Pedophiles

I'm a fairly mellow person, or so I tell myself several times a day until I believe it is true. However, there are a few things that really piss me off. I'd like to tell you about one of those things if you don't mind. I guess if you do mind, you can click that "Next Blog" button. I'm sure there are many, many wonderful blogs out there that you can enjoy. Back to pissing Sam off...

I picked up a Time magazine the other day in a waiting room type environment. I happened to read the "Letters" section because I enjoy reading what dumb-assed comments people can make. This day, however I was astonished at the sheer fuckatude of a particular writer. I can't quote it because I didn't steal the magazine. I should have, though. Here's a synopsis of the letter:

"I'm so glad that the new Pope is cracking down on homosexuals becoming priests, however it saddens me that it took all the child molestation law suits to bring this change about. It seems like the Church is only changing when the current situation is hurting the bottom line."

If you don't understand why this pisses me off, I really do recommend the "Next Blog" button. It's a nifty feature that allows you to continue your blogging experience with little or no interruption. Although you should be multilingual for the best effect, because not all blogs are in English. And some that are supposedly in English are written so poorly that there isn't a language course available that would facilitate your comprehension of the contents. I'm feeling a bit wordy today. I apologize for that. I am also banning spell check because it couldn't tell me the correct spelling of "fuckatude". It might be spelled "fuckitude" but I like it better with an "a".

That was a nifty tangent, wasn't it? Much better than those horrible tangents in math. Yuck. Okay, so back to my piss-off. The overwhelming majority of pedophiles are white, heterosexual, middle-aged men. Here is a novel concept: BEING A HOMOSEXUAL DOES NOT MEAN THAT YOU LIKE CHILDREN. IT MEANS YOU LIKE ADULTS THAT ARE THE SAME GENDER. I know that is totally foreign to many people. But for those of you that have been molested, how many of you women have been molested by men? If you're a gay man, you are attracted to MEN. Why would you molest a female child? That's double EW. And where are all the lesbian pedophiles? Shouldn't the theory hold true for them as well? Except for the fact that most pedophiles are men. Not most as in 51%. Most as in over 95%.

What the fuck is my point, you ask? People are fucking stupid. Taking away the option for non-practicing gay men to become priests will exacerbate the problem, not decrease it. I say that if most pedophiles are white, middled-aged men, we should remove THEM from the priesthood. Let's choose dark-skinned, young gay men. I bet more young women would go to church, if only for the eye candy.

Where Is Sam?

Well, Sam is at home on her couch, waiting for a piano to arrive. A piano? How odd! Yes, dear readers my life has become overwhelmed with surreal events such as piano deliveries. To those of you that own pianos, this may be a commonplace event. However, I do not play the piano. I did not seek a piano. I wasn't even asked if I WANT a piano. And yet, it comes. Luckily, Chicken wanted a piano. However, several weeks of piano lessons does not warrant the possession of an actual PIANO in my book. It is not as if we are renting a small instrument, such as a lute. We are going to OWN a fucking piano any minute now. Which is why I am not hard at work, teaching the masses the virtues of saving money.

At this point some of you may think that I am being snotty and silly. To own a piano is a good thing, and the wonder of achieving piano ownership for FREE! However, to those of you in this frame of mind, ask yourself one question: "Where would YOU put a piano?" Oh, and ask yourself another question: "How would you like to hear an avid 9 year-old pounding away at such a delicious object after THREE lessons?" I shall be indulging in quite a few downers in the coming days/weeks/months. Which will either mean blogging goodness because I won't have the initiative to do such mundane activities as bath and eat. Or blogging badness because I won't care how shitty my posts are becoming.

Speaking of blogging, and the frequency of posts. I have read in multiple places that "good blogging demands daily posting". Who the fuck thought this up? I could understand "a good relationship demands daily sex". Actually, no. That would fall under the same category as daily blogging. If you're not in the mood, forcing an activity results in mediocre product. Whether you are writing or sexing or doing your job. If you enjoy what you are doing, and relish the time spent, the activity will be fruitful. Of course, you could still suck at writing and sex. But you would have a good time and that is all that matters.

And just because I care so much about my dear readers, I leave you with a picture of Fred.

Half-Nekkid Thanksgiving

Happy Half-Nekkid Thanksgiving Thursday!

What are you thankful for?

As promised, here is a side-by-side comparison of my hair as of this week versus my hair in July. Don't ask why I colored the picture purple, I just wanted something different. I realized that with my hair as long as it is today, the sexy back thing just isn't there anymore. So I went for color instead of sexiness. Now if you're into the "snippet of lower back" shot, I guess you're still a happy camper. If I cropped the picture any lower to show more of my back, I'd end up showing parts and pieces that are best left to the imagination. My question (rhetorical mostly), is how the fuck did my hair grow so much in four months? For more half-nekkidness, see the King of Nekkid, Osbasso!

Note: Word verification is off for the day as per requested by Mr. Osbasso himself.

Bad Words

In the past week, my darling Chicken has added two new words to his ever-expanding vocabulary:

1. Cunt
2. Hooker

The first was a direct result of my blog. He was looking over my shoulder, glanced at the first sentence of a post and said: "What does cunt mean Mommy?" Holy fuck. I don't care what 'Nessa says, I'm asking for the pretty, pretty Princess in Hell position.

The second one was at the movie theatre on Saturday. The 17 year-old boy selling the movie tickets wanted me to sign up for some points club. I asked, "Do I get a free hooker with that?" Damn, some days I just need to shut up. Chicken inquires, "What's a hooker, mommy?" I can feel the fires licking at my feet by this point. In the privacy of our vehicle after the movie I explained that a woman that has sex for money is a hooker, and the proper term is prostitute and that it is illegal.

The following day, Chicken turns to me and says:
"Mommy, interracial marriage is okay with me, gay marriage is fine, but hookers are not okay. I'm not one for what's proper and all, but that is just crossing the line. Can you imagine a kid picking up his cell phone and a hooker is calling him and asking to have sex with him? That's not good."

Okay... now I get the joy of explaining how a hooker works. Chicken is relieved that they don't do cold-calling, but still holds firm with his "not okay" stance. That's fine with me.

Now Sunday is Chicken's day to spend with my mother. They go to church, shop, eat too much junk food and have fun together. This past Sunday Chicken decided to check out his Bible. For some reason he read the story of Lot and his two daughters. In case you don't know this particular passage, here it is:

Genesis 19:30-38 (King James Version)

³⁰And Lot went up out of Zoar, and dwelt in the mountain, and his two daughters with him; for he feared to dwell in Zoar: and he dwelt in a cave, he and his two daughters.

³¹And the firstborn said unto the younger, Our father is old, and there is not a man in the earth to come in unto us after the manner of all the earth:

³²Come, let us make our father drink wine, and we will lie with him, that we may preserve seed of our father.

³³And they made their father drink wine that night: and the firstborn went in, and lay with her father; and he perceived not when she lay down, nor when she arose.

³⁴And it came to pass on the morrow, that the firstborn said unto the younger, Behold, I lay yesternight with my father: let us make him drink wine this night also; and go thou in, and lie with him, that we may preserve seed of our father.

³⁵And they made their father drink wine that night also: and the younger arose, and lay with him; and he perceived not when she lay down, nor when she arose.

³⁶Thus were both the daughters of Lot with child by their father.

³⁷And the first born bare a son, and called his name Moab: the same is the father of the Moabites unto this day.

³⁸And the younger, she also bare a son, and called his name Benammi: the same is the father of the children of Ammon unto this day.

After explaining to him why Lot's daughters got him drunk, fucked him and bore his children, I didn't feel quite so bad for his new vocabulary words.

Recycled HNT

Okay, I'm working too much and I'm exhausted. So here's a recycled HNT for you all to enjoy. Again. I'll try harder next week. Maybe. See Osbasso for more exciting pics of scars, tattoos and boobies.



P.S. I just realized how fucking long my hair has gotten since this picture was taken. I need a haircut!!

Straddle This

I hate you all. You think that just because I'm a dog I don't understand that this is utterly humilating for me. What the fuck am I supposed to be doing here? This is not a normal position for a distinguished canine. Anyone can see that straddling the arm of a couch is not comfortable. My asshole is rubbing against the fabric. Although I generally like having my asshole rubbed, I prefer to be on all fours when I am stimulated in that manner. I hope my butt is dirty. I plan on licking it later right before I lick your face. Also, put the fucking camera down, will ya?

Note: This post is dedicated to the word "Straddle". Also, to the letter "K" for Kat. And the letter "L" for Lecram.

Chococat

"The best way to disgust a woman, let her fold your underwear"

So quoth the great and mighty Chicken. An hour later, I find him on the bathroom floor, pulling every hair out of my hair brush and putting it into a cardboard box that he calls his "boat". He tools around the house in his "boat". One minute he's a forty-year old man commenting on women and laundry, the next minute he's a obsessive-compulsive three-year old. I inquired gently, "Why are you placing my hair in your boat instead of in the trash can?" What I really meant was: "What the fuck are you doing?" His response: "I am putting your hair in my boat to comfort me while I am in it. It will cushion my boat." Ooookay. Walk away slowly and always keep your back to the door.

Minutes later, Chicken wants to know when we are journeying to Jack-in-the-Box. What?! I told him that we could get greasy food for dinner. Due to my immense headache my swiss-cheese brain lost the critical "You can pick the place" comment I made to Chicken. Shit! I grumbled under my breathe and agreed. As I walked away, Chicken says to me: "It's called being less specific". Chicken explains that I shouldn't have given him the specific choice of WHICH fast food place he wanted to visit. I should have told him "We are eating fattening junk for dinner" and left it at that. Thanks kid!

In a concentrated effort to be less specific, I recently visited a lovely blog authored by several lovely women. At this particular stop in cyber space, I remembered my great and burning passion for Chococat. I don't actually care about Chococat. He/she/it simply reminds me of Gigi, the cat in Kiki's Delivery Service. I watched that movie approximately five hundred thousand times with Chicken when he was younger. I loved it. I bought it. It is by far the best film Kirsten Dunst has ever starred in to date. Okay, maybe I'm going overboard. The point remains that for a while, my image is going to be Chococat. Until I tire of looking like a cutesy preteen girl. Then I shall try on a different skin. Maybe a skull and crossbones. You never know.

Note: The lovely blog is I Talk Too Much.

Kneel

Lecram Sinun double-dog dared me to pick a random word out of the dictionary, Google image search it and write a brief ditty about my word. It had to be ten sentences long and I needed to mention the word or its definition in the first five lines. I believe I accomplished the task within those parameters. Whew! Of course, I was supposed to post this days ago, but shit happens and here it is Sunday evening and I am finally posting. My word is kneel.

---

The instruction manual was fairly explicit. In order to kneel correctly, one must get down on ones knees. Not on all fours as some of you wish to do, but just down on both knees simultaneously. Although the diagram shows only one knee and one arm, we must assume that most people have four appendages. Well, five if you want to count THAT one, but usually it is too minuscule to effectively use in kneeling. Also, I am not sure that the tripod stance can be considered a true kneel. Also, the tops of ones feet must not be on the ground. I'm not sure what position that is, but it is some Yoga/Voodoo bullshit and is not kneeling. Arms may be at rest on either side of the body, however at some point during the encounter the hands should be utilized. Now that we have covered kneeling, let us get down to the basics of performing fellatio.

Fuck You lskdjfin

Word verification, how I loathe thee. The utter humiliation of not being able to comment ON YOUR OWN FUCKING BLOG. I glance at the swirling letters and attempt to convey your convoluted message to my trusty fingers, laughing with glee when the odious task is complete. Alas, my comment stares boldly back in my face, mocking my brain for the fucktard that it has become. The shame of having to attempt a second time, knowing that a tiny, retarded, in-bred child with a frontal lobotomy could conquer this task with ease. I hate you.

I would now spew forth foul streams of excrement about the evils of blogger spam, however I covered that topic with this post. Fuckers. All of you spammers and verifiers and everyone else that has ever sent a mass mailing or called me on the phone to offer me the fucking San Diego Union-Stupid-Assed-Tribune. I am waiting for a check to come in the mail, a check that would result in a Sam Happy Dance from the girl that does NOT dance. However, I am inundated with fucking advertisements and offers of dirty sex with pool boys.

It appears that I am on a rampage of gargantuan proportions. I am cranky. This crankitude has reached a level of spite and hatred that has amazed me. Today I was watching Oprah give a house to a needy mother with 10 children. Instead of being touched and wanting to hug everyone, I wondered if anyone had ever told this women how babies are made and to just STOP FUCKING RIGHT NOW. Then I learned that she had adopted seven of the children because they were her nieces and nephews. Instead of being contrite, I thought to myself "Well someone should have told her sister/brother to STOP FUCKING" and then I was marginally ashamed of myself as the aforementioned sibling is probably dead. But only marginally ashamed.

I think that I have spent too much time on my blog being the sweet mommy Sam and not enough time venting. Therefore, I have become a total fucking cunt in my real life. Or, I've always been a cunt but RIGHT NOW even I know it. Tomorrow I'll probably forget and go about my life as usual, wondering why people are staring as steam and small sparks come out of my ears.

Note: At the insistence of Chicken, I just read him this post without realizing that many of the words/meanings he previously did not fully grasp he probably now does. I just have one request, can I be a pretty, pretty princess in hell?

HNT Sleep

I know I'm still guilty of infrequent blogging. However, I've been so busy doing lots of very important things that I'm sure you will all understand. I have even documented the monumental tasks that I have completed with the following picture:
*picture removed*
As you can see, not only am I out there on a daily basis teaching the masses/two people the fundamentals of financial planning, I am caring for lonely house pets all over the globe. This particular cat, whom I shall call "Dude" to protect his identity, was found roaming the house in dire need of a nap. Without my swift intervention, Dude might have fallen asleep in any number of unsavory places. Due to my undying love for animals everywhere, I took this poor creature into my bed and helped him achieve nirvana (AKA afternoon napping).

So for all you selfish bloggers out there complaining about my aforementioned lack of blogging, you should be ashamed. Where would Dude be today without my love and attention? Do you see how he softly caresses my face, a gentle "thank you" for the good deed I performed? Shame, shame on you for demanding that I neglect one of God's creatures for your blogging amusement. Oh, and have a Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday. See Osbasso for more HNT fun.

Dingleberries

1. I hate cherry flavoring. I love fresh cherries.
2. I write left-handed. I can eat with either hand. I do everything else as a righty. Lefty scissors confound me.
3. I am an only child. Like you couldn't tell that already.
4. I swear too much. My first spoken word was fuck. Seriously, ask my dad. (Or... um don't. Cause he's busy doing that whole heaven gig.)
   
5. I'm allergic to my cat and without Flonase I'm miserable.
6. I get along with both of my ex-husbands.
7. I love my Teddy Bear. We got married in April of 2007.
   
8. I love my feet and my toenails are always painted.
9. I really like my fingernails, and they are rarely painted but always manicured.
   
10. I have a bunch of gray hair.
    
11. I'm sarcastic. I can dish it out and respect those that can serve it back to me.
12. My cat isn't very bright, but I don't need a smart cat.
13. I have a BS in business administration. I graduated Cum Laude and shit.
14. I'm really smart but frequently miss really simple things.
15. I love reading, writing and math. I pulled an "A" out of my ass in calculus.
    
16. I sucked at geometry. Proofs were fine, it was the damn shapes that kicked my ass.
17. I'm 1/4 Lebanese. This means I can get a tan and keep it.
18. I'm 3/4 Northern European mutt. This means I have freckles and burn before I tan.
19. I have blue eyes, but not true blue like Chicken's. They are pretty close to hazel.
20. I was a child model. I was a cute kid. I would never let my Chicken model.
21. Sometimes I love cheesy television. I don't have to think when I watch it. My friend Ewe Girl calls it mental masturbation.
    
22. I love food. Thai food, Indian food, Greek food, Afghan food, Japanese food... food is good.
23. I'm not sure if I love sleeping or food more.
24. I hate to walk. I ran cross country in high school, but walking sucks.
25. I've never done LSD or heroin and I never will.
26. Animals and children like me.
27. I'm pro-choice but I don't think I could ever have an abortion.
28. I think adults should be able to marry. Regardless of race, religion or sexual orientation.
29. I drive a 1998 Honda Civic LX. I love it. I plan on driving it into the ground.
30. I don't believe in circumcision.
31. I hate mornings. They should be canceled.
32. The day should start at noon.
    
33. I can't eat wheat, rye, barley or oats. I miss beer and Krispy Kreme a lot. I don't have Celiac disease and yes I"ve been tested.
34. I'm not overly fond of white wine.
35. Coke, not Pespi.
36. I love Party Lite candles.
37. I still wear my Doc Marten boots from 1992.
38. My favorite alcohol is Patron silver.
39. I'v had a crush on Clint Eastwood since I saw The Good, The Bad and The Ugly in third grade.
40. I've never drunk-dialed anyone. I have drunk blogged.
    
41. I have a thing for geeks.
42. I prefer a little meat on my lovers.
43. I miss my dad. He died January 11, 2006.
44. I miss the San Diego of my childhood. And also the San Diego of my adulthood because any San Diego is better than a city in Riverside County.
    
45. I've driven across the US more than once. I love to drive.
46. I hate humidity. It totally fucks up my hair.
47. I lived in Virginia for four years. I was amazed that my grass didn't need sprinklers.
48. I've always wanted to live somewhere that had actual seasons.
49. I hate the desert and love the mountains.
50. I'm a Pisces and I love water.
51. Landing strip.
52. Best compliment I've ever received: "You're a great mom"
53. I'll never forget the first time I saw a booger in Chicken's nose.
54. I have had Fibromyalgia since 2000. It sucks smelly donkey balls.
    
55. I have a few favorite dramas that I cannot live without: Grey's Anatomy, Lost and House.
56. I gave my firstborn son up for adoption in 1994. It almost killed me.
57. I love putting away warm laundry. I hate putting it away when it is cold.
    

Any questions? I'll answer them and add them to my list.

Half-Nekkid Thursday

A collection of my Half-Nekkid Thursday posts. For the headmaster of HNT, see Osbasso.

*picture removed*

Half-Nekkid Last Minute Thursday

Knee High Fuck Me Boots:

Porn Stars

*Last update 5/08*

Ever wonder about the cast of characters in my life that I mention on my blog? Me neither. Just in case, here are some Cliff's Notes for you:

Sam: That's me! An atypical 34 year-old crazy woman.

Chicken: My boy. A sixth-grader that is too smart for his own good.

Egg: My egg. In my ovary. Duh! Hopefully it will be fertilized and come out and play some day. We're working on it.

H1: Chicken's father and my first husband. He lives in Virginia with his second wife, their child and his step-daughters. We have a fairly decent relationship.

H2: My second (ex) husband. Currently living in San Diego with his cat. He traded one annoying bitch for another. We have a better relationship than the one I have with H1, probably because he is less of an ass.

Teddy Bear: My husband. He doesn't like being called H3. We were engaged in October 2006 soley due to my mad skills in the fellatio arena. We got married in April 2007. Who needs an extended engagement? He calls me a midget. I prefer to be called "petite" or "hot" or "fucking brilliant" but I'm not going to quibble over it.

Dude: AKA sex on paws. Dude is my cat. He loves Iams weight control cat food and catnip. No other food shall pass between his lips. *Update* Dude now eats Royal Canin Special 33 cat food, AKA the most expensive cat food EVER because Reina has a delicate stomach.

Reina:Teddy Bear's insane kitten with the gift of explosive diarrhea. I got her from a kitty rescue for his birthday at his request. Now we spend more money on her cat food than our own food. Well, not really but FUCK it is expensive and totally worth it. No more flinging shit onto her own back. The cat could clear out a house with her ass. And, no smart ass, she did not get it from me.

Gramps: My dad. He used to read my blog every day. He passed away on January 11, 2006. I miss him.

Ewe Girl: I met her when she was just a wee little girl of 19. Now she's got a rack that brings men to their knees. Well, she's had the rack since before we met. But now she knows how to use it!

Ducky: Matron of Honor at my wedding to H2 and very good friend that I neglect all too often. Now that I live MUCH closer to her I am trying to spend more time with her and her beautiful son.

LD2: I met her when her hubby worked with my hubby (H2) long, long ago in a land far, far away. Did I mention that she's a hot Asian chick?

Tobiwan: We met at a party in high school. He was the only guy that didn't grossly hit on me so we talked the night away. A short time later, we bumped into each other at Denney's while I was drunkenly soberly celebrating my 17th birthday. Thus a lifetime friendship began.

Baby Z: Born in July 2005 and the son of one of my best friends. I was spending 40-50 hours a week taking care of him from January '06 to February '07.

More characters will be added as they fall into my life... if I have forgotten anyone, leave a comment for me to ignore.

Morphine is Good

I wrote a brilliant, witty, inspiring post. And Blogger ate it fucking up in one great big gulp. Asshole. So now you all are stuck with the crap I write when I'm irritable and tired. Here is the Reader's Digest version of my weekend:

1. Friday 1700 PST begin drive from San Diego, Ca to Draper, Ut


2. Arrive in Draper at 0630 am local time-that's right, I drove all night long due to fucking traffic/accident/stupid drivers
   


3. My driving companion (AKA W1) and I took a nap


4. I fed my father two orders of french fries and a chocolate shake from McDonalds for lunch, as per his request


5. I bought my father a large bottle of white wine, also at his request


6. I coveted my father's supply of morphin like a crack whore but resisted- what? I've never had morphine and it sounded sooo yummy
   


7. My father and I got semi-trashed and I told Chicken stories


8. We took many naps


9. I am waiting for the hospice care nurses to call Adult Protective Services on me for doing several of the items above.

My dad's favorite Chicken story involves my removing Satan Spawn's bedroom door. Chicken had been abusing said door with much slamming and internal cursing at me. When the door came down, he huffed, he puffed and he exclaimed "YOU HAVE RUINED MY WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE". I almost fell onto the ground laughing. After that when he went to slam his missing bedroom door he would pause, get pissed off again that his door was gone, and stomp into his room. I retold this story to W1 at my dad's urging and I thought he was going to piss his pants he was laughing so hard.

At one point, my dad was napping and W1 found a website that deals with horoscopes and numerology. When my dad woke up he saw the site and entered his birthday in the numerology section. It turns out that he is an "11" which is a master of vibrations. Of course I began to call him the "Master Vibrator" until my tummy hurt from laughing.

On Saturday morning the shower nurse/aide person arrived to give my dad his shower. After she was gone I asked my dad how it went. His comment: "On a scale of one to ten she was a half". He cracks my ass up.

I learned that hospice care = as many drugs as necessary to be as comfortable as possible. That's my kind of care. Oh, and other things like cleaning and bathing and nursing but I'm all about the drugs.

I had a great time with my dad and wish I could drive up there every weekend. W1 commented that she sees where I get my personality/sense of humor from after spending the weekend with my dad. I should get her to do a guest post on my blog about her trauma/experience.

Note: For clarification purposes only, my friend "W1" is not really W1. I inspire much teasing from friends and family about varied topics and my friendship with a dyke gives them much fuel for laughter and jokes. Oh, and I use the word "dyke" only because she prefers it over lesbian.

Fucking Worthless

I was over at Erin's place and saw one of those cute "What is your blog worth?" things and thought I would try it. Here is what I found:

My blog is worth $0.00.
How much is your blog worth?

Just what I thought.

Update:
Dooce's site is worth $3.1 million dollars.
Osbasso's is worth $252,349.38.
SillyNessa's is worth $18,629.82.

Home, Home on the Range

Well everyone, I made it back to sunny San Diego and I'm going to spend today sitting on my ass and recovering. Thank you for all the warm wishes/prayers/spanks/etc. I'll be back to my ole bloggin' self as soon as I get some rest. For those of you that read Chicken's blog, I wanted to let you know that all comments you want to make can be left here and I will relay them to him! I don't want to turn on comments on his blog as he can log into and view his blog without my supervision. I do not want to subject him to random inappropriate shit that may be left on his blog. Also, he removed links to SillyNessa and my blog as his friends might be reading and I don't want them to see my blog. Can you imagine?? "Mommy, look at what Chicken's mom wrote!" Yeah, I'm not down with that.