Archives For Blow jobs

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I recently came upon an article, “21 tips On How to be a Perfect Girlfriend for your Guy.”

Women already work for less money than men, made the diet industry worth a gazillion dollars so we can be someone else’s idea of beautiful, and watch porn to learn how to completely suppress our gagging reflexes.

Why not also mold yourself into a brainless Malibu Barbie?

Want to know how painful it is to get anal, jailhouse style? Read these. I added my responses.

 

1. Look great for him. Men are visual.

Yes, that’s why he’s addicted to YouPorn. Unless you have another chick and can deep throat a python, you lose.

And what about how jacked up he looks? Splashing your dick in the sink to get a blow jay does not count as hygiene.

2. Smell Great for him.

Never mind that sleeping in the same room with my Ex was like Weekend At Auschwitz. Welcome to the Gas Chamber. Between him and my son I risked asphyxiation daily.

3.  Stop nagging and complaining.

I’m sure you’d love it if the only tine I opened my mouth was to fellate you. I wouldn’t nag you if the garage didn’t look like we stumbled onto an episode of Hoarders, what with that important paperwork from the 80’s and all.

4. Love him. More than anything.

Ohhh, now we’re trapped in an Erectile Dysfunction commercial. The gorgeous mature couple are laughing and frolicking on the beach and it doesn’t matter that he hasn’t slipped her the high hard one since the Bush administration.

Fuck that. Smother him in his sleep and sport fuck the 25-year-old trainers at the gym. They get hard ons when someone opens a can of tuna.

5. Love Yourself. Be secure and radiate positive energy, smile every day.

Better yet, VERY SINGLE SECOND. Pop Xanax like Tic Tacs so you can resemble an escaped mental patient.

6.  Be devoted.

Focus your energy obsessively on him until he’s at the point where he fantasizes waterboarding you.

Blind devotion is creepy. The next thing you know you’ve given away all your worldly possessions, shaved your head and you’re dancing around Los Angeles International Airport playing your karatala with Hare Krishnas.

7. Like his friends.

Even if they’re imbeciles, like his best friend who tried to finger bang you in the kitchen during Super Bowl Sunday. And then peed on your floor.

8. Be a sex goddess.

Did they really tell you to fulfill all his fantasies? Do they know he’s into acrotomophilia? (sexual attraction to amputees) Are you gonna chop your legs off for this motherfucker? And never shoe shop again?

And you forget you chopped off your legs, and you wake up Friday morning, all, “Hey, it’s the weekend, I’m gonna go dancing!” and then you are like, “Ohh. That’s right. I can never dance again because I have no legs.

9.  Cook well. Or at least try.

I happen to love to cook. It relaxes me. But a lot of women DO NOT.

So, if he’s an asshole,  poison him slowly, over a month. Just put traces of cyanide in his food as he grows progressively weaker. Then one day, he keels over.

Bon appetit, jizztrumpet!

10. Love is in the details. Give him gifts, massage and pamper him.

I’m not gonna massage your hairy back, Sasquatch. If you’re nice I’ll give you a handjob – that counts as a massage in my book.

11. Appreciate him.

Yes, because it’s so nice of him to hold your hair back during his morning blow job.

12. Stroke his ego.

Because his narcissism has only partially destroyed you. Let’s feed that monster until your soul is crushed irreparably.

13. Make him feel like a man.

I have a better idea. Why don’t you just come fully formed as one already? How long do you get to be a boy? Isn’t there an expiration date on that shit?

You get to put your dick in my vagina. If that isn’t manly enough for you, then go build something. Or kill a deer.

14. Help him grow by being his partner, not his enemy. Help him fulfill his potential, maybe even his destiny.

Well, aren’t WE lofty. You neglect your dreams and ambitions and pour all your energy into someone who will exploit you.

This is straight out of the Ike Turner “How to Treat A Bitch handbook.

15. Have a life and a passion.

Not so that YOU can flourish. But to be a better girlfriend for HIM.

Hear that horrible creaking death rattle? That’s Betty Friedan rolling over in her grave.

16. Be better than all of his ex’s combined.

As if women aren’t competitive enough. But you’re the new and improved version. Which means you have to pay the price for every crazy bitch his dick ever fell into.

17. Give him space.

Sure, give him space, give him the whole galaxy. Just know that what he’s doing with that space is fucking your friends.

18. Have a pleasing personality.

Is it just me, or does this one just makes you want to bludgeon him to death with your own amputated leg? (see #8) How about if I stick you in a cage, cover you in birdseed and let a bunch of agitated birds peck the shit out of you? Does that please you?

19. Don’t take him for granted; don’t be lazy.

Never mind that his toenails are a deadly weapon and his inner ears are dotted with sexy blackheads. Or that he thinks a date is him belching to Netflix.

20. Work out regularly.

Guess what? This has everything to do with me wanting to be strong and nothing to do with looking good for you. Doesn’t this work both ways? I don’t appreciate having to lift your stomach with both hands to find your dick.

21. Be feminine.

How about I grab this girly feminine pink pistol I purchased and shoot you in the throat? I’m pretty sure that’s legal in the South.

 

There was actually more advice, but I can’t continue. I need to do something less excruciating, so I’ll be giving myself a urethral catheter.

 

Do you have other suggestions on how to be the perfect girlfriend?
Does this article make you want to projectile vomit?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, so I can have friends without leaving the house. 

The SLUT MOM BLOG

March 7, 2014 — 186 Comments

The number ONE search term for my blog:

SLUT MOM.

 

Everyone has bizarre search terms for their blogs.

But why, every day, every week, is that always the NUMBER ONE search term?

SLUT MOM.

 

I wrote one post using those words – in which I defended a fellow bloggers‘ First Amendment right to use the words “slutty whore” to describe herself.

And now I’m forever defined as “slut mom.”

Although I object to this word as a misogynistic slur used to oppress me because I choose to do whatever I want with my pussy, I will take back that word to embrace my own unabashed sexuality.

And since this is the

SLUT MOM BLOG,

let’s explore this.

Can I be a slut AND a mom?

 

While I think a warm chocolate chip cookie straight from the oven washed down with a cold glass of milk is a somewhat sensual experience, I can assure you – to my son and his friends, it is not. It’s a refueling pit stop before they eagerly asking me to smell their Jar of Farts.

But, since this is the

SLUT MOM BLOG,

If you happen to date me, and eventually make it onto my list of VIPs (Very Important Penises), let’s go over some basics.

We’re all older now; mostly divorced; we’ve got kids. Everyone has hectic lives. We can’t do the pootie tang all weekend like 20-year-old college kids. The game has changed, and you need to change yours, too.

A few little suggestions.

 

DON’T LIE

I’m here for sex, not lies.

I’m not saying that we can’t care about each other.

I love making you feel good physically, I love making you feel good about yourself. There’s always something about the experience that I love, or I wouldn’t be here.

But if you’re going to start making a bunch of promises you can’t deliver on, then I’m going to invoke the Twitter rule because I just lose interest after 140 characters.

 

GET BUSY

I do not condone a “wham bam thank you ma’m” but I am paying an overpriced babysitter AND I probably have a shit-ton to do the next day. So if you’re not pulling my hair and saying nasty shit to me by the second hour, there’s not gonna be a third. Tick Tock.

 

TALK?

YES. As long as you don’t sound like a serial killer. Don’t tell me you’re going to “nail my stink tube.” I want you to call me your Dirty Cowgirl Slut (here is where it’s okay).

If you can’t dirty talk, then you need to moan, or yell, or something. I’m flying around up here like a fucked-out Tinkerbelle, and I need you to start clapping for me or I’m gonna DIE up here.

POSITIONS

 

Yes. All of them.

Just don’t jam it in and bangarang until you finish.

Speaking of which, if we’re doing it doggie, then:

 

VISUALS

I’m a little older than I was when I was dating before; I’ve pushed out a kid. When I was pregnant my legs blew up like the Hindenburg. And leg curls do not repair connective tissue. There’s only so much moonlight can camouflage, you know?

So if you’re behind me, help a girl out. Use your knees and do the old “nudge-nudge” to my right leg, and then my left leg, and widen my legs apart.

Bang! Smooth as hospital corners!

Actually you can add the POP! to the “nudge-nudge” and push my face down and my butt automatically comes up and DAMN! We got ourselves a Penthouse centerfold! THANK you!

 

ORGASM

No, it’s not okay if I don’t cum. I’m not that self-actualized. You’re a grown-ass man; you should have skillz by now!

Yes, you’ll know. A woman having a legit orgasm is like the price tag on a pair of Gucci stiletto heels. If you have to ask, back your ass out of the store, Bozo.

 

ORAL SEX

I enjoy giving blow jays, but it is a job to make sure that you get to feel like Christmas morning in my mouth.

So, you need to learn how to deliver a box lunch. Pussies are more confusing than penises. And every woman likes it differently. But here are a few starter ideas:

1. Don’t be skittish about it. Dig in like it’s Thanksgiving dinner.

2. Shave. I wouldn’t rub sandpaper on your taint while slurpin’ the gherkin.

3. No teeth during an Egg McMuff. If I have to explain that, then go back to masturbating.

4. The “St. Bernard lick” is okay for a warm up, but you’re going to have to vary things up a little. And don’t come at me with your tongue all pointy-like. No stalagmites up in this cave.

5. It’s a clitoris, not the Second Congo War, so don’t attack, okay, killer? Work up to that. You wouldn’t want me to stick the tip of your dick in a vacuum, would you?

6. Yeah, sure, do the alphabet on me, whatever, write your whole fucking blog down there.

7. Women over 30 are multiorgasmic. So be prepared to get a little Tongue Tendinitis. Pack a lunch; stay a while.

 

ROUGH SEX

What are we talking about here? Spanking? Handcuffs? This could be fun. Choking me to death? Not so much. Then again, I didn’t enjoy getting a salmon bone stuck in my esophagus and almost blacking out. But hey – no judgment. To each her own.

And please don’t rub on my vajizzle like you’re trying to get a stain out.

 

ANAL

Well since we Crossed the Rubicon, let’s just continue our journey the back way, shall we?

I can’t speak for everyone. Yes I can. It’s my essay. Here are the rules.

1. You either get to have a huge penis OR anal. Sorry.

2. Unlike the vag, the butt hole is NOT a self lubricating organ. And SPIT is not a lube.

3. A woman needs to be incredibly turned on for this to work, like feverish fuckfest porno turned on.

4. The height of douchewafflery is to “accidentally” let it slip in there. It fucking hurts at first. Yes. It DOES. So no “oopsies.” And go slow, S

5. Nothing teaches you more about teamwork, persistence, and humility than doing the Milli Buttfilli. It should be a part of all high school sports training seasons.
It probably is.

6. Be prepared for sounds both of us never knew existed to be coming out of my mouth during butt sex.

7. It’s an exit. Not an entrance. Nothing so wrong ever felt so right. It’s Planet Bizarro sex, crazy hot and primal, and saved for special occasions. Or until they start manufacturing Methaqualone again.

 

At this point in my life, I’ve transcended societal misogyny. I feel empowered because I was lucky enough to be given a life to live and a body that functions perfectly.

The physical pleasure of sex, the freedom of it, connects two human beings in a way that lets them endure the pains and losses of being human.

So LIVE FREE!

 

So, can a woman be a slut AND a mom?

YES. Just not at the same time.

never-give-up (1)

 

“Write what you know…”

What DON’T I know? My brain is an encyclopedia of everything I’ve ever encountered.

 

I know music.

Not just to listen to, to live to. I’ll talk vinyl vs digital.  Rock vs Bach.

I know music facts.

Facts that lived inside dusty leather bound volumes of Creem and Rolling Stone; vintage issues at the library on lazy Saturday afternoons.

I know the dates Jimi, Janis and Jim died, what American Pie is, and Keith Richard’s favorite drink. And yes, he really did have his blood cleansed of heroin at a clinic in Switzerland. By a dialysis machine.

 

I know theater. I’ve seen plays and read them, more than I can count. I’ve read all 36 plays in Shakespeare’s canon. I’ve seen most of them performed, too.

 

I know film.  I see everything. I’m an Oscar geek. I can tell you which actor has been nominated for best actor most (Jack Nicholson), who’s won for best actress most (Katherine Hepburn) and who’s been nominated 7 times but never won (Richard Burton).

 

I know food.  I know how to cook really well, and for a large group.

I know entertaining. I know how to set a beautiful table. I’m Martha Stewart, the leather version.
Totally incongruous with the rest of my personality, but true, nonetheless.
I set my table for holidays a day in advance. Sometimes two.

I know baking, which is in my opinion, a dying art.
Not enough people bake from scratch anymore, but if you do, I can tell you the perfect flour to use for the perfect pie crust.
And I’ll give you my best cookie recipes because even though I’m Jewish I spend an entire weekend baking Christmas cookies every year.

 

I know poverty. I know how it feels to have your toes press against the inside of your shoe, and not say anything because there’s 6 of you.
And never enough to go around.

I know wealth. I know flying first class to California and Europe; five star hotels, five star restaurants.
I know limos and champagne and things I have no right even saying I know, so I’ll just stop right here.

 

I know New York. I know it like you know a lover’s body, familiar and built for pleasure and you want to live there forever.

 

I know Ebonics and Spanglish. You can’t live in New York and not learn a little of both. Although truth be told, the Spanglish was more from all the Puerto Rican men I dated; they hiss at you in bed:

“ay, mami,
chupa mi pinga, mi puta blanca!”

 

And yes, while I’m on the subject, I know blowjobs.
But I’m only mentioning it because I’ve already blogged about it.
And because now my real life girlfriends are following me, and if I don’t give it a hey now, they’ll be all like, “what’s up with that? She’s all ABOUT smokin’ it.”

 

I know teenagers.

I know them better than you do, and I feel bad that I know what your kids are up to and you don’t but I’ll never tell.
I know rainbow parties and ABC parties and hooking up and “Turn Up!”

I know why you should let your daughter go to Wildwood after prom.
She hasn’t been a virgin since the 10th grade. Why don’t you just be sensible and put her on birth control?

Just don’t tell your husband.

I know…hes not ready for that.

I know what my teens have taught me.
I know they feel alienated and misunderstood by their parents. Which makes me want to be a different sort of mother.

I know how the education system has failed them. I know I desperately want to change that.

I don’t know how.

 

I know some famous people.

Mostly rock musicians, and mostly from doing drugs with them..
That’s all I’m going to say about that. But it had to be said.
Because it was all part of a big goddamn party I was invited to. And even though the party is way over, I’m glad I went.

 

I know books.
It’s the most passionate, enduring love affair I’ve ever had. It’s over 35 years since I fell in love with “A Wrinkle in Time.”
Quantum physics, witches, the timeless story of Good vs Evil, a bodiless telepathic brain, all mixed together in a mind bending story where I KNEW I was Meg, the protagonist, the outcast.
I was a fool for book love.
And never the same again.

And because of books, I know philosophers. And feminism. And history. And wicca. And architecture. And how all of those are connected, which they are.

 

I know drugs. So does everybody. Next.

 

I know addiction. Not addiction as partying. I know addiction as survival; addiction as coping.

I know recovery. Or really, just kicking stone cold turkey. No rehab. No detox. No money.
It took three grown men to hold me inside my apartment while I kicked dope.
It’s like a mother holding a car up to save her baby. You have the strength of a demon.

 

I know shooting galleries.

The kind you get raped in on Avenue D, but also

the kind you go to with your kid’s friend’s dad. Because, why not? Shooting guns sounded like a cool way to spend an afternoon.

It is.

 

I know sports.

Not organized sports, although I know I superbowl game when I don’t see one, and I’m glad the halftime show was at least a springboard to teach Little Dude some Peppers,

and there is that Yankees tramp stamp but girl, that’s a Bronx thing. Not a baseball thing.

I mean, I know athleticism. I know the sheer joy of the sweat, the burn,the endorphins, the high.
From lifting, or cycling, or hiking or yoga.

I know the bliss of a Low Lunge into a perfect Warrior Three. It feels like dance and mysticism all mixed together, especially with that trippy Indian music in the background.
Namaste, bitches.

 

I know fashion – or rather, style. Fashion is prepackaged. Style I invent. I take what’s left and make it right.
And when that obnoxious kid in the mall points at a woman and says,
“Just because she can FIT in those clothes doesn’t mean she should be WEARING them. Ugh.”

it’s ME she’s talking about.

And I know – I don’t give a fuck.

 

I know math. I know geometry which is useless, unless you’re a professional quilter.
And algebra. And I know averages and ratios and logic problems and calculus.
And percentages. And James Altucher is right – I’ve been saying that for years. If you don’t know at least percentages, you’re screwed.

I know I love math. I have a shirt that a student made for me “I love math.” I rarely wear it. It irritates people.

I know why.

 

I know LOVE.

I know love so hard that other people’s love paled in comparison.
We had a blue glow around us all the time, like moonlight. Even in the daytime.

 

I know loss of love. I know I’m on emotional lock down. I know I’m done with the kind of love I just described.
I know “Happy Ever After” really is just a fairy tale.

 

I know Death.

Too much and too close. AIDS, cancer, suicide, heart attacks.

Sometimes, I feel like I know death a little too personally, and that’s why I took some of the chances I did.
Come and get me.

 

I know friendship. unbelievable friendships. Friendship that have lasted over decades, and thousands of miles.

Fierce friendships. I love fiercely and am loved fiercely back.
I have friends who would literally give me the shirts off their backs.
She’s reading this, right now.

 

I know betrayal.

I know finding your life savings wiped out, your credit cards maxed out, your signature forged on loans you didn’t know existed.

I know being told lies. By people who abandon you when you need them most. When all hope is gone.
When you’re desperate to find one friend left you can trust.

 

I know depression.
I know post partum depression so severe I wanted to drown my own child.

And I crossed to the other side to a love so deep, I’m the one drowning now.

 

I know fear.

A fear that made me almost stop writing these words.

Until I realized that to stop these words

would make me lose MYSELF

because to write –

is to breathe.

 

“Write what you know”

I know Truth.

I know Courage.

I know Words.

I know

“Publish”

For a Jew I bake some mean-ass Christmas cookies

For a Jew I bake some bad ass Christmas cookies

Did you ever stop blogging? Or think about quitting? 

Talk to me. I’m listening. 

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sunshineaward

Tara, the fabulous blogger over at Love From Tara nominated me for the Sunshine Blogger Award.

Wait – Tara – do you mean me? Samara, who posts about strip clubs? Blow Jobs?  Heroin?

Okay! Just checking.

Well, I’ll gladly accept it, since 2013 was officially the year “God Fucked Me in the Ass Without Lube.”

Before I begin, a New Year’s note to anyone who honors me by reading this blog:

Dear WordPress family:

Thank you all for the love. Little Dude and I are here, rocking out to New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. He loves so very many of you.

Last night, I saw Patti Smith perform. She preached to us, Patti punk-rock-priestess style, that even in this harsh economic time, no one need suffer from intellectual poverty.  She had the audience in a frenzy, commanding that we all strive

TO PLAY. TO HAVE JOY. TO HAVE IMAGINATION. TO BE FREE!

I fiercely wish this for all of you in 2014.

Ahh, my award. These awards are awesome.  I somehow got passed on the “I Gave a BlowJob Outside The Holland Tunnel” blog award. Also missed the “Do You Think An Elephant Can Use a Fluffy Cat as a Tampon” blog award.

The rules for these awards are so damn complicated. First, nominate 85 bloggers.  Coordinate your reproductive cycles so that you are all menstruating simultaneously. Line up 11 infants on mattresses, dress as the devil and practice El Colacho – baby jumping.

WordPress Baby Jump Award

WordPress Baby Jump Blog Award

The Sunshine Award Rules:

  1. Post a picture of the Sunshine Award
  2. Post 11 random facts about yourself
  3. Answer the 11 questions from the blogger who nominated you
  4. Nominate 11 bloggers.
  5. Write 11 questions for them to answer
  6. Let the nominated blogger(s) know you have nominated them

11 random facts? Pull up a chair, home slice. This is my 15 minutes and I’m gonna work it like a whore in navy yard.

This is Your Big Chance to find out all about “The Weirdness That is Samara.  Don’t miss it!

1. I was the only girl in a family with five brothers, all of them older than me. During the 1970’s, there was so much sperm flung around our apartment it was like living in the Monkey House at the Bronx Zoo.

2. I am a really good shoplifter. I don’t do it anymore, because I wouldn’t want to get caught and have them call my 10-year-old kid to come get me.  I’d give some pointers, but I don’t want to go and get Freshly Pressed or anything.

3. I love to bake. If I love love love you, I’ll bake for you. I have baked theme cakes for everything from SpongeBob to dildos. Including a SpongeBob dildo cake.

From Samara's Bakeshop

Parenting at its best

4. I get intense girl crushes. I have one simultaneously on bloggers Jen and Tonic and Jennie Saia.  I love that they have the same name. In my Walter Mitty day dream, we’re doing a science fair project that involves snakes covered in Vaseline.  When I breathily mutter “oh, Jennie” at them,  it could be either one of them. Damn convenient.

5. I had a pet chicken when I was in high school. I named him Dr. Feddy. He was a chick that accidentally hatched in the  biology lab.  I used to let him run around in the bathtub for exercise. When he started all that cock-a-doodle-dooing at dawn, my mom brought him to a farm to live.

I just realized my mom was a lying hooker.

is he gonna eat him, or fuck him?

Just your everyday normal dude with his pet chicken

6. I love using completely outdated rap expressions. They especially annoy Little Dude.

“Boo, you better break yourself, cause that is some chickenhead move! Finish your homework so we can go to Gamestop and get flossy, dude! No diggity!

Translation: Honey, please stop trying to set the house on fire.  It’s ill advised. If you finish your homework, we’ll go to Gamestop and buy you the inane video games that prompt you to arson to begin with. I promise.

Flossy –   The lesser known and unloved cousin of “jiggy.” Used to express one’s burning desire to be Flashy and Showy, while simultaneously reminding white folks about the importance of routine dental care.

7. I have terrible motion sickness. Growing up, the Lying Hooker kept a pail in our station wagon for me to hurl in when I got car sick. To this day, I can’t go on rides. Once, when I was a kid, some family took me on “Rent A Poor Kid Day” to a theme park, and I threw up 17 times.

I wish I looked this good on Rent a Poor Kid Day

8. I am convinced that it is utterly against nature and biology for a man to be monogamous. Men are hunters. Those that can actually stay faithful are kings among men. But it truly goes against their nature.

When I got married, I told The Ex, just don’t come home with your penile instrument oozing Chlamydia and we’re good. Don’t get sloppy and let me find out.  Don’t get all warm and fuzzy on NyQuil when you’re sick and feel you have to bare your soul to me. What I don’t know, won’t hurt me.

What will hurt me will be if you spend money on the bitch. And that will hurt you, too, cause then I will cut off your dick.

9. I broke the record for longest labor at my hospital before giving birth to Little Dude. I was in labor for 36 hours. He just didn’t want to come out.

Men really seem to dig it up inside my uterus.

10. I love math.

11. I LOSE IT when I get stuck in voice prompt purgatory.   It is actually the Tenth Circle of Dante’s Hell from which there is no exit. I HAVE NO PATIENCE FOR THIS NONSENSE.

“Please listen carefully to our menu options as they have changed” is a WHORE. They’re all changing their menu options daily and I can’t even find a clean bra.  Who is responsible for this? I will personally give that person a project girl beat-down. When trapped in the Tenth Circle I start drooling and chant REPRESENTATIVE, REPRESENTATIVE, REPRESENTATIVE.

And the QUESTIONS:

1. What is the first thing you do as soon as you wake up in the morning?

Make espresso. Twice. I have a 10 year old with ADHD.
He vaults out of bed like someone shoved a spring loaded tampon up his ass.
He talks until my ears bleed. The best way to protect myself from this verbal onslaught is a Passover wine/ Oxycodone cocktail, but then I have trouble navigating the drop off  loop at his school. And we walk, so you can imagine my confusion.

2. What is your greatest fear?
Poverty.  I grew up in a shitty housing project.  Cinderblock and chain-link fenced in terraces give me full blown panic attacks.

Fuck you, we had an elephant.

Fuck you, we had an elephant. Thanks, Le Clown.

4. What is your favorite song at the moment?

I’ve been pre-gaming for weeks because I went to see Patti Smith last night. So it’s all Patti Smith songs.  She’s the High Priestess of Rock and Roll.  if you don’t know her, google her right now. This Instant. I mean. it. Stop reading right now and listen to her immediately.  There is nothing on this blog as important as her music.

5. What is your favorite childhood memory?

One time, my brothers and I were up on our shitty chain linked in balcony, throwing water balloons at people going to church on Easter. It was hilarious! And this one woman started screaming at us, “you’re all going to Hell!” Then, my mom came home and beat the shit out of us and…

I don’t think that’s what you had in mind.

Wait, this one has a heroic twist to it. My brother and I were playing at the top of a muddy, rainy hill behind the school. All of a sudden, we spotted the neighborhood Bad Man coming towards us. He’d been to jail for killing somebody – two somebodies, in fact. And he was trudging up the hill, towards us.

My brother stood in front of me and yelled, “Don’t you come near us!” Very brave.  When the Bad Man got to the top of the hill, my brother kicked this guy in his head HARD, and he slid all the way down the hill. And we took off running. But when we looked back, he’d gotten up and was just walking back up, with that same plodding pace, like the true sociopath he was.

Somehow, I don’t think this is what you were looking for, either. But this is what I got.

6. Facebook or Twitter?

WordPress.

7. What did the last text message you received say?

“Sex with a cougar does z not good! Fuck auto correct!”

My best friend’s brother is getting a divorce. He’s hot.  He’s coming to visit, and I offered to umm, make him feel a little better about his divorce. He’s 4 years younger than me. My friend was trying to say, “sex with a cougar does a boy good.” Who invented autocorrect anyway? It’s the same idiot who keeps changing the motherfucking menu options.

8. What bugs you the most?
Racism.

9. What do you consider to be the most important appliance in your house?
My TMJ retainer. My dentist is freaking out because I grind my teeth to nubs. I’m supposed to wear it every night. I never do. But it cost a lot of money, so I’m going to say it’s important.

TMJ - A REAL BLOW JOB BUZZ KILL

TMJ – A REAL BLOW JOB BUZZ KILL

10. If you could have one song that would play whenever you entered a room, what would it be?
That’s a really bizarre question. Do I get entrance applause also?

11. What’s your favorite movie quote?
I am a bona fide movie addict, so that’s really hard. Tonight, I’ll give you this gem from from Pulp Fiction:

Mia Wallace, played by Uma Thurman, asks Vincent Vega, John Travolta,

“In conversation, do you listen, or wait to talk?”

The only reason to get married is to do this as your first dance

The only reason to get married is to do this as your first dance

I’m only nominating 2 blogs. For their questions, they have to answer the same 11 ones I did.

Busted Flip Flops and Janie Doh are both smart, funny lady bloggers. I love smart, funny chicks.  Give these ladies a read!

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Tell me all about your weirdness. Talk to me. I’m listening.

Good_vs_Evil_by_umerr2000

Daily Prompt: A Bird, a Plane, You!

You get to choose one superpower. Pick one of these, and explain your choice:

 

I think I am two warring souls living within one body.

*other soul nods in agreement*  Yes, we are.

There are two of me. They are in constant conflict.

All my life, I’ve saddled the seesaw of contradiction. It hurts my pussy.

On one side: The Mother. The Teacher. The Professional. The Upstanding Citizen. The Good Girl.

On the other side: The Mother Fucker. The Deviant. The Law Breaker.  The Slut. The Bad Girl.

I’d like to make them agree, once and for all, on who I am.

It makes life really difficult when one person shows up where the other is supposed to be.  They never see eye to eye.

Like when I’m with someone and Bad Girl just wants to fuck him/her six ways til Tuesday, and then Good Girl butts her slut-shaming face in and pussy/cock blocks me.

Reminds me that I’m a mom. That I have a business, and a reputation to uphold. That I have too much self respect to screw someone in the parking lot of a restaurant, regardless of how deliciously hot that scenario is.

Or when Good Girl Mom was teaching her son to ride a two wheeler, and I had to keep squashing down nasty-ass Bad Girl’s remarks: “Get those mother fucking training wheels, off, Pussy Boy! Man up! If you fall, you fall, bitch!”

Good Girl goes shopping, and Bad Girl shop lifts. She shouldn’t do that. If she gets caught, it would not bode well for her. She just can’t help it…she’s really good at it.

Good Girl is tutoring a student, and Bad Girl starts explaining to her how to give a really good blow job. Which is not on the curriculum.

I’m bringing these two to couple’s counseling. If they don’t start agreeing on who I am, I’m ditching both of them and coming up with a completely new, third personality.

Now I just need a really good Superhero name.