In Which We are Victimized Before We Indulge Musically

 

Oh goddamit.  Once again, some fucking THIEF has swiped my credit card number.  This happens on the regular so often that I am no longer irate about it, but rather, simply sort of glum.  I know this dance all too well; my credit card company (much more vigilant than I am about these things) contacts me to ask about some purchase they deem sketchy.  Spoiler alert: it is sketchy.  Once I acknowledge that I have never heard of the vendor or purchase, they cancel my card and I get to brace myself for several weeks of trying to remember which automatic payments and subscriptions I need to update.  Is this a way to celebrate Christmas?  Apparently it is.

In other xmas news, I have decided this year to not indulge in my annual rant against Christmas music.  I have clearly established how I despise the mewling tones of the tunes for, as Jon over at Razzle Dazzle puts it, the Festering Season. 

Instead I will give it up for the one exception I am willing to make every year and that is for Darlene Love and her bombshell, Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).  I am not the only one so very taken by this song, her appearance on the David Letterman show was an annual event from 1994 to 2014.  After the end of the Letterman show, she moved her act to The View from 2015 until 2023.  That is quite a run, and a well-deserved one. 

Ms Love has one of the great, powerful voices in rhythm and blues.  There are very few singers who can match her when she digs in and really starts belting out.  Her collaboration with Phil Spector in the '60s was a work of genius, and Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) is a prime example of that. The song is buoyant with his trademark massive Wall-o-Sound, but Darlene Love's powerhouse singing actually manages to match it.

Without further ado, take it away Darlene.

Baby, please come home:

I find the word "panties" to be so luridly thrilling.

I think this portion of my blog, and its fascination with dicks and butts, does not give enough attention to tiddies.

Also, nut sacs.

Still, it's hard to argue with buttchops like this.

Diego Sans remains studly.

Xtra beefy

I had a good time last week in Texas, but the enchiladas were shockingly disappointing.  Shocking.

My hotel's shower was very nice, but could have been improved by a muscly companion therein.

In Which We Are Uncredited

Once again, the evil internet pirates have absconded with my credit card numbers.  Goddamit.  I could ask in a piteous tone of voice, "How could this happen to ME?" but I happen to know full well how it happened.  My ongoing fascination with AI generated smut has led me down a dark path to several dodgy websites, any one of which would have been all too glad to boost my credit card and then share it with its nasty little friends. 

This happens every couple of years and I have become resigned to it.  I know the drill all too well.  I call my credit card company, admit my shameful indiscretions, and the lady on the other end then drills down through my charges to winnow out the bullshit ones (and of course they always have the most lurid names.  ". . . And there's one for BootLickinBitches for $13.99. . . ." and then I have to acknowledge that that is in fact a genuine charge of mine.) She will then cancel my card and turn me loose onto the thrilling roller coaster of updating all the subscriptions and automatic charges that are the lifeblood of my economy.  

I mentioned the last time this happened that it is a brutally effective way of dealing with all the ongoing charges that I have made and just never gotten around canceling.  Well, they're canceled now.  All the little piglets suckling at the Capital One trough are cut off.  Unfortunately, so are all the ones that I depend on.  My rent, my groceries, my Uber, even, dear god, my beloved Peet's cafe.  This evening I will have to dive into the madness, trying to remember my usernames and passwords of dozens of stupid sites, many of whom I have not had to log on to since the last time I changed credit card numbers. 

I tried to weasel out of this annoying little dance by begging the lady this time to just cancel those bullshit charges and not cancel my card.  Her response was pretty much along the lines of "Oh you know what? No." She seemed sort of sympathetic, but this was a dance she was also very familiar with.  At least I was prepared for it this time.

So anyway, here's some naked guys.  I gotta go figure out my Verizon account while I still have one. 

I know I rarely give enough attention to hairy daddies even though they are popular with many of my readers, so here is Matthew Herrick in all his fuzzy glory.

More Herrick, because I googled "hairy muscle daddy nude" and plenty of the results gave me the heeby jeebies, so I only have a few for you fur freaks.

What about Paco Rabo?

I would like to swat dat ass.

Skinny and smooth, that's more to mrpeenee's taste.

But here you go.

I try to be accommodating, but the world of naked men pictures just leans more towards smoothness.

Lastly, I don't know if this is AI or just plain old PhotoShop.  I have decided not to worry about it.

In Which Credit Is Taken

Financial advice from mrpeenee

So every year or two, some evil little troll manages to get their grubby paws on my credit card number.  They then go on some low-level spree buying all kind of odd crap.  The first time this happened, they bought antique dolls and a topaz bracelet.  Mostly I was offended at the idea of brown jewelry being attached to my credit.  

Usually when this happens, my credit card company will contact me about some particularly suspect purchase (I should note, I legitimately make plenty of suspect purchases so good for them for parsing out the criminal ones.)  After I testify that I have never heard of the criminous business involved nor did I make that charge, the credit card guys cancel my card and I get to climb back up on the thrilling roller coaster of dealing with all my many recurring fees and charges tied to that now defunct card.

Do I need to explain why I'm bringing up this cycle of crime and punishment?  Yes, yes, I have once again been the victim of identity theft.  I got a text yesterday that innocuously asked if I had actually charged 30 something dollars for some company called wiworwe.me (who, in case you bump into them, you should be aware they are MOTHERFUCKING THIEVES, WORTHLESS SCAMMERS, and SHITTY GRIFTERS WHO SHOULD BE TRAPPED IN A CALL CENTER IN HELL.)  When I saw the text, I had some vague sense of unease, but I was sort of distracted and I just replied "nope."

The card company, god love them, I guess, immediately sprang into action and texted back to say they had canceled my card. Boom.  That's when I remembered that is exactly the result that happens when you admit that you don't recognize a charge.

I wish I'd had the sense to simply ignore the whole thing and written off the $30 as just some kind of fee the universe charges me.  Happy to pay that much to avoid dealing with updating all the many, many accounts I have tied to my now defunct card.  My rent, which I pay with the card, is coming up on Tuesday so I had to hotfoot it over to my landlord's website and change my account to some temporary cash source, my phone bill came through pretty much at the exact same time the credit card was dying so I had to fix that, and, for that matter, I couldn't even charge coffee at Peet's, the world's finest cafe. Life is just hard without a credit card.  I don't know how the Amish get along. 

There is a bright side to this.  I know from past experiences this is simply a brutally efficient way of cleaning up my finances by scraping off all the little fees and subscriptions and accounts that I have accumulated but don't really use or need.  I thought about that as I was dealing with the lady at the credit card company as she was going through a list of pending or possible charges.  I kept waiting for some luridly unlikely porn bill to pop up, but somehow we missed all that.  She instead focused on my $2 expenditure on Google for some word game I play.  Coincidentally, I had that same evening charged a really expensive flight to Houston for next September and she never even brought that up, but $2 for Google?  She was on that motherfucker.

Naked guys I wish I could charge: 

Why aren't luscious rentboys like this ever involved with my charges?

I would absolutely open a new credit card expressly for something this good.

Pussy like this wants my credit info?  I will type it out for him.

He wants to know my mother's maiden name and what street I grew up on?  Okey dokey.

He probably just needs a new pair of roller blades.

Instead, I get some chiselers who probably don't even have a tanline.

I hope their time in hell gives them a sunburn.  Inside their butthole.

Denton Baxter, who I've always thought was cute in a goony way.