April 2005

Friday, April 29, 2005

Life Is Short...Play Naked

I just saw that on a t-shirt and I love it. Combined with a naked Calvin (Hobbes was apparently missing for that photo shoot) it was the cutest thing I've seen today.

I think we should all live by that motto. Well, everyone except Jon Lovitz. No one should have to see that.

Now, let me tell you about this weekend. For those of you out of the loop, this weekend is a Nascar event (Talladega) and the Memphis in May Musicfest.

Jason is an agent in our office. He's polite, sweet, tall, lanky and country as hell. He just called.

Jason: (trying to sound black and failing miserably) "I need some insho'ance!"

Me: (knowing that someone is fucking with me and not knowing who, yet) "Uh huh. Did yours collapse?" (One of my favorite expressions that, oddly enough, only seems to be uttered by our black customers)

Jason: "Yeah, it collapsed! (giggling) I need some insho'ance on muh rims!"

Me: *sigh* "You bet. Who is this?"

Jason: "What the fuck are you doing?"

Me: "Holy crap. Jason? Did you just say 'fuck'?"

Jason: "I'm at fuckin' Talladega! Whoo hoo!"

Me: "Wow. You said 'fuck' twice. Wow. What's going on?"

Jason: "I'm at fuckin' Talladega! Whoo hoo! Boobs! Beads! Booze!"

Me: "Jason. It's 10 a.m. What are you drinking?"

Jason: "I'm at fuckin' Talladega!"

Me: "Yeah, I know, whoo hoo."

This continued for a few minutes. I told him to be careful. He is supposed to run into my brother and that spells debauchery. Last year, my brother and his friends got so drunk that they couldn't figure out how to take down their $200 tent, so they just left it.

I called Virginia's father a few minutes later.

Me: "Hey, what are you doing?"

Jesse: "Getting ready to leave for Talladega!"

Me: "....."

So, I called my Mom.

Me: "Hey, what are you up to?"

Mom: "Packing for Talladega. I can't talk now."

Me: (my bottom lip was actually poking out when I said this) "Why is no one inviting me to go?"

Mom: "Oh, honey, you know how you get when you drink. You'll be naked, I"ll be embarrassed, someone will be arrested..."

Me: "Fine. Go. I'll have more fun than any of you this weekend. The kids and I will just....well, we'll....fine. Bye."

The next phonecall was to my friend, Sheri. She has so much energy and enthusiasm for life that it wears me out just watching her.

Me: "Hey. You're not going to Talladega, are you?"

Sheri: "What the hell is that?"

Me: "Oh, thank God. Someone else who doesn't have huge plans this weekend. Yay!"

Sheri: "Crystal, I have to go. My girlfriends flight just arrived."

Me: "What?"

Sheri: "You know, musicfest. Five of my girlfriends flew in and..." (sounds of shrieking, giggling and air kisses)

Me: "Bye. I'm going to go suck on my exhaust, now."

Sheri: "Ok! Have fun! Love you! Bye!"

I'll be okay. There's a bag of Cheetos and a case of Corona with my name on it. You all have a great weekend. Fuckers.

Thursday, April 28, 2005

Rinse & Repeat

When I finally ventured into the world of cell phones, I bought a cheap Nokia. I had that thing for over 3 years. I dropped it on a daily basis, Virginia chewed on it, it got run through the washer, I spilled a beer on it (twice), and it survived numerous bakings in my car.

Last week, Chris got me a new cell phone. I think he was a little appalled when he asked to use my Nokia and saw the chipped corner, damaged faceplate and numbers that were rubbed till they were unreadable. The fact that the phone weighed about 8 pounds almost sent him into seizures. Most people change cell phones with the seasons. Why the fuck was I carrying around this dinosaur?

So, my cell phone heard us talking about the new cell phone and it died of a broken spirit. No shit, as soon as we started talking about it, the phone started crapping out on me. I had four conversations that day. They went like this:

Me: "Hey, you're cutting out on me."

Them: "Is something wrong with your phone?"

Me: "No. My phone is perfect. It has to be yours. You have shitty cell phone service."

Them: "Crystal, I'm on a land line."

Me: "Oh."

Conversation #2...

Me: "Hey, you're cutting out on me."

Them: "I think it's your phone.."


Them: *click*

Conversation #3:

Me: "Hey, you're cutting out on me."

Them: "Can you --- me --?"

Me: "Fuck you! There is nothing wrong with my phone, you cocksucker! I hate you! Go to hell, you shitbag!!"

Them: *click*

Conversation #4:

Me: *sigh* "I have to go. You're cutting out on me and I just can't take any more. I need to decide what to do because it's dying and I just can't accept it. I think I need therapy. Or booze. Or both."

Them: "Did you cook something again with those weird mushrooms you found?"

Me: *click*

So, anyway, the fucking little quitter died on me. It just died.

Chris gave me this new Motorola with a flip screen and voice recognition and laser beams and TIVO and a granola bar dispenser built right in. I fought with it for the first three days because it was so sassy and pretty and I missed my ugly little Nokia. We started to develop a grudging respect for one another when the spirit of my old Nokia came back to haunt us.

I was getting ready for work this morning and talking to my sister-in-law. I went to check on the clothes that I washed last night. I opened the washer lid and ... what? My clothes were still sitting in a tub full of water. As I was reaching for the knob to turn the washer on, I felt a tiny shove from behind me. The shiny new Motorola flew out from between my ear and my shoulder and went straight into the water. I heard Swan Lake playing behind me (it was the Nokias favorite tune) and I lunged for the Motorola.

I ran into the kitchen and and dried it off. Since I am an admitted fuckwit, I immediately tried to turn it on and then kept trying until I short circuited something and the phone gave one last feeble beep and died.

So, if you need to get in touch with me, you'll have to email me or send me a letter. I'm more likely to name Bimbo as Godmother to my kids than I am to get a new cell phone.

I just can't take the heartbreak.

Monday, April 25, 2005

On Hearing The Theme To Deliverance

I bought a piece of land in Hardeman County, Tennessee. It is right across the street from a beautiful little scenic lake and I have already decided that I am packing up the kids, grabbing some weenies and marshmallows and moving to my piece of dirt. Who needs a bed? I have nature and clean air, motherfuckers. Of course, at the first sign of some crispy, mutant bug I will abandon the kids and run screaming for my car, but it will be a nice getaway until that happens.

I had to go take the nice people some money this morning and Chris went with me to keep me company. It was a beautiful drive and we arrived in Bolivar, Tennessee, all pepped up and ready to live in a tree and become vegans.

Bolivar looks like Mayberry. There are hundred-year-old people sitting outside the general store, playing checkers and spinning yarns, or whatever they do, and the tax office gave me a neat little brochure and a map FOR FREE. I stood in disbelief and stared at the tax woman with a stupid grin on my face until Chris forcibly dragged me out of the office, muttering apologies and using words like, "special", "mentally handicapped", and "jackass".

We stopped to get gas and Chris had to pee. I was sitting in the car, looking at the map when my sun was blocked out. I looked up and there stood a behemoth of a boy with overalls and a couple of teeth. He was either in pain or smiling, I couldn't tell which. I rolled my window down and he asked if I was lost. I told him I wasn't lost...yet. He asked where we were going and I pointed to the map. After some very helpful instructions, he held the air hose for Chris while he inflated one of my asshole car's tires.

When Chris got in the car, we both waved to Jebediah and pulled out.

"Chris, I'm moving. Did you see that shit? I was sitting there, looking at a map and he came over to ask if I was lost. He never once looked at my tits. Who does that? He held the hose, Chris. THEY GAVE ME A MAP FOR FREE. Everyone is so fucking nice. I'm moving. That's it."

Chris just grunted and looked skeptical. I thought he was just upset that another Penis Person had tried to intervene and be helpful with directions and air hoses. I guess that's almost as bad as cheating to a man raised in the country.

We meandered down the country road that Jeb told us to take and looked at scenery. I was almost orgasmic. There were big, Southern plantation homes and ancient cemetaries. The road was gradually becoming more and more narrow, so I slowed. When it turned into a dirt road, I stopped.

"Chris. Where the fuck did the road go?"

"Mmm hmm. I told you. Neighborly, my ass."


"Teeth and hips. He didn't look at your tits because he was looking at your teeth and hips. We are not going down that road. Turn around."

I put the car in park and turned my entire body until I was directly facing him.

"What...how....you .. hips...what in the fiddly-fi-fuck are you talking about?"

"You'll end up popping out babies in a remote cabin somewhere and, let's face it, Crystal, I'm a big guy. I could feed someone all winter. That's what will happen if you go down that road. Did you see a school anywhere? A daycare? A single child? They need babies. Turn around."

I am doubled over giggling and he is looking at me with the most sincere expression on his face. This strikes me as even more hysterical and I collapse in giggles again.

"The map was intentional. They want us to get lost. Teeth and hips. Turn around before they swarm the car."

I finally managed to drive us out of town. The road that led us out of town? Sain Road.

Chris looked at me. "Now THAT is not a coincidence, babe."

Thursday, April 21, 2005

Vaginicological & Psychological Hotline

Thanks to Tammy for this...there are parts that are simply hysterical. And unfortunately accurate.


Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Vibrating Beds

I didn't realize it had been almost a week since I posted. My, how time flies when you're overworked and plotting the grisly and painstakingly slow death of a Bimbo. But don't tell anyone.

I'm recycling an old post. I have issues with bodily functions. Carry on.


My body betrays me alot.

I dated a guy from the time I was 22 until I was 24. I moved to this mecca only because he got temporarily transferred to Idaho, and we agreed that it would make more sense for me to stay with my family for the three months he was gone. I didn't hear from him for another 5 years. (I will stop here and throw in the obligatory, 'FUCK YOU!', to the hordes of men cackling and muttering, "Right ONNNN, Dude!")

After speaking with him five years later and working out some of the expected animosity, we became friends again. He wanted to fly in to see me, so he planned a 4-day trip. I knew there would be sex involved - he wasn't flying 2,000 miles for a trip to Graceland, kids - and I was understandably nervous.

His 3rd and final night here, it finally began to happen. I am in awe. Kissing him brought back so many memories. I trail my way down his body, drinking him in, becoming familiar again. We are both in bliss. He is hovering over me, gazing deeply into my eyes. When he readies himself to enter me, he pushes my leg up over my shoulder.

Yes. I farted. There was no writing it off as a queef, either, because the odor that enveloped us could not be mistaken for anything but the evil it was.

I froze. He froze. I imitated a guppy by opening and closing my mouth several times. His eyes got misty. I thought maybe he was feeling my pain and embarassment, but I'm sure it was only the six Dos XX's and the fish we had eaten earlier coming back to haunt his olfactory senses.

After he gently lowered my leg back down, he made some adjustments in his (now flaccid) nether regions and he bravely plugged on. It was most uncomfortable sex of my entire life. It was like trying to shove an oyster into a slot machine.

He never mentioned it and neither did I. Its the only time in my sexual career that it has ever happened.

I'm quite certain that one of my ancestors pissed on an Indian Shaman or herded people into gas chambers.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Uncle Rodney

I'm trying to get down to West Texas to see my mom's family in a month or so. In honor of that, I'm posting an old entry here....


My Uncle Rodney is a peach. He is the sweetest man alive, provided he's sober. You get a six pack or more of Schlitz down his throat and its all out fucking lunacy. However, it makes for some good stories, so whenever I see him, I buy him a case with the change on the bottom of my purse and then I just sit back and watch.

He's had seven DUI's. Seven. He's served prison time because they think he's beyond rehabilitation.

Amazing leap of logic.

Anyway, he got pulled over one night for drinking. I was twelve and in the passenger seat. Yes, he was weaving, but slowly. He was going about 14 miles per hour. The officer giving the field test asked him to say his ABC's. Uncle Rodney immediately began to bellow the ABC song as loud and off key as possible. When the officer stopped him and told him to just speak them and not sing them, he started to get pissed. He petulantly explained to the officer that singing them was the only way he could do it.

Fifteen minutes later, as he's being read his rights, he leans over and pokes his head into the car. "Crystal, slide my Winstons into my pocket. NO, the full pack. I'll need as many as possible to keep from being ass raped. Be a good girl and drive my car home." Reminding him that I was only twelve had no effect.

At my grandparents 70th wedding anniversary, we saved as much money as possible by enlisting various relatives to do certain chores. I was in charge of purchasing alcohol (I can barter some booze, kids), my brother did the deejaying and my crazy aunt Peggy made all the food. She uses food coloring for EVERYTHING. We had blue casserole, red stuffing, you name it. I also made a money tree for the middle of the dance floor. As relatives were waltzing by, they would deposit whatever they could afford onto the tree. I looked up at one point and noticed a very drunken Uncle Rodney trying desperately to line dance to "Achey Breaky Heart". I was watching in morbid fascination when I saw him snatch a bill off the money tree. Listen to me: THIS PARTY IS FOR HIS GODDAMNED PARENTS AND HE'S STEALING MONEY OFF THE DONATION TREE. I charged onto the dance floor and spun him around. Unfortunately, he kept going and spun right into the tree. He fell over and tried to use the confusion to snatch more money.

Fast forward about 20 minutes. We have a full-on bar brawl between all of my family, my 89-year-old grandfather is shadow boxing (he was trying in vain to land a punch to one of my awful cousins. He was missing by about a foot each time), my brother has landed on top of Uncle Rodney and they are tearing each others hair out like a bunch of girls, and I am steadfastly whacking my 15-year-old cousin, Teresa, in the head with a box full of tapes from my brothers deejay booth.

When all was said and done, my Uncle Rodney and 20 or so other relatives are being led to a paddy wagon by the police. He kept mumbling, "I was just gonna buy 'em something nice. I wasn't gonna buy beer."

Monday, April 11, 2005

Don't You Caaarrryy Nothin' That Might Be a Load...

When I still had my Metro, I took it to Wal-Mart one time to get a tire changed. Virginia was two years old at the time, and fate had conspired against me regarding her teeth. Her canines and molars started to erupt at the same time, so she was a fussy, whiney, drooling carnivore. She gnawed on everything in an attempt to find some relief. I finally gave up and just started giving her the Ambesol, still in the box. Her eyes would light up and she would snatch it out of my hand like the worlds smallest junkie. She would then gnaw her way through and finally find some solace in the numbing cherry goodness. It was good for 4 minutes of peace and quiet.

Because of her disposition, I used to offer people ridiculous sums of money to keep her if I ever had to go shopping. This was one of those days when everyone else had something better to do than pacify my spawn, so she had to go with me.

We entered through the auto section, and everything was fine thus far. I gave my keys to Hilary, the friendly Wal-Mart associate, and she handed me a slip of paper. I was confused. Was this like a coat check? Was the slip of paper proof that the Metro was indeed mine? Because if so, I was loitering in the area until someone with an SUV came in and then rolling the motherfucker in the frozen foods section. Yep. That Escalade is mine, Hilary.

Alas, it was not to be. Hilary explained to me that the slip of paper could be scanned at any price checker in the store. If my car was ready, the display would tell me so. I was fascinated. Virginia and I went to do some shopping with my magical piece of paper tightly clutched in my fist. I couldn’t wait to try it.

We were in the electronics section when I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to try the piece of paper. It had been approximately three and a half minutes. I carefully positioned Virginia in the middle of the aisle so she couldn’t reach anything on either side, and I turned to the scanner. I waved my piece of paper underneath it and waited for the satisfying beep. Nothing. I tried again. Still nothing. After the tenth pass, I decided to inspect the machine. I leaned over and looked into the mechanism. A red laser hit my eye and I flinched. I’m certain that my brain is one big tumor now and it’s all my fault. As I’m carefully re-positioning my head to keep from having my brains seared out by the laser beam , I hear a huge crash behind me. I turn around and my daughter has disappeared. In her place is a grinning demon who has dislocated it’s own shoulder to reach a video display. There are movies all over the floor and the demon is clapping it’s hands in delight. I abandon the dream momentarily and move toward the basket. The demon and I come face to face and I tell it that if it does one more thing to piss me off, I will drop it off at Goodwill. It clamps its mouth down on the handle of the shopping cart and begins to gnaw. I consider this a truce. After I pick the movies up, we continue our shopping.

I had promised my daughter a toy for something previously (read: bribed her to shut up, shut up, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT’S HOLY, SAVE MY SANITY AND SHUT THE HELL UP, ALREADY) in the week, so we went to the toy aisle. Of all the toys there, the demon insisted on a pink Barbie phone. It chirped and warbled in moronic Barbie phrases and everyone seemed satisfied. I tried the paper again at a scanner in the toy aisle and this time it beeped, but nothing showed up on the screen. I muttered, “Son of a bitch.” The demon giggled behind me and squealed, “Sombish! Sombishhhhh! Sombish!!!!!” I threatened to take the Barbie toy away and it went back to gnawing on the handle and watching the rivulets of spit land on the new toy.

By the time we reached things we actually needed, I was frustrated as hell. I had tried 4 scanners and none of them would work. It became a mission. It became an obsession. We were in the toilet paper aisle. I carefully positioned the cart again. With a feverish look in my eye, I slowly waved the now sweaty and wrinkled strip of paper under the scanner. It made noise! The screen told me to wait….then…nothing. After doing this numerous times, I was starting to get pissed off. How dare they give me false hope? Were they all sitting around the security cameras, laughing their ass off at me? It’s what I would have done. I was muttering, cursing, pleading with the machine. People were backing out of the aisle and going on to the next aisle. Why? Because the machine was in between two particularly fluffy displays of toilet paper. Coming down the aisle, it looked like I was standing there talking to the Charmin.

I finally admitted defeat. I turned around to find that the thing in the basket had started gnashing through my bananas. I sighed. The demon leered at me. It then began to chant, “Pee. Pee. Needa pee. Godda pee, Momma. Pee. PEEEEEEE! NEEEDA PEEEEEE!” I took off at a run with the basket, dodging Hovarounds and patrons. We were newly potty trained and “pee” basically meant any bodily function, so I wasn’t taking any chances.

I get to the bathrooms by the lay-away and extract my slobbering, writhing demon/daughter from the basket. It begins to howl in outrage at the thought of leaving it’s precious Barbie phone in the basket. I patiently explain the concept of shoplifting and promise that the phone isn’t going anywhere. We go inside and she carefully inspects each toilet before choosing one. This from a child who has been happily eating the handle of a shopping cart for the last hour. She finishes, washes her hands, eats the paper I give her to dry with and we go back to the cart. This whole process took approximately 5 minutes. Everything is as it should be, except that THE PHONE IS GONE. I am in near panic mode when she begins to wail. “Oh, fuck me to tears. WHAT KIND OF PERSON STEALS A TOY PHONE OUT OF A BASKET WHILE YOU’RE PEEING? HUH??” People are starting to stare. I deposit her into the basket and go back to the toy aisle. Lo and behold, we had picked up the last one.

I had had enough. It had been an hour and a half and we were at Defcon 4 with the toddler. I went back to Hilary and shoved the paper under her nose. “This doesn’t work. Cruel. Just cruel.” She checks on my car and tells me that it will be another half an hour. I point the the child in the basket who is now covered in snot and tears and contorted into a position that is physically impossible on this plane. “Do you see that? You originally told me thirty minutes. It’s been three times that long. I would have never, I repeat, NEVER, agreed to try to spend two hours in Wal-Mart with my daughter in tow. Does that look normal to you? (Pointing to the contortionist) Me, either. Another half an hour and she will have taken over, Hilary. You don’t want that, do you?” I thought about saying some other choice things and then I looked really hard at her. She was about 23 and had a five o’clock shadow and was losing her hair. She had been dealt enough blows for one lifetime. “Look, Hilary. Look at my face. Please. Help. Me.” I push the cart into the waiting area and mash my face against the window. The child is in the basket behind me speaking in tongues. Hilary goes out to the bay, talks to some tire guy and points to me. He turns and looks at me. There is no doubt in my mind, to this day, that he was a man with small children. He had my car ready in under ten minutes.

As a special note to the person who took the phone out of my basket…I hope you get anally raped by Michael Jackson while he’s singing, “Ease on Down The Road”, and a naked Roseanne Barr is masturbating in front of you with a Chihuahua.

Saturday, April 09, 2005

Here's another great one. Pay no attention to me...but do you notice that I'm standing in a room TOTALLY DEDICATED TO TONY STEWART? Only in the south, baby. Now, feel free to make fun of my completely contrived pose.  Posted by Hello

I saw this picture while perusing and I couldn't stop laughing. This is when my car crapped out on me and we (my daughter, my best friend and me) ended up hitchiking with the two smelly truckdrivers. They dumped us off at the Waffle House and we waited 2 hours for my sister to get there. Notice the table. I bought my daughter $18 worth of candy just to get her to shut up. Mom of the fucking year, I tell ya.  Posted by Hello

Bathtub Reflections

I don’t typically write when I’m at home. This is for a lot of reasons, but mostly because I write when I’m at work and something about getting paid to mentally evacuate titillates my bad girl side.

Tonight is an exception.

I’ve not been diagnosed with anything. I don’t have ADD, ADHD, Bipolar Disorder, Social Anxiety or Herpes. I’m just … different.

I was soaking in a tub after cooking a huge meal for my kids and my guest (Chris), and I stopped at some point to reflect about the fact that my train of thought is fairly twisted. Here. I’ll show you. This is my thought process, unedited, while bathing:

“Fuck, I’m tired. I wonder what my kids would do if I just stopped feeding them. Would they live on Kool-Aid packets? Dry macaroni? I bet if they were Ethiopian they could live on damned near anything. I need to spank them more. They’re spoiled. I hope they didn’t burn the cookies.”

“My tits are huge. People aren’t kidding. I wonder where I get that from? No female in my family has boobs this size. (I grab a ship that my daughter uses for a tub toy) S.S. Minnow, S.S. Minnow, this is the S.S. Boob. Come in, over. We have been torpedoed and are sinking. Requesting assistance. (Moving the boat closer to my tits) Ha! Sucker! (Shoving the ship under a boob) That’s what you get! Manned by a man, I bet! You have been shipwrecked and there is no return!!”……”Wow. I’m so fucking strange.”

“I bet I could feed an entire village on these babies. Sally Struthers didn’t just disappear from the radar and not get any more shitty commercials. I bet those fucking kids attacked her nipples and sucked her dry. She’s probably wandering in some village somewhere, all 82 pounds of her. Damn. That’s what I need. A bunch of starving children to suck all the calories out of me. Fuck you, Dr. Adkins.”

“Ick. I need to shave my pussy. I look like I’m harvesting Velcro. I don’t know why it matters. No one wants to see this. Then again, I have had three children. But I could get pregnant if someone simply ejaculates in the same room with me. My grandmother had seventeen children. No wonder she’s a hunchback. How do you handle being pregnant for fourteen years? I’d kill a motherfucker and build a shrine to that Bobbit chick.”

“I should get out of the tub. I have to pee. I should just pee in here. No, that’s disgusting. Then I’d be stewing in my own pee. That’s wrong. I’d be like an oyster. Of course, if someone is willing to throw some cocktail sauce on me and eat me with wild abandon, I’d be okay with that.”

Now you know. I know that you wish you didn’t. I should make this a weekly thing. Bathtub moments. Yeah.

I need to stop drinking and allowing myself access to the computer.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Captain Hymen & Boy Penis

I have been known to embarrass people in public before. No, really. When I get nervous or excited, I say whatever comes to mind. As most people know and I've mentioned numerous times, I have no mental censor on occasion.

On Saturday, Chris took me to a junkyard and was nice enough to fight a Nissan Altima for the back quarter panel to the window. He won. Yesterday, the lady I work with mentioned that a representative for a glass company had come in trying to drum up business. She told me how nice he was and gave me his card. I called him in the hopes that he would give me a discount and put the glass in for me. He offered to have the owner come out and do it for nothing, provided that I referred business to him. Since he was doing it free of charge and I'm always broke, I would have danced naked in the parking lot with a lampshade on my head and a flyer sticking out of my ass if he had asked, but referrals were all he wanted.

I have a hard time with what I consider charity or a 'bargain'. It pains me to take anything for free or at a discount. As a for instance, the glass at the junkyard had a large '3' marked on it. This would typically indicate that the glass cost three dollars. Every other piece of glass was marked $30. I like to imagine that some guy was out there marking the prices, put the '3' on the window and then got distracted by something shiny or eaten by the junkyard dog, so he forgot the zero. Whatever. When we went to pay, the guy at the register looked at the price marked on the glass and just stood there. I started to shuffle from foot to foot. Then he kind of chuckled and said, "What?" I started to sweat. He glanced at me and I caved. I can't handle that kind of pressure. I blurted out, "I think it's supposed to be thirty." Chris looked at me like I had lost my mind and the guy charged me the thirty bucks. When we left, Chris asked me what the hell I had been thinking. I said, "I don't know. I felt dishonest. Next time, since you have the penis, I'll carry the toolbox and look docile and you handle the transactions."

When the glass guys came to fix my car, I stood outside with them and made small talk. I felt obligated because they were doing me a favor and they were the nicest men. There was the owner, his son and the sales guy. I got nervous. Charity and all. Here's how it went.

Owner: "Yeah, when me an' muh wife went to Hawueeh (Hawaii for those of you not familiar with Southern speak) we got to see Don Ho."

Me: (and I know you all see this coming) "Heh. I'd love to have the last name 'Ho'. Crystal Ho. How great would that be?"

(Awkward silence)

Owners Son: "Crystal, I'm gonna take this duct tape off. I'll get the residue off for you."

Me: "Oh, that's cool. No big deal. It will be nice to not have to extract my daughters head from the duct tape every time we go somewhere. She has bald spots everywhere. People think she's a chemo patient."

(Another awkward silence)

Me: "Names are funny. We have some funny names in our customer database." (At this point, my brain is actually shrieking, "Don't! Don't you dare! You don't know these people! Stop! Stop before it's tooooo laaaaaate!" I, of course, ignore it) We have some guy that just moved here from Spain. Every time he calls I have to give it to someone else because I can't keep from snarfing."

They are all looking at me with polite interest. It's usually at this point when I decide to make myself a pariah. I have never failed.

Me: "His name is Mr. Penis. It's spelled Pinas, but he pronounces it Penis."

(Everyone has stopped what they are doing and they're all looking at me like I have just declared that I worship Beezlebub. I think it would be a fine idea if I make certain that they tell everyone what a freak I am, so I continue)

Me: "Yeah, we also have a Mr. Hymen. He's a captain on the police force, though, so, technically, he's Captain Hymen. I can't help but imagine a guy in a superhero cape running around proclaiming, "I'll save your virginity!!"

(A lot of throat clearing and red ears. On them)

Me: "Soooo....how did you guys meet?" (Indicating the sales guy and the owner)

Owner: "We both go to tha same church."

Me: "Excuse me. I have diarrhea."

So, if you ever need auto glass in Memphis, go to Gentry Glass Company, but don't tell them I referred you ... for obvious reasons.

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