumpy’s eyes came into focus he noticed that the moving dots were not fleas but actually tiny black ants. He thought of these poor babies being flung from their nursery by a giant, and imagined their terror. Calming himself, he used his impeccable visual acuity to pick the remaining stragglers from his person, one by one.

“HARRAH! HARRAH!” Grumpy hollered, pondering, of course, “if the little one stopped to suck his thumb?”

The chuckles and guffaws Grumpy emitted echoed through the garden like the call of those Godforsaken Cardinals that wake him up every morning.


 Really, the old guy must have looked and sounded like a lunatic Beatle Juice impersonator carousing out there with chipmunks that day.


 He’s thinking of posting a sign on the gate that reads, “BEWARE OF THE KNOB!” Is it any wonder that Grumpy’s neighbors stay clear of his yard?

Grumpy Villa is infested with Old Farts

A remarkable event is to take place in just a few days at Grumpy Villa. Pumba the Farting Dog will celebrate his ninth birthday, making him a full 63 years of age in DOG YEARS (7X9). This, in turn, will create an interesting situation; a situation that could create havoc in the household as two Old Farts bang heads and run amuck. You see Grumpy reached his 64th year just this past February.


Pumba and Grumpy have been in conflict for many years now. Each of them strives to be the Alpha dog in their house. This involves a lot of challenges by Pumba and even more shouting and bad language from the Grumps. It is a test to see whose testosterone level has diminished the least. Caught in the middle, the Good Wife merely throws up her hands while she contemplates putting one of them or both of them to sleep – permanently.

This morning was a prime example of how this brewing brouhaha could evolve. Grumpy was tossing and turning, trying to gain a little extra sleep while his carpal tunnel arms buzzed and ached. Pumba, of course, noticed the stirring and began his dreaded “I want out to pee” whimpering. As the whimpering escalated into yelps, the confounding canine walked up Grumpy’s back to plant a wet doggy kiss smack on the lips. He was digging at the covers like he was trying to bury a bone.

Grumpy knows that nothing he can do will stop this assault until he pops out of bed and allows Pumba his morning constitutional. However, once up and out of bed there is no turning back for Grumpy. He’s awake and up for the duration. This usually occurs anywhere from four thirty to six thirty in the morning.
So what does Pumba do after all is said and done?

Well he crawls back onto the foot of the bed with the good wife because, as Alpha Dog, he has put Grumpy on sentry duty so he can slough off and SLEEP.

“$%#@#$# dog!” Grumpy grumbles.

But, it doesn’t stop there, my friends.

Usually, just after Grumps has brewed his morning Joe, Pumba wanders out and begins his “I wanna go out whine”, once again. You see the Grumpy’s made the mistake of rewarding this dog with a treat each time he goes outside and does his business. So now that he’s an old dog and expects certain rights and privileges, he’ll deposit his business somewhere in the house if the routine is not maintained.

Strategic placement is involved here as said deposit is usual placed in a footpath ready for Grumpy to step upon.

Pumba continues this treat scam by applying the tried and true technique of rising decibel yelps. So, as Grumpy’s coffee cools, he goes to the door to let the dog out, yet again.

From time to time Grumpy has tried to ignore the second whimper but to no avail. This technique only leads to “woofing” which may in turn escalate into a full-fledged bark.

“Be quiet you stupid %%$%$# dog!” Grumpy wails, his voice rising to a whine.

“WOOF, WOOF, WOOF!” the dog replies in turn.

This pissing contest between two ancient Alpha dogs can quickly reach epic proportions. The danger here is waking the Good Wife from her beauty sleep. And, friends, you do not want to wake a woman from her beauty sleep, no way no how; unless of course, you want to deal with the Beast that resides within that beauty. The consequences are too gruesome to share in this family friendly blog.

Upon the third or fourth incident this routine quickly escalates into all-out verbal/barking warfare.

“Pumba, you %#$%% dog, shut up!”


“Shush, you %$#$%% moron!”


From the bedroom comes, “Would you two idiots stop fighting – I’m trying to sleep!”

Pumba and Grumpy are now at it tooth and nail not unlike Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau in the movie, “Grumpy Old Men”.


I think you get the picture. This is a dog fight neither Grumpy nor Pumba the Farting Dog might win. Until then, the little grey haired Buddha in boxers (Grumpy) makes that trek to the door several times as the furious fur ball (Pumba) barks his approval.

All Grumpy can do is holler, “Pumba, shut the $%$% up!”

The Good Wife has far worse consequences to face because she knows deep in her heart that it will be impossible to teach two old dogs any new tricks. For now, Grumpy suggests she invests in a good pair of earplugs.

Grumpy is sure there will be more tales to tell as these two Old Farts continue to clash and conflict. You’ll surely read all about it here.