But yeah. I have some sexciting shit to post like a PSA about a stupid hotel in Vegas and a video of me humping my blow-up sex dolls I got in the mail last week. Also, I'm thinking of putting the plastic dildo that came with it under Andy's pillow tonight because that's some kind of awesome, right?
I've been pretty swamped at work lately which means at 5:00 I'm ready to go by sprinting out the motherfucking door of this office, leaping in my car, and roaring out of the parking lot like I'm driving the fucking Batmobile. Which is exactly what I was doing last week because everyone knows
I pulled into my driveway twenty minutes later and immediately felt calmer. Just being home makes my stress levels go way down because I know that I can spend the next seven hours sitting my fat ass on the couch watching reruns of It's Always Sunny and South Park.
So after checking the mail, I made my way to my front door. I was reading an awesome fucking postcard and laughing while I put my key in the lock and pushed the door open.
AND HOLY FUCKING GODDAMNIT FUCK FUCK FUCK, THE SMELL, Y'ALL.
The smell of shit hit me in the face so hard that I gagged on the air. And then I immediately turned back around and closed the door. Because obviously I was going to wait until Andy got home, pretend that I had just pulled up, and somehow force him to go in the house before me. Because the rule in my house is whoever finds the shit cleans the shit up. (Yeah, this has also caused us to have wars in which we both just step over the poop for a few hours until
So when Andy pulled up three minutes later, I was just getting out of my car and all, "Oh, hi. Wow. Totally random that we got here at the same time, huh? That pretty much never happens. What a coincedence!" And Andy was all, "What the fuck are you trying to hide, Sara?" And I was all, "Ha, ha, ha, oh, you. You sweet, beautiful, charming fiancee of mine. Don't be silly!" And he was all, "There's shit in the house, isn't there?"
He knows me so well.
So I guess that after five minutes of not smelling the putrid scent of twosies in the air, I had forgotten how bad it was. And when we opened the door to go in the second time, I started gagging so I had to go *back* outside in order to not throw up. Which is when I hear Andy inside sounding like Chewbacca or something because he's not really forming coherent sentences but occasionally I think I hear something resembling the words fuck, bitch, and wearesosellingthisgoddamndog.
Which obviously gets the best of my curiosity. So I plugged my nose and headed in to see what was making Andy go all Mel Gibson on Penny Lane. When I peeked around the corner into the room where we keep the dogs, I saw Penny Lane.
Covered. In. Shit.
I mean, it was everywhere. It was caked on her feet, her legs, her belly, her tail, and the top of her motherfucking HEAD, y'all. The bottom of her cage was completely brown, the shit smeared on the floor like she had been finger painting with it.
Which would seem pretty bad. But alone, that story is nothing. Because Penny decided to shit in her kennel again EVERY GODDAMN DAY for four days in a row. So for four days in a row, I got to come home from work to the smells of Miss Penny Lane. So yeah, last week was a really great week for me.
*Insert appropriate segueway
I just realized yesterday that I have never posted on my blog how I came up with the blog name Sara Swears a Lot. I posted it on 20sb, but if you haven't seen it, enjoy:
I came up with the blog name Sara Swears a Lot because of my best friend in high school (and still today), Katelynn. We were on danceline together which meant we were required to sit together at the football games. We were also required to do the cheers with the cheerleaders when we weren't dancing.
Katelynn and I were obviously way fucking cooler than any of the other prima donnas on danceline because we always found ways to get out of practice, games, cheering, whateverelsetheseniorgirlswantedustodo. I don't take well to someone one year older than me bossing me around just because she can, thankyouverymuch.
(But getting in trouble in high school is an entirely different post. Seriously, I could go on for days.)
So one Friday night, we were sitting in the bleachers at the football game. We were supposed to be cheering, but instead we decided to fuck off (as usual). Somehow the conversation turned to Barbies modeled after real-life people. We then realized that we wanted to make Barbies out of ourselves and would need some sort of "accessory" that Barbies always seem to have.
We decided that her doll would be Chlamydia Katelynn (we weren't intelligent enough to realize Chlamydia started with a C), and she would come with a stripper pole and some prescription medicine. (Also, I just googled chlamydia at work so I might be getting some weird looks from people in the next couple of days.)
And since I have had a filthy mouth since high school, we decided my doll would be Sara Swears A Lot and would come with a pullstring Barbie that said things like, "Fuck you, bitch!" and, "Goddamn it!" every time you pulled the string. Also, it would sometimes say those things without you even doing anything. Because Saras always end up saying inappropriate things at the most inconvenient times.
And I think my blog name has actually worked really well for me. It keeps the religious creepers away and invites the horrible, bad biker crowd to my little old blog, dontcha think?
Housekeeping at Sara Swears a Lot (The best happy endings in the business.)
*I never put an ending date on the giveaway for the Chippendale calendar because I'm disorganized like that and have never done a giveaway before. So the ending date is tomorrow night (Wednesday) at midnight. I've had a fucking blast reading these to Andy, and he already has five favorites. Clickity click here to enter. Good luck, perverts!
*If you want to be a part of my amazing, beautiful, coolestthingever living room decoration for all eternity, all you have to do is send me a postcard because that would be too much awesomeness to handle. So if you haven't already and want to help the cause, shoot me an email at tatorhead328 at yahoo dot com. I might send you nudey pictures back. Or a million dollars. But probably don't count on the million dollars.