Want To Hump A Pole?

This is another edition of Sam's random shit post. Lots of this and that, maybe disappointing to some, possibly titilating to you freaksters.

First item of business: Where does Sam get her potty mouth from? Her mother of course. Her mother that currently thinks "sucks" is a bad word. My dad was a sailor long, long ago and my mother's mouth was worse than his when I was a wee tyke. My first word was "fuck". I swear. I mean, I promise that I swore. And still do swear. It hasn't improved much since then is what I mean to say. I do have a great self-editing feature, however. I can speak WHOLE sentences, nay even PARAGRAPHS and complete conversations without uttering even one "suck" or "dang-it". 'Cause I'm good like that. I seem to believe (probably because I'm delusional) that I have a fairly robust vocabulary even without the f's and s's and c's and so forth. The problem is... this is my blog. And I like to add the occasional "sentence enhancer" (as Patrick calls them) every now and again.

Second Item of Business: A Brief Poll. Please respond. Your very life may depend on the results. Or not. How would you prefer I respond to comments? A few bloggers (SPK & Monkey) email me at my Sam's Stories account. I really like that because I NEVER go back and see if a blogger has responded to something I say at their site. I read, comment, and then come back another day to read some more posts. My brain is too much like swiss cheese to remember where I went and when I commented. How do you feel?

How Do You Want It? Doggy Style: Email me with responses. Missionary Position: Respond in the comments section. Frigid: I don't care, just get it over with quickly. In Heat: Just give me more posting. Fuck the comment responses. Free polls from Pollhost.com

Third Item of Business: I did talk to my long-lost friend Toby. I'd give him a cutesy nick-name but I'm not in that kind of mood right now. Let us just pretend his name isn't Toby, mmkay? How did he find me? With a tiny bit of personal information and the power of the Internets. Scary. This leads me to: a new blog. This blog will stay here, and stay EXACTLY THE SAME. However, I need to vent about a certain subject that is in my real life that I do not want some "real-lifers" to know about.

It is very important that I maintain complete and UDDER (ha ha I said "udder") privacy about this particular issue. Here is how it will work: I will not link to any other blog from my new blog. I will not post the URL here. I will give out the URL if requested via email at samsstories at gmail dot com AND the powers that be grant you permission. This has absolutely NOTHING to do with any person that reads this blog. If you read this blog, this does not concern you or your actions. If you know me in real life, I will discuss it personally with you, however I will not give you the URL. Have any questions? Drop me a line or give me a call. My 900 number is still working.

Happy Birthday To Me, I Smell Like Pee-pee...

World's Biggest Fucking Hugest Pet Peeve:

When you are watching television with someone *ahem* and they are also doing something else (Fucking Internets) and they miss something critical on the show... and they interrupt the show (still playing) and ask "WHAT HAPPENED?" If you wanted to know, I suggest you watch THE FUCKING SHOW. I'm just saying, not to anyone specific (H3.2) or during any show specifically (Greys Anatomy) or any time specific (right now). That's all.

As I was saying, H3.2 and I are watching Greys Anatomy (and he's paying attention for one moment) when Addison starts crying and Bailey's milk lets down. For those of you that don't watch one of my favoritest (Sam's word of the day) shows, Bailey is a nursing mommy with a brand-spanking new baby. Addison's tears involve peeing and poison oak AKA bad itchy shit that you shouldn't squat over.

H3.2 is shocked/appalled/freaked out that crying = milk production. I'm not sure how bad it is for most mothers, however I can tell you that my mammaries could have supplied milk to half the country and still have enough left over for Chicken and my morning coffee. This means, to you non-nursing women/men that when a baby (any baby) cried my boobies were ready/overflowing/turning my day into a wet T-shirt contest. H3.2 remarks: "What the hell, that is such a bad design." Dude, it's nature. How about those freakin' "nocturnal emissions", huh big boy? Like that's convenient. No vaginas around to impregnate and you're shooting a load into your sheets. Bah. Bad design.

Favorite Line from tonight's show? "Baby Trumps Husband"

Sidenote: Um Toby? Read the previous post please n thank you.

Holy Shitstorm Batman!

Have you ever thought about a long-lost friend? Have you ever kept a necklace they made you FOREVER ago and still look at it and can't ever toss it because your friend made it for you? Have you heard from this or that person that the friend is still alive but no one can seem to give you their phone number/email/physical address? Have you just wondered how they are doing, how life is treating them and if you will ever see them again?

Have you ever had that very same person leave a COMMENT on your pseudo-anonymous no one knows about it in real life except for a few very special (ed.) people? Holy shit!! HEY TOBY!! Call me at (858) um... shit I guess I can't leave my phone number on my blog. Dammit. Okay, email me at samsstories at gmail dot com. 'Cause I miss you LOTS AND LOTS AND LOTS...

Now that I'm pondering this and that... where did you get this URL? Ug, please don't tell me H2 is reading my blog. That's creepy.... nevermind. Just email me. Or call me at that (858) number if you have it. Or my 900 number. (he he)

Thanks for all the happy birthday wishes. Here's hoping 32 is better than 31, 30, 29.... And just for visiting, here's a Chicken funny:

Chicken and I love "Go Fug Yourself". Before he went to bed this evening, he saw this fugly picture and said "Oh My Gawd isn't that hair supposed to be down there?" You know your outfit sucks ass when a nine year-old compares your tulle to pubic hair.

More birthday stories to come....

V.O.T.E

New post is below!
You can't read it until you vote again. Or your computer will blow up. Not blow you, blow UP. As in a bad thing.

You can vote once every 24 hour period. Vote Again. And Again. And again.
Because you love me long time.
MY BIRTHDAY IS SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 26th
Go to Madman's and vote for me!
Ms. Blogger 2006!!
Vote for Me!!!

Meh

I'm having a bad fibro time and it sucks. Every muscle in my body is stiff and sore, plus I'm exhausted. The last several weeks have been quite good, so the sudden change has me feeling cranky. My upcoming period doesn't help either. I'm just a pitiful, whiny bitch. I hope that tomorrow is better, because who wants a shitty birthday?

I suppose you're wondering who the FUCKING HOT STUD to the left is... his name is Petey and I'm babysitting him for a few days. He makes me think of Aughra(Pete). He's about 1 1/2 years old, a pit bull mix I think. He's the sweetest puppy in the whole wide world/in my house and I'm so happy he is visiting. I gave him a shower earlier and H3.2 popped his head into the shower to check on my progress. He said: "you know, people would pay good money for pictures of this". I have a long-standing habit of showering in the nude. Even with a dog. Ever tried to wash a dog and stay dry? Exactly. So I hop my naked ass in the shower and give Petey a good washing. He tolerated it, but wasn't enthusiastic. I guess he doesn't have much water dog breed in him. My lab mix LOVED showering with me.

Where did Petey come from? W1. Now, if you diligently read my blog, you realize that my partners/husbands have labels. My first husband is H1, second H2... and so forth. For a detailed explanation, go here. When I met W1 (at a Pride festival) I was teased at work, and she became W1 although we didn't date or marry. We've become good friends and she needed someone to watch Petey while she um... reconnects with an old friend. Petey isn't her dog either, she's watching him (long-term) for another friend.

Chicken calls him "Pothead Petey" because he learned the term pothead this week. Great A+ parenting, huh? Chicken wanted to know if it was a bad thing to call a person pothead. I said "only if they're not one". Even though I believe Petey is NOT a pothead, I don't think he'll mind. Plus, it makes me laugh and when I'm tired and hurting that's a good thing. Oh, and I hope Petey doesn't mind me using his real name. Please don't start stalking him or anything. He doesn't have balls, so sex is out of the picture. Just leave the poor dog in peace, will ya?

Note: For all of you (and you know who you are) that left positive and simply marvelous comments about my last HNT, I love you man/men/woman/women/piglet/sexy duck!! For the curious, I wear a 6.5 (womens' size USA), Chicken wears a boys' 4.5 shoe. Don't ask me what the sizes convert to outside of the USA, ask Mr. Google. He knows EVERYTHING.

Ms. Blogger 2006

H3.2 voted for me. Can you figure out which one is his comment?
Oh, and while you're at Madman's searching, for H3.2-- VOTE AGAIN!!

Half-Nekkid Toes

Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday!

For this special 2-for-1 edition of HNT, I give you the spectacular results of this weekend's pedicure adventure. Here is where some of you will shit yourselves. Are you ready with a pair of clean panties/boxers/butt floss/banana hammock? The feet to the left are mine. The feet to the right are Chicken's.

Are you done with the defibrillator? Those things come in handy, don't they? Chicken has loved getting a pedicure since he was a toddler. Mommy paints her toenails, Chicken wants his done, too. It's been several years since I have done his toes due to the pressures of elementary school and the way "men" are supposed to behave in our society. However, school is out for the week so Chicken was up for a toe-painting celebration. I used to have green, blue and orange polish just for him but I tossed those a while back due to age and disuse. Therefore, Chicken had to choose between pinks, reds and purple. He requested a red/purple pattern.

Here are a few more pics for your HNT viewing pleasure.

A. My toes after the "Foot Spa" and a clear coat.
B. Chicken and I. Can you believe how big his feet are?
C. Toe Wrestling!
D. Chicken enjoying the heated/massaging/bubbles of the foot spa.





















Now, before you lambast me in the comments for painting my son's toenails- please realize that I've heard it all. I've gotten the sideways looks from strangers. I've heard the "you're going to turn him gay" and the "boys don't do that". So don't waste your breathe reiterating the ignorance that abounds in this mixed-up world. It makes him happy, and that's all I care about. Oh, and Monkey- you go girl!

Whack-It! Wednesday

Chicken's favorite blog is Empty Cerebrations, because like any 9 year-old boy he loves to see things get fucked up. Each and every Wednesday Erin takes a household item that has outlived its useful life (or just pissed her off) and she smashes it to bits. She documents the whole process with pictures, witty captions and occasionally a song. Erin even gave Whack-It Wednesday its own blogger address and logo:
This week, I present to you my very first Whack-It Wednesday. Today's item is a shitty workbench in my tiny one (1) car garage. Before you gasp in dismay at the wanton distruction of a workbench, please be assured that I have excellent reasons for dismembering this workbench:

1. I never use it.
2. Shit piles up on it.
3. My garage is filled with my dad's things.
4. There is no room for the Corvette.
5. My Cranky Ass next door neighbor backed into the Vette ( the story is coming soon to a theatre near you).
6. The area I live in requires that garages be used to park vehicles, not store crap/tools/dead bodies/etc.
7. The above requirement comes with a hefty fine if not followed.
8. The blue hairs (old folks) in my area LOVE to find a resident not following this rule (or any rule) and have the board send the offending party a nasty letter. Fuckers!
9. Did I mention that there is no room for the Corvette?

Without further needless prattle, I give you Whack-It Wednesday! (Please note: All pictures can be clicked on for a better view of the carnage)

Exhibit A:
The Workbench. Typically covered with various painting/staining/car washing/drill/sander stuff. Too high for me (5'3ish") to effectively use.

Exhibit B:
The left leg after I get through with it. Note the twisted metal- which I fucked up with my bare hands. No tools needed. Damn it felt good.

Exhibit C:
Bonus Whack-It! I hated this hammer. The sound of splintering wood? The hammer, not the workbench. Oops.

Exhibit D:
Pry bar. Love it. Use it.

Exhibit E:
Prying. Bye-bye right leg!

Exhibit F:
Right leg + bonus pieces that came off with it!

Exhibit G:
I give you sledge hammer!! (Hear Peter Gabriel singing in the background?) Notice the distinct lean of the bench? I was putting all my weight on the bench and bouncing up and down. No, it wasn't sexy at all. The damn thing wouldn't move. However, a few mighty Whacks! of the sledge hammer and I fucked that shit up! Don't mess with sledge hammer.


Exhibit H:
Sam 1, Bench 0


Exhibit I:
My dowry. How much hotter am I when you know that this is only part of my tool dowry? Much hotter.

I learned something from this installation of Whack-It! Wednesday. Well, not necessarily learned, but I remembered something about the feeling of using my muscles. Several years ago I started lifting weights and doing cardio at the gym. I hated the cardio but I loved the weights. Life interrupted me and I stopped working out. I need to get back into the gym, if only for the sheer joy of using my muscles to their fullest extent. It just feels so damn good. Enjoy your Wednesday and go visit Erin!

On The Wagon

Since all the cool kids are doing it (Monkey), I'm going to do it, too. If you love me even a little itty bit, you'll go here and tell me what words best describe my character. It's easy, you just click on 5 or 6 words that scream "Sam" to you. I would suggest voluptuous, extraordinarily intelligent, funny beyond all reason, "was your daddy a thief because he stole the stars from the skies...." etc. Loves poop is not an option, sorry!

Onto other bits and pieces, Essie was concerned about the removal of cat fecal/urine matter every time I had to pee as Dude is working on his toilet training. I set up the Citi Kitty in one bathroom and it will remain there throughout the training process. If we have to pee, there are two other bathrooms that we can use. Also for Essie, I bought another bottle of Suave's imitation Biolage conditioner today!! $2.49 rocks my world.

Anna successfully shared a link about Tiger poo. The one thing about the article that really struct me was CNN calling Tiger feces "poo". Isn't poo what a toddler calls their shit when it's filling out their diaper? For example "Mommy, I poo poo." But CNN? Poo?

Schadeboy and his new gorilla pic are solely responsible for my random dream about primates this afternoon. Thanks Schadeboy!

Kat, you mentioned that you wear the same panties but you order them online. I felt so stupid. My online purchasing is limited to gift registries and books for Chicken. I never thought of buying the panties through the wonders of the Internets. Duh.

SPK, you commented on the merits of outer clothing making panties sexy or granny. I read your comment wearing sweats. Fuck! I guess they were grannies.

This post is my way to tell all of you that I read and enjoy all of your comments. Even if I don't respond because I'm too busy painting my toe nails. Which are delicious, by the way. Not in an edible, great with sauce way but in a so sexy dammit why isn't H3.2 into feet way.

Also, this is what Dude looks like when he's on a diet and his food bowl is empty. He mistakenly believes that the computer is standing between him and utter gluttony. This is the Dude Look of Death, also known as "Bitch, I'm going to gut you in your sleep and slobber all over your intestines."

One last thing... H3.2 is working ALL weekend, Chicken is off with his grandma for the night, and I'm here sitting on the couch. Blogging and watching Grey's Anatomy. I love this show. Spontaneous orgasms? Nice. New hot doctor that slept with what's his face wife and is hitting on what's her face? Nice. Very nice. Me sitting on the couch by myself when I could be out doing something... Sucks.

Just remember something that I learned yesterday while watching Bambi II with Chicken: "Princes do not 'woo hoo'". Which, by the way was an adorable movie. I highly recommend a day of pedicures and Mario Kart Double Dash and Bambi II with your favorite little person.

Camouflage

Camouflage, as utilized in the wild, is important to the survival of many species of animals.

This baby chick can hide from hungry predators with its remarkable ability to blend into its surroundings.






In domesticated animals, camouflage is sometimes used to hide behaviors that could conceivably cause a pet to have his ass tossed outside where hungry predators await. Notice how the carpet fibers render the cat shit almost invisible? Let's just say that toilet training is not completely without mishaps. At least the offending pile was solid, not liquid, and placed neatly upon a bathroom rug that can be washed in a handy machine made just for washing things.

*Note to Dude the Cat: Walking up to me with a carpet fiber stuck in your paw is a dead giveaway. Also, try shitting on something brown. It will blend better. And yes, your shit does stink. Thanks!

Granny Panties

Today I accomplished a task that had me jumping for joy: I purchased new panties. Not the super sexy ones (although I do own and wear those), just good ole serviceable panties. They're cute and comfy and they are great on those days when "Aunt Flow" is in town. Buying new underwear is a formidable bull-busting chore for me as it requires a trip to the dreaded mall. Now that I have Baby Z in tow, the mall becomes even more dreadful. I can't buy just any panties, as I like these and they are the only ones I buy for me and my comfort/pleasure alone.

H3.2 calls them my "granny panties" and it pisses me off. The madder I get, the more delight he gets out of it. So I decided to ask the Internets if my panties are indeed "granny" with a super official poll and multiple pictures to help you make an informed decision.


First, we have a picture of my new panties. No, you won't be seeing ME model them. The close-up illustrates the type of panties "low-rise bikini" and the regular shot proves that they are new (see the tag?) so you pervs don't think you're looking at panties that I have actually worn. These are pristine panties. I purchased five pairs of various colors/patterns for $25.


Then we have a model wearing the exact same panty style. Isn't she cute? Notice how the tank top doesn't meet the top of the panties but shows a bit of tummy? Sweet! Doesn't the look on her face say "I'm thinking of fucking you in my comfy panties but I'm not going to ever again if you call them granny panties."







Now, a picture of what I believe are TRUE granny panties. These panties cover all the bases. No navel exposure, no crack fore or aft, just smooth fabric to maintain that "I have no genitalia" look. Your grandmother would be quite stylish in these panties, and her Depends would be snug and secure.

*Thanks Sears for the picture!


I rest my case. I do NOT wear granny panties.

Half-Nekkid Valentine

If you read the previous post, I am sure that you were slobbering all over yourself in anticipation of a lingerie-clad Sam courtesy of St. Valentine and H3.2. However, I'm much happier to have a heart Tetris T-shirt. Think Geek describes it much better than I ever could: "This invincible torso cover is not only durable, it also bears the symbol of a heart made out of Tetris blocks. Hearts are international love symbols, making this shirt - like a powerful pheromone - an unstoppable attractant." Therefore, I have become an unstoppable attractant just by wearing it. I'll pause for a moment if you want to hump my leg...........

Done? If you're thinking that H3.2 is the least romantic fucker in the world, you might be right. At least in the traditional sense. However, I FUCKING love Tetris, and the baby tee is so cute on me. H3.2 is romantic in the ways that count for us *ahem* older women. Like doing the dishes, vacuuming the house, rubbing my back, and putting up with my bitchitude. Not to mention his divine bedroom skills. Ahh..... Happy HNT. Go tell Osbasso if you're half-nekkid today.

Sponsored By Hallmark

I'd like to address two comments before I begin my actual post. Both are from Bornfool. First, he wished me "Happy VD". Is there such a thing? A catchy phrase one would find scrawled on the mirror in crimson lipstick after a night of cheap booze and cheaper hookers? The next was regarding my name in the Holy Shit post. I found Bornfool sobbing at my doorstep, unable to comprehend a world in which my name is not "Sam" and my son's name isn't "Chicken." He was ripping out great hunks of hair (from his back) and it took me many seconds to calm him down. For those of you that are tempted to do the same, please remember that my nickname in the real world is Sam, and I call my son Chicken each and every day. Leave your back hair alone.

Speaking of Valentine's Day H3.2 proved something yesterday, although I'm not sure what. Either:

A) He knows me.
or
B) He's really lucky.

Why? Because he bought me four things for Valentine's Day. A beautiful rose, an article of clothing (which might be featured in tomorrow 's edition of HNT), a heart (pictured on the left), and a heart-shaped box. The heart arrives in many pieces and requires soldering before it does its blinky thing.

According to ThinkGeek you are supposed to "create a lovely romantic knick knack" for your lady/hand. Whichever you are currently dating. My man gave me the option of having him put it together or doing it with me. Duh. As I have no previous soldering experience, I was fucking ecstatic at the prospect of putting this light-up heart together. Seriously. For any of you menfolk out there with geeky women, this gift will score major brownie points. See how excited my hands look as I solder over a Valentine's Day card? Rock on H3.2.

Also, some of you may have/not noticed that I tend to blog in spurts. No posts for a week, then I vomit up a veritable plethora of verbage/garbage. I know that "blogger rules" says that posting every day...blah blah blah. Fuck that. I post when I feel the urge. It's very similar to passing gas, actually. I only blog or talk about my blog with certain people. Sometimes the posts are great, sometimes they pollute the Internet. Sometimes I shit myself a little. Yeah, blogging is a lot like farting.

P.S. Someone I know has started a new blog. When I say someone "I know" I don't mean in the biblical sense, although we have joked about it in public just to make service people squirm/horny. This blogger is a real-life friend and one of the few that knows about "Sam's Stories". As she calls herself "LD2" that's what her name will be here, although I have no fucking clue what LD2 is... maybe it's a geek thing. Her comments are moderated, but go ahead and wish her well (please and thank you!)

Fuck You Ronald McDonald

I have noted on this blog once or ten times that my asshole has been unhappy for a while. For someone with chronic intestinal issues, this should not come as a surprise. However, since I have been steadily eliminating wheat/rye/barley/oats from my diet, I have enjoyed a relatively happy bowel existence. I use the word "steadily" because I am constantly finding that foods I enjoy are contaminated with one of the above grains. For example: soy sauce. Most soy sauce companies use wheat. Why the fuck for I have no idea. Gluten-free (read: no wheat) soy sauce tastes the same. Compounding my diet restrictions is a slightly OCD habit of eating a particular food DAILY until I tire of it and move onto something else.

Lately my daily compulsion has been McDonald's french fries. McDonalds is one of the few fast food companies that cooks their fries separately from other foods (like McNuggets). Their website proclaims them to be "gluten-free". Fuck, yes! Until today, that is... McDonalds announced that not only is beef flavoring used (something they admitted to several years ago) but wheat and dairy products are used as well.

"While the company wanted to make consumers aware that fries were derived in part from wheat and dairy sources, [McDonald's director of global nutrition, Cathy Kapica] said, those who have eaten the product without problem should be able to continue to do so without incident."

From an article in the Burlington Free Press

A director of global nutrition should have at least a rudimentary grasp of gluten intolerance I believe. This knowledge should include the fact that some gluten intolerant people are completely asymptomatic while their intestines are perforated and the nutrients from food are leaving by the fast train before being utilized by the body. I attributed my recent bowel issues to stress, and had NO idea that I was poisoning myself EACH and EVERY day because McDonald's LIED.

Therefore, I say FUCK YOU Ronald McDonald. I will never patronize your golden arches again.

Alcohol

My cranky old man next door neighbor has a new girlfriend. He is in his mid-eighties and she's 72. He's pretty damn happy about life, which ordinarily would be great for me. However, his girlfriend has a dog that for some reason has to come over to Cranky Ass' house. This poor dog, yips and whines and basically drives me up the fucking wall. Why bring a dog to someone's house and then LEAVE IT?! Leave the fucking dog at home where it can bother your neighbors, stupid woman.

One day this week I was coming home and just about to pull into my parking spot when a dog runs up to the car. It's an older cocker spaniel, and I open up the passenger door to make sure that the dog didn't brain itself by running into the car. The dog hops into my car, bounces onto my lap and says "hi!" I must say that animals and children love me. I'm not sure why, but I'm used to being lovingly assaulted by furry creatures and drooling toddlers. This dog had a tag on it, her name was Lady. Wow. Original. I called the owner and left a message, and took Lady into my house. Dude promptly hid under my bed.

I wasn't feeling great, so I put a towel on the couch (she needed a bath and doggy stink isn't what I wanted on my sofa) and I curled up with Lady. An hour or so later, Cranky Ass knocked on the door and retrieved his GF's dog. He pratically humped my leg he was so happy (Cranky Ass, not the dog). He offered to get me my choice of beverage in return for my good deed. I request Patron Silver and I received a blank stare. Cheap bastard. "Tequila" I state. I'm praying that he doesn't find the cheapest bottle of nasty shit and deliver it to my door.

This morning as I deliver Chicken to my mother for a rousing time at church, Cranky Ass sees me outside and calls me "The ghost of Saturday night". Apparently I look like shit, although it's being sick and not hungover that makes my appearance so sexy. Cranky Ass hands me a bottle of champagne and states that it's more romantic than Tequila. I didnt' ask for romance, dumbass, and keep your damn fuck buddy's dog at her house.

Moments later, I was over at Jomama's place and discovered Waiter Rant . I'm probably the last person on earth to read it, but there was a post that I wanted to share. He describes what your drink of preference says about you. My drink says "You’re not afraid of spending a little time in jail." Here's the link to the alcohol post. Enjoy!

Holy Shit

Today I received this voicemail from a co-worker and I just had to pass it on... She doesn't use her name, but DAMMIT she used mine. Oh well. It's funny.. as shit.

To fully understand her predicament, you must realize that she is visiting the homes of financial clients, to advise them to take this or that action. As a professional. In a business suit. And she has this little problem...

By The Way

If you are a frequent commenter and I didn't include you on the "Frequent Fliers" list, please let me know. I'm a bit stupid sometimes/a lot/mostly when I'm awake.

Please Remove My Head

I'm sick. The kind of sick where you feel perfectly fine from the neck down, but the head portion feels like it is about to explode with snot. My ears are plugged, my nose is useless, and I am missing a birthday dinner and a baby shower today. This sucks. I'm also in the mood to scrapbook, however all my scrap shit is in my car and I'm too miserable to unload it. Therefore, I shall present you with several pictures that I am sure you will enjoy and we will pretend that I'm scrapbooking.
This is Dude. A fierce warrior cat that will hunt and catch a variety of wild creatures found in the hills and valleys of San Diego. When Dude isn't hunting, he is sleeping on someone. It doesn't really matter who he is sleeping on, as long as they know that any movement on their part will be repaid with a look of utter disgust, a yawn and a refusal to move. Dude appreciates water straight out of the faucet, Iams Weight Control cat food and having his belly rubbed. His greatest desire is to meet Gus and make sweet kitty love to her. If only he had balls they could have a happy bunch of gray kittens that would TAKE OVER THE WORLD. And fuck you Tom Cruise, you would not be able to stop them.

This tasty treat Dude brought into the house and deposited it next to his food bowl. I think he is trying to tell me that dry food is not exactly his preference, however I'm not about to hunt down the local rat population for his fat ass. Obviously this rat didn't make it to run and play another day, although I did bag and and throw it away in the kindest possible manner.

This one I caught in my living room after Dude brought it home to play. The damned thing hid under the couch, Dude forgot about it and WHAT THE FUCK I find a huge rat in my house. Don't worry PETA fans, this rat was taken outside to a secret location where I'm sure he/she lived a full and happy rat life. I humanly catch and release all live animals brought into my home.

You might be wondering: "What kind of rats are those?" I'm not sure, actually. I just know that in my area, these little buggers are the local flavor and many of them are stupid enough for my fat, lazy cat to catch and bring home to momma.

Would I actually scrapbook these rats? Hell, yes! During baby rat season, I've caught up to five a day in the house when Zada Satan Bitch cat was living here. I could spend days, no WEEKS discussing the various rat escapades in Sam's Place. However, with Zada Satan Bitch gone, Dude is limited in his outdoor time so this spring I think we will have a quieter, less rodenty season. I hope.

In other news, Madman is having a Ms. Blogger 2006 contest. Yes, I know that I'm a whore for contests. However, I was ASKED to participate in this stellar event. Madman is posting a new picture and bio every couple of days, and I've been told that mine is going to be last. You vote by leaving any sort of comment under the post. You can even say "Fuck that bitch, she's stupid and lazy and her nose doesn't function worth a damn" and it will count as a vote.

I recycled an HNT photo for the contest per Madman's request, some of you may remember my "sleeping with Dude" (the only full facial I've posted here). Madman wrote some of the bios, however I penned my own. I looked up Playboy's Playmate data sheets and wrote mine to follow their format, completed with "Turn-offs" and "Turn-ons". It looks like I'll only need about 30 votes to win, so I'm fairly optimistic that I can pull this one off. I'll keep you all posted as to when my entry is up.

Update: SOME people said that Dude is bringing in mice, not rats (Nessa!!). Which implies that I don't know a fucking rat when I see one. HA! I searched Mr. Google for rats in San Diego, and I found that Dude's little playmates are wood rats. I have a picture of a wood rat for your viewing pleasure. Take it back Nessa or I'm going to spank you!

One Padded Room, Please

I think I was over at Osbasso's place enjoying myself when I read a post about family gatherings and the fickle bitch that memory can be. One family member recalls an event that another family member claims COULD NEVER HAVE EVER FUCKING HAPPENED. Ever. Typically, there is no way to prove that one person is correct and the other is totally delusional. However, I have been blessed by the Internet that KNOWS ALL and does not ever lie. Therefore, I am right and YOU, my insane mother are WRONG.

On Tuesday Chicken got into a fight which required a trip to urgent care and the gentle application of butterfly tape on his thumb. The victor, (one can of tuna) remained unscathed and uneaten. Said can of tuna will be the subject of next weeks "Whack-it Wednesday" here at Sam's Stories. Due to the fight, Wednesday's planned lunch of a tuna fish sandwich was cancelled. In addition, no turkey was to be found in the house as Chicken is currently boycotting turkey in the sliced, deli sandwich form. At approximately 8:00pm Tuesday evening, after watching Nanny McPhee with Chicken and my mother, I realized two very important things: 1) bedtime was in 1/2 hour and 2) there was no viable lunch option at home.

Chicken and I headed to our local grocery store in search of a new can opener (the cause of the tuna fight was a faulty can opener) and realized that time was not on our side. How can you feed a picky child that will only eat the finest canned albacore tuna or mesquite sliced turkey for school lunch when he now won't eat turkey and we can't open a can of tuna? I know, many of you say "let the little bastard starve" but he BLED and cried and I wanted to make his poor thumb all better. This is where the Lunchables® come into the story. A mother will do almost anything to make her poor wounded child feel better. Even purchase Lunchables®.

Wednesday my mother picked up Chicken from school to take him to ice skating lessons, his first ever. She has turned into a freaky soccer mom (soccer is on Thursdays) and is talking about purchasing a minivan. I frequently need to remind her that I AM THE MOTHER, however the words just bounce around inside her head with a tinny sound and fall promptly back out. Chicken informs his "Nanny" (that's what he calls her) that he ate Lunchables® and LOVED it. She purchases two (2) more Lunchables® for the rest of the week. Disgusting.

Later in the day, my mother makes an off-hand comment to Chicken and I that he is a "chip off the old block" and the "apple doesn't fall far from the tree" or some cliche shit. It seems that as a child of elementary school age I LOVED Lunchables® as well, and purchasing them for Chicken brought back beautiful memories of motherhood for my mom. I protested vigorously. I NEVER ate Lunchables as a child, for two very important reasons:

1. They did not exist.
2. My mother was a health food freak and called white sugar "white death" when I was growing up. Even if Lunchables® did exist, I would not have been allowed to eat them.

I told my mother that Lunchables® were not around when I was a child, because I know that arguing point 1 would be far easier than point 2. She insisted that I LOVED Lunchables®. Adored them. Wanted to be their baby mama. (I've been watching too much Maury Povich, can you tell?) So I went to my best friend in the whole wide world and asked "Internet, when were Lunchables® created?" And the Internet spoke:

Before launching the Oscar Mayer Lunchables sensation in 1988, the company first had to determine an effective way to keep the product fresh, intact and appealing to consumers on its way to market.

As I was 14 years old in 1988, I am pretty sure that I did not take my happy ass to school with Lunchables® as my midday meal of choice. I was busy trying to make my hair look like this picture. (No, this isn't me) Remember those bangs with the two distinct parts? The part that was teased up into the air and the curled down section on the forehead? Rock on 80's hair!

What was my point? My mother is a certifiable nut case with a delusional memory that in no way resembles the truth of my childhood. Fucking Lunchables®. No fucking way.

Half-Nekkid Horse

Okay, I know the rules say "Animals do not count as half-nekkid" but I'm still not in the mood for stimulating HNT. This picture was taken at the end of October, the last time I visited my dad at his home in Utah. I'm saying "hi" to Ariel, my first horse friend in the neighborhood. Ariel used to have a regular ole fence, and we would hang out and chat for days and days about the hot stallion next door, or the damn flies in the summer. One time I came to visit and this new white fence was up. Being really intuitive I thought something was just plain wrong about this fence. My friend Ariel wouldn't come right up to me any more, I was afraid that my affair with the new stallion down the block had gotten back to her. What is a girl supposed to do when faced with a 15 inch horse cock? Say "No"? Fuck that.

I leaned in to reassure Ariel that she was still a hot mama and I'd share the stallion with her any day of the week when my elbow brushed the fence. Holy fucking crap a jolt went down my arm, down my side, down my leg which jumped up and stamped back down all on its own. Electric fence, anyone? Chicken, standing beside me saw the whole thing and laughed and cackled and chortled until I pushed him into the fence. Ha! Take that you fucker!

Okay, I didn't push my kid into the fence. But I think back to that day and realize that I'm raising a wonderful child. One that feels confident enough to laugh hysterically when his mom gets zapped by an electrical fence.