Half-Nekkid Hair Thursday

Here's another tribute to Half-Nekkid Thursday, thanks to Osbasso. Purely by coincidence, he also did a hairy HNT.

I used to hate my hair. My hair is really wavy and thick. But not wavy pretty, wavy like "I'm going to be wavy in this section and kinda straight over here and let's throw in a curl for good measure." My mom taught me to wash my hair every damn day and to brush it often. All of you out there with dry, curly/wavy hair are shitting your pants right now. You know what this does to my kind of hair.

Then one day, at the age of 25, I met Elena, the Goddess of Hair. She understood my hair, how to cut it and what to do with it. She gasped when I spoke of the daily washing of my mane. I learned to let it get a bit dirty and oily. There's nothing wrong with being a little bit of a dirty girl is there?

My hair thanked me for it by cooperating with me. Then I learned to curl it here and there so at least my hair was all the same. Then one day I went balls to the wall and had it straightened. It was pricey but OMG was it worth it. Now it takes me ten minutes to do in the morning, even right after washing it. My hair loves me. I love my hair. It's a fairy tale ending. I love those.

Short story for those of you that come here for a good chuckle or chortle or laugh or smirk:

H3.2, Picky, Teddy Bear and I were playing a board game. Picky bursts out "I am the BEST receiver of head. EVER. No one has ever been as good at receiving head as I am. Girls have told me so."

Wow. Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday. Enjoy the view.

Your Vagina. See it. Love it. Own it.

This post is dedicated to the Redneck Diva. When she commented on my 84 year old neighbor post it brought back a memory that I had suppressed out of horror and shock. I have another neighbor that is in her thirties I guess, married with one child. Every Christmas she decorates the shit out of her house. Now, I love Christmas decorations. I take my son every year to the local neighborhoods where everyone spends their retirement money on extravagant lighting. It's beautiful. However, this neighbor decorates the outside of her home in a way that makes me think of severely mentally challenged children with no decorating skills. It's horrible. I have seen many near accidents on my quiet street as people literally stop and gape at the sight. It makes my life easier when I'm giving directions to my house, though. Turn right, left, blah and when you see the Christmas decorations that make you gag a little, park.

She's very friendly and loves my son. Well, everyone loves my son because he's the fucking greatest. Especially when he's 3000 miles away and I can think of all the beautiful memories and forget the screaming fights over the terrors of spaghetti sauce. One more month and back to explaining why showering, brushing teeth and doing homework is necessary to life. So... I digress. Crazy lady neighbor (CLN) is outside as I was returning from the pool with my son and one of his friends a couple of months ago. Both boys were obviously wet, while I was dry.

CLN: Hi M! Did you have fun at the pool?

Boys: Yes!

CLN: (to me) Why didn't you go in the pool?

Sam: Well, um... I have this thing with my belly button.

I'm clearly uncomfortable at this point, and most normal humans with 100+ IQ would have understood this and let the conversation gracefully turn to something else.

CLN: Why don't you just wear a one piece?

Sam: Um... (sighs) I had a mid-life crisis and pierced my belly button. I can't go into the pool for several months.

CLN: Oooo. What are you going to have pierced next? (She's getting excited and dare I say a little manic at this point) How about your tongue or your lip or your eyebrows?

Sam: Um... I can't because I have a professional job. No visible piercings are allowed.

CLN: Well what about your areola? (I gasp) Or your labia minora or labia majora?

OMG! Did this woman just ask me about piercing my pussy lips? Please tell me this just didn't happen to me. I do not talk about my labia with my neighbors, co-workers, acquaintances or even most friends. I will never post pictures of them or discuss them in detail on my blog. They are called "private parts" for a reason.

Now, just in case you need information about labia or vagina's in general, I found this handy link when I Googled "vagina". I wanted to make sure my spelling was correct because I usually don't write down labia minora. Inner and outer pussy lips usually works just fine. This site is fucking hilarious. It's The Big Vagina. Their motto is "Your Vagina. See it. Love it. Own it." I even copied a picture from them in case any of you don't understand the female anatomy.
For you men, the penis goes in the middle. The thing below the vagina is the anus. Don't put the penis in there without written permission. Above the vagina is the clitoris. Make it your best friend. Talk to it, write it poetry and play long songs to it. Your woman will love you for it.

Sidenote: I had my hair colored after this event and saw CNL at a local eatery. She said "I see you had a mid-life crisis on your head, too!"

Beastiality - You Have Been Warned!

I met someone in Los Angeles a couple of weeks ago and instantly knew that I had to introduce him to Ewe Girl. I got his phone number and he came down to San Diego for a double date with H3.2 and I. I clicked mentally with this guy, he is one sick fucker and I loved it. Ewe girl is dark and twisted, and she loves scrawny boyish-looking guys. This guy fit the bill perfectly. H3.2 nicknamed him Stewie. We met up to go downtown and find some food and booze. We were at our second bar when Stewie blurted out some random shit.

Stewie: If you had to fuck an animal which one would it be? 'Cause I'd fuck a doe. They have such soft, brown eyes.

Now, I'm all for interesting conversation. But Stewie had obviously put a lot of thought into this one. Rarely have I been one-upped in nasty conversation. He did it. Here's the picture he sent me as an explanation of his decision. Wow. So that got the ball rolling. H3.2 decided that a tiger would do the trick. Ewe Girl declined to answer. I thought about it long and hard for a couple of days. I don't see animals that way. I did some Google searches on penises, because I didn't want to get injured in the hypothetical process. I didn't want to pick some generic animal like a dog. Who wants to fuck a dog? I wanted to be creative and have a good argument for my choice of animal sex partner. So I decided on a Kangaroo. The ability to stand on two legs was a factor, as was the general soft, furry appearance. Please don't comment telling me that a kangaroo can kill a man with one kick. I'm not really going to find a kangaroo and screw it. This is just something funny/twisted/awful to think about. I also liked the idea of curling up in its pouch afterwards. What a benefit! I even found a great picture of a kangaroo, detailing its um parts. It doesn't look too painful. At least compared to a horse or something of that size. Teddy Bear (friend of H3.2) said that it looked like a carrot. I think it's pretty gross. But, I had to live up to my reputation as a foul-mouthed bitch so I had to come up with something, right?

I asked TB about what animal he would do, and he had to think about it for a week or so. Finally I pinned him down on AIM one night and his response was: "See, i'm more concerned about catching the animal, making sure i don't get hurt and then not have it fight me for 23 seconds until i finish." H3.2 had the same concern with the tiger. TB decided a Koala Bear would be nice, without the razor sharp claws and the nasty attitude. Sounds like a typical chick to me, though. At least you know Koala Bears are going to kick your ass.

84 Year Old Men Make Me Hot

My next door neighbor is the proverbial cranky old man, so we'll call him Cranky Bastard or CB. He's 84, overweight and diabetic. Plus he drinks. As the average life expectancy today for a man is 81, I wonder what the fuck he is doing still alive. He hates everyone in the neighborhood, except for my family. I have no idea why. He loves my kid. Calls him the "mayor" of the neighborhood. He loves H2 and was sad to see him move out. He loves my mom and my ex-mom-in-law. He loves me.

Everyone else he hates. Especially if they aren't white Christian types. He's complained to me many times about the mail carrier/post man. This poor guy gets shit from CB if the mail doesn't come on time. Who cares about when the mail comes as long as it comes every day? Lonely old men do! CB has told me that the mail service would be better if all the (add many racial slurs for various ethnicities here) didn't run the postal service. Someone forgot to tell him that it's not nice to call the postman the "N" word. Ever. Even if he takes a big steaming crap on your birthday card from your dear Auntie. You just don't do that.

Cranky Bastard fought in WWII. One day after his wife died he came over and gave M an old camera. Then he proceeded to explain TO MY EIGHT YEAR OLD SON that he shot some Nazi soldier in Germany during WWII and took the camera off the guy's dead body. Wow. How does one respond to that politely? "Nice shot and great idea to strip the body of valuables?"

His wife just died a couple of months ago, and he's bored. She was dying for so long that by the time she died he was a hell of a lot happier. She suffered, he suffered, it sucked. Now he's on the prowl. He's asked out my mother and I think she shit herself a little when it happened. My mom is 54. You do the math.

Why am I telling you this now? Because I just got home from a client meeting. CB pulled in at the same time. I was walking up to my front door and he rolled down his car window. His face was beet red.

CB: I just went to a cocktail party. I had too many cocktails. (slightly slurring)

What the hell do you say to that? I advised him to be careful pulling into his garage. I went inside the house. Five minutes later the doorbell rings.

CB: Would you like to go out and get some dinner?

Where the fuck are his shoes? He's only wearing socks on his feet. I've never seen him without shoes. Why I am fixated on the shoes? Because I'm wondering if he's propositioning me. And this grosses me out more than I can explain in words.

Sam: Um, well CB I have another client appointment in 15 minutes so I can't right now.

CB: Okay, well anytime you want to get something to eat...

He stumbled, actually staggered away. I wanted to take a shower. With lots of scrubbing. Ew.

Earlier this month I went to a wedding, and I came home about 6:30am the next day. I had driven to a friend's house, several of us carpooled (I did not drive) and I got bombed at the wedding. So I crashed on my buddy's couch, woke up early and drove home. Sober. CB saw me pulling up and cackled at me. I was wearing the dress I left in the evening before.

CB: Out catting around? He he, you remind me of myself when I was young.

Ew. Double fucking ew. I do not want to think of my old fart neighbor getting laid. Ever. Want another CB story? I'm sure you do! We were at the pool at the same time last week. Remind me to exchange my bikini for a burlap sack the next time I see CB at the pool. I chatted politely with him, I know that he needs someone to talk to and I do feel bad for him. When he started talking about the "free samples" his doctor has given him I gagged. Why oh why would he tell me that his doctor provides him with Viagra? I cannot and will not believe that this fat old man has even the slightest hope in the world of shagging me. Time for another shower, this time with plenty of exfoliant.

Jimmy Hat

We have a new addition to the family, Jimmy Hat. He's really cute. I wanted to name him Jimmy but H3.2 thought the "Hat" was a necessary addition. He has a cat toy that he likes you to tease him with if you can find it. Speaking of pussy, the other day my ex-step-dad came over and the first thing I said to him was "I shaved my pussy yesterday". It's rather pathetic when you're so known for saying outrageous shit that he didn't even bat an eye, just waited patiently for the rest of the story. I sighed, then told him that I shaved my cat, Zada. I don't talk about shaving my actual pussy with my ex-step-dad. In fact, as far as I am concerned, he doesn't need to know I have one.

Now then... If you aren't blind from too much masturbation (see previous post entitled Switch Hitter), you might have noticed that the look of my blog has changed. It's pretty boring, however the writing is still wonderful I tell you! H3.2 will be helping me over the next days/weeks/months/years to make my blog pretty and original. For now it's just plain funny. You can emphasize the plain or the funny, take your pick.

Sex Shop For Trophy Wives

H3.2 and I went to Mission Valley on Saturday to go to the mall and return a few items. On our way home, we noticed a new store that we had seen once before while shopping. It's called West Elm. It's a rather large building on a main road, and it looks like a classy place. By classy I mean not a Target, Wal-Mart, Kmart, etc. I don't mean classy as in Rodeo Drive. We both wondered what kind of consumer goods West Elm sold.

H3.2: What kind of store is that?

Sam: A high-end sex toy shop.

H3.2: Really? Like dildos made of crystal? (He loves to play along with my insanity)

Sam: Young trophy wives go there to purchase their dildos and vibrators. You see, wealthy San Diego executives need young trophy wives after their first wives have gotten so much plastic surgery that they resemble Joan Rivers. They are no longer fit for public display and must be retired to Florida where the sun can turn their skin into stylish handbags. The rich executives are busy working 100 hour weeks to maintain their lifestyles, so the young wives get bored and start eyeing the pool boys. (Think Desperate Housewives) So in comes West Elm. They sell sex toys in precious metals, encrusted in jewels and sold in fur-lined boxes. They also have an espresso cafe and lounge. No trophy wife worthy of her 14 carat engagement ring would go to some sleazy sex shop only to be intimidated by the true beauty of the Bad News Blonde. No sir.

*note: West Elm does not and has never sold any vibrators, dildos, strap-ons, blow-up dolls, gay porn or butt plugs to my knowledge. They sell home furnishings. I looked it up. However, the store that Bad New Blonde works at does sell these fine items. You should visit her.

Switch Hitter

Some of you might wonder if I'm witty, foul-mouthed and generally crazy in real life. I assume there are bloggers out there that are very shy in reality. I'm not. I don't always like people, being around people, smelling people or even seeing people. But when I'm on, watch the fuck out! Just about anything can and will come out of my mouth. I rarely get embarrassed, and until yesterday I would have bet that I have never said anything that resulted in me turning 14 shades of red. I was with H3.2 and two of his friends, Teddy Bear (TB) and Picky. We were eating lunch at a local restaurant and starting talking about the similarities between H3.2 and myself. I'm sure his friends were looking around for sharp objects to slit their wrists. Then I started talking about being a lefty.

Sam: I'm a lefty, but I only write with my left hand. Everything else I do with my right hand. I play sports, use scissors and eat with my right hand.

H3.2: I'm a righty but I'm a switch hitter.

Sam: I thought a switch hitter was someone that was bisexual.

H3.2: No, it's someone that is dominant in one hand but masturbates with the other.

Sam: Oh. (pause. lightbulb!) I'm a switch hitter! (I yell.)

Then I realize I just said that in front of TB and Picky. There is a stunned silence. I have no problem talking about ANYTHING, however I usually don't talk about my own sex life. Especially in front of my man's friends. In a crowded restaurant. It's one of the few self-editing features located in my brain. When I'm working I use another brain, so it's never a problem. Same with churchy people, the elderly, small children, etc. However, when I'm with people I like and I'm feeling frisky, there are no topics I won't discuss. EXCEPT my sex life. So I was embarrassed. I would have crawled under the table, however they probably would have assumed I was masturbating.

Cat Fight

Yesterday I came home from a client appointment and noticed an odd scene while walking up to my front door. There had been a new phone book on the walkway when I left several hours before, and it had moved approximately 10 feet. There was also the unmistakable odor of cat urine, wet spots on the concrete, several yummy pieces of cat shit, clumps of cat fur on the ground and on the phone book. I had also spotted a local cat in front of my neighbor's house when I went out to my car earlier in the day.

Now some background information is necessary for this lovely story. "Blue" the cat lives in my neighborhood. He is a well-fed housecat that occasionally sneaks out to roam the land. I've met his mother and told her that Blue should wear a collar at the very least to avoid being mistaken for a stray. My cats have collars, name tags with phone numbers and they are micro-chipped.


Blue is very friendly. I have a "kitty window" in my house to allow my cats access to the great wide world beyond. Blue occasionally hops in the window and cruises around my house. He also helps himself to the cat food (see pic on right) and sprawls out in the living room and takes a cat nap. This really upsets my boy cat "Dude" because he's a pacifist and he loves his food. He's a total stoner cat. Food and sleep and no aggression. So he gets upset and watches Blue with ill-concealed hatred (see pic on left).

My other cat "Zada" is usually outside during the day so she doesn't care. However, when she meets up with Blue right outside the house, she kicks ass. She's a royal bitch. See her with her gaping maw, razor-sharp teeth ready to tear delicate kitty flesh? She is licking her lips in anticipation of eating another baby bird or bunny. She is a rabid hunter, a bitch on wheels, and no male cat better get in her fucking way. Especially when she's just cruising outside to pick up the latest edition of the phone book. Here's how the event went down:

Zada noticed that the phone book had been delivered, and as she is totally computer illiterate, she still uses the antiquated thing. I tend to leave the phone book on the walkway hoping that it will disappear. She strolled outside and noticed Blue about to grab her phone book.

Zada: WTF!? Blue that is my phone book bitch! You're too stupid to even dial a fucking phone, what are you planning on doing with a PHONE book?

Blue: Yo Zada. Wassup?

Zada: What did you just say to me you stupid ghetto poser cat? Fuck off and leave my phone book alone before I beat your cracker ass.

Blue: Oh baby you look so hot when you get pissed. You down with watersports baby?

Zada lunges for Blue, wraps him in a death grip and pummels him with her hind claws. Blue fur starts to fly.

Blue: Oh yeah Zada, beat me oh yes I love it more don't stop baby oh OH OH.

Blue pisses all over himself and Zada in his excitement. He's neutered, so that's the best the poor fucker can deliver.

Zada: Oh my God! You fucking nutless wonder! You wanna play big boy? I'll show you who the fuck you're dealing with motherfucker.

Zada proceeds to take a shit on Blue's head. While still kicking his ass up and down the walkway. The phone book takes a beating, is slightly soaked with urine, covered in fur and reeking of cat shit. Blue extricates himself from Zada's death grip and runs for home.

Zada: Take that you pussy motherfucker.

So now I have a cat that reeks of piss, a phone book that is ruined, and a walkway that has shit and piss on it. Good times.

Is It Supposed to Ooze Like That?

I'm not known for following the crowd. I'd actually prefer to avoid the crowd at all costs. However, some things peak my interest. Half-Nekkid Thursdays is one of them, and this interview/five questions thing is another. If you want to be interviewed, I must list a couple of warnings:

• Some of my questions will most likely be R-rated or bizarre in some way, so don't ask if you aren't prepared to answer.


• If I get a zillion requests, I won't be able to answer them all. First come, first serve and all that.

Here are the instructions:
If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying "interview me." I will respond by asking you five questions -- each person's will be different. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

1. If you were a stripper what would your act consist of and what would your stripper name be?

If I was a stripper I would call myself George or Fred. I would only work at a topless bar. I would put a sock in my g-string and have my adam's apple surgically enlarged. I would smoke three packs of cigarettes a day until I had a deep, raspy voice. I would give lap dances and at the end of the dance I would whisper seductively into the guy's ear "How do you feel about anal? I'll give you the reach around for $2o extra baby!"

2. If you were walking across your lawn at night what's the worst think you can imagine stepping in, and what would be the first thing out of your mouth if you did?

Half of a cottontail rabbit. I almost stepped on one in my living room a couple of weeks ago. My wonderful cats love to bring me presents, and one night I came home when the house was dark and I almost stepped right on the poor bunny. It was only the chest down, with all the internal organs and stuff still there. It was still warm. I was soooo grossed out. My first words were "M GET IN YOUR ROOM RIGHT NOW!" Because I didn't want the kid to see it. I probably would have used more colorful language, like "Oh fuck! That's the fucking nastiest thing ever!" However, being a mommy and all my first thought was to protect my son from the sight.

3. Which would you rather have: the most expensive, sexy car of your dreams or an unlimited budget to re-decorate your home? Discuss.

Do I really need to discuss this? This is a Ferrari 612 Scaglietti. This car could sustain life. No food, sex or oxygen needed. Who the fuck needs a cute house when you have this car? My kid would live under a bridge and pick through dumpsters to own this car. He really loves cars. We would both be deliriously happy until Child Protective Services found us. But we'd be too quick for them.

4. Do you have any unusual or downright freakishly freaky talents?

Have you ever seen the girls that can shoot ping pong balls out of their privates? I do that with grapefruits. Big ones. One time I was at a party and knocked this guy out cold with a stray grapefruit. I'm working on my aim.

5. What's your eyeshadow color of choice? What does it say about you?

I generally don't wear eyeshadow, and that says several things about me. First, I didn't figure out how to wear eyeshadow until my late 20's. Second, my mother did the typical 80's overkill on eyeshadow and I think that scarred me. Third, I'm a recovering tomboy. I wear makeup but just the basics. Which leads me to one of my major personality traits/theories of life. I have an interesting personality. A polite way of saying that in certain company just about anything will come out of my mouth. I have a very twisted sense of humor. However, I dress conservatively. You can get away with a lot more if you look cute and innocent.

Half-Nekkid Thursday

I owe this post to two bloggers, the original Osbasso; and where I found it for the first time at Bad News Blonde. This picture was taken by H3.2 on Tuesday, for the express purpose of using it on Half-Nekkid Thursday. This proves, without a doubt, two things:

1. I am lost without my kid around and I need a life.
2. H3.2 loves me like crazy if he'll stand around and take random pictures of me to post on my blog.

I don't know if this really counts as half-nekkid as I am wearing stockings, heels and a suit. I had just returned home from a client meeting and jumped (delicately sat) on the couch and proceeded to monopolize the laptop. H3.2 took some shots of me doing various things (really, you can't do anything kinky wearing a suit, so don't even think about it). This was one of those very rare times that I did not immediately strip out of my suit upon returning home and throw on the most comfortable sweats/pajamas/big t-shirt I could find. I endured discomfort for what seemed like 2 or 2.5 minutes to obtain this picture. I hope you all appreciate the personal sacrifice I made for you, my five (give or take four) blog readers.

Next week, maybe I'll take the shoes off. Although I really love the shoes. They are soo comfy and make me feel cute and happy. How about I take a picture of the shoes all by themselves? That way you can print them and hang them on your refrigerator. With a cute, original caption like "Sam's Shoes". If you send me the print I'll even autograph it for you. Some day you can put the picture on eBay and someone will pay you five or ten cents just to remove it from the public eye. Software companies will develop special filters to shield the elderly and small children from the sight of my shoes. My shoes will be famous, like that really crappy guy from American Idol. Is he really hung?

A Tuneful Balloonful!

You pump the phallic thingy with a knobby end up and down. See the high-tech portrayal of action indicated in the picture.
Then the balloon get bigger and bigger every time you pump. Then you play notes on the keyboard. But don't forget to pump, otherwise the balloon will deflate and it won't play for you.

I'm pretty sure that this counts as child pornography. Should I feel dirty? Actually I'm just wondering how the fuck I got so tan! I can't tan like that today. Did my mom replace my kiddie bed with a tanning bed without telling me? Should I be counting the days until I develop skin cancer? The most scary thought I have is "Why did H2 hang this picture in the garage?" What does that say?

Is Ball Sack One or Two Words?

Recently H3.2 purchased a 2005 Corvette C6 Z51, black on black (sex on wheels). It's fucking hot. I'm not an American car kind of girl, however this car has balls so big that when he floors it I have to wring out my panties. Due to the leather interior, H3.2 makes me hang my panties out the window as I'm wringing. No juices on the leather, you know. So, this post has nothing to do with the car. I just wanted to talk about my panties a bit. Good for the ratings.

When H3.2 purchased said car, the finance company (we'll call them Stupid Corp. or SC) offered him a 0.0% interest promotional credit card. He already had a credit card through SC, however its promotional rate was about to expire. H3.2 filled in the application using his full first name, middle initial and last name. Let's make up a name for him. Alexander Benjamin Doodlebutt sounds good to me. He does have a long name, so this one is a reasonable facsimile.

When he received the credit card in the mail, the name on it was A B Doodlebutt. He called the credit card company to politely request that they change the name to Alexander B Doodlebutt. He also explained that when he received the first credit card from SC they shortened his name the same way. The representative that answered the phone instructed him to mail in a copy of a valid driver's license along with a signed letter requesting the change. H3.2 sent in the letter and happily waited for his new credit card.

SC sent a letter to H3.2 stating that the form of identification they received was invalid. SC needed one of the following:

• A marriage certificate
• A divorce decree
• Naturalization papers

H3.2 has never been married. He has never been divorced. Even if he had been married or divorced, it is highly unlikely that either of these events would have necessitated a name change. H3.2 is a man. A heterosexual man. In addition, he was born in the United States, he still lives in the United States, and therefore could not ever be a naturalized citizen in the United States. So he is pissed off at this point.

He calls back SC and the representative insists that in order to change his name, she needs valid proof of a name change. He attempts to explain to the stupid cunt that he never changed his name, the fucking morons at SC did and he just wants to correct their mistake. He does this politely without all the unnecessary foul language that I used here to illustrate my point. He offers to copy his passport, his driver's license, his social security card and his ass including a nice view of his ball sack. At this point she relents and tells him that a copy of his birth certificate would be acceptable.

Well, H3.2's birth certificate is somewhere at his parents' house. His parents are in the middle of remodeling their home. So the birth certificate would be a total pain in the ass to produce. H3.2 asks for the bitch's supervisor. For anyone that has ever had a problem dealing with a major corporation, you know that this is the part of the story where H3.2 has to explain the whole fucking story all over again. The supervisor states that a photocopy of H3.2's passport and social security card with a letter of instruction will be accepted as proof of name. He kindly provides a fax number to expedite the change. H3.2 photocopies, writes another letter and faxes it off to SC.

Time passes. About a week later, H3.2 receives his brand new credit card in the mail. He is elated, the world sings in unison, he gets a massive boner. Then he reads the name on the card. Alexander B Dumdlebutt. They misspelled his fucking last name. Which, by the way, was spelled correctly on the first card. He calls SC again. The friendly representative informs him that "simple" name changes can be done over the phone. Hurray! Then H3.2 hears "Crap! I can't believe I did that!" The rep had changed the last name, clicked "SAVE" and then realized that he fucked it up again. Guess what? "Simple" name changes can only be implemented once every 24 hours. H3.2 has to call back the next day to correct the mistake. Holy fuck. This is why I don't drive American cars. We're dumbasses. I hope I offend someone.

One would assume that the story ends there. Oh, but one would be dead wrong. H3.2 made a purchase at Best Buy last weekend. His Best Buy credit card had expired, so he applied for a new one. According to the sales guy, if you don't use your Best Buy card for over a year and do not carry a balance, it expires. H3.2 tends to make large purchases on 0% interest cards every couple of years, pay them off in a couple of months and then forgets about the card. So today he received his Best Buy card in the mail. Alexander Benjamin Toodlebutt. I almost fell off the couch laughing. Remind me to change my pants later.

Simply Disgusting

My name is Sam and I'm a bookworm. In times of book deprivation, I will read just about anything. I try not to buy books because they only last a couple of days. When I was a wee little girl, my mother would restrict me from reading when I got in trouble instead of the usual television, playing with friends, etc. One time we went to a restaurant when I was grounded from reading and my mother asked me what I wanted to eat. My reply: "I don't know, I can't read the menu. I'm grounded from reading, remember?" I used to be a smart ass.

Finding the vast land of blogging could be dangerous for me. If not for little things like my job, my kid, friends and H3.2 I would probably spend my life reading blog after blog. It's more financially prudent than buying books, I have a vast array of funny/neurotic/scary things to read, and I'm really nosy. I'm also armed with a comfortable couch, H3.2's laptop and a wireless, high speed internet connection. Yesterday I wasn't feeling the greatest, so I sat on my ass and read. When H3.2 got home I took a shower (he said my two weeks were up and it was time to scrub my filthy ass). When I got out of the shower, he noticed that I had these weird marks all over my sexy naked ass. You know how sometimes you get sheet marks on your face from sleeping in the same position all night? I had marks on my butt from sitting on my ass for so long!!

You're probably asking yourself why I'm babbling about this.... Yesterday I found Madman. I laughed, I cried. I read the whole fucking blog in one sitting. He seems to post something new every work day. The blog is centered around a co-worker of his that has less than stellar hygienic habits and is aptly described as a "cunt". Here's my recommendation: Start at the bottom. Skip the couple of posts not about the Disgusting Girl. Read, laugh, don't pee your pants. Okay, you can pee your pants. Just make sure that you swap them out for clean ones before you develop an itchy, red rash. And please shower before said rash turns into a oozing, green, pus-filled sore. I'm only looking out for you. And your co-workers.

WTF

H3.2 sent me this link today. This man purchased Teddy Bear rims for his wife's car. He spent $800 on TEDDY BEAR RIMS!! Then the car was totaled. He's trying to sell the rims on eBay. On his description he states: "My wife doesn't want to let these go, but they fit none of our cars and she doesn't understand not all rims fit on all cars so these need to go on a car they fit." How stupid can this woman be? Not only does she love these horrible rims that only a preschooler would enjoy, she doesn't understand the concept of different size rims. Maybe her husband has a 3" dick and he told her penises only come in one size. Rims, being a manly thing must also only come in one size. Maybe his wife is a preschooler.

I can't blame the hapless couple completely, however. There is a company out there that makes these rims. Someone got paid to think of this idea. Then some poor schmuck on a manufacturing floor actually made the damn things. It boggles the mind, it does.

People Are Stupid

My nickname is Sam. Which would normally mean that my given name is Samantha. Nope. Not even close. In high school I had a second year algebra teacher that couldn't pronounce my real name. He slaughtered it every time. Since I was such a sweet girl at some point I started to ignore him when he called my name. Or I corrected him. He got really tired of it. He finally gave up and started to call me "Sam". I liked it. He never fucked it up. He always pronounced it correctly. And so it stuck.

People have always fucked up my name. My first grade teacher mispronounced my name all year long. I hated that bitch. She was old and I wanted her to die. When I went back to college in '99 I was older, wiser, and still intolerant of people fucking up my name. I was blessed with many foreign professors that could not pronounce my name. It seems to confound people of every nation. It's great. Thanks Mom! So, I told my professors to write "Sam" beside my real name. And they called me Sam. It was heavenly.

When I go to restaurants that ask for your name, I tell them "Sam". I have a couple of clients that fucked up my name enough that I requested they call me "Sam". My friends call me by my given name. Both my former mothers-in-law fucked up my name. Always. I think that was on purpose.

What is there to learn from this? First, I answer to "Sam". If you saw me on the street and called "Sam" I would turn and look around. Second, I named my kid something that no one (at least in this country) will ever fuck up. It starts with an M. You figure it out. I bet he will name his kid something horrific that everyone fucks up. And so it goes.

**For those of you that have too much time on your hands, in the 1970's there were 8,251 girls born with my name. And in 1996 my son's name was one of the top two most popular boy names. For more information on names and shit, go here.