Password Hell

I’ve had it with passwords.

Hell NO, I don’t want a reminder to change my password every 30 days.

Just let me keep the same predictable password for life.

I’ll take my chances.

My brain can’t possibly hold any more useless data.

The NO VACANCY sign is flashing upstairs or perhaps it’s a neuron short-circuit extravaganza.


There comes a time when a person has used up all variations of their own name, kids, pets and initials combined with date of birth, age, graduation and miscellaneous anniversaries.

What else is there?

Just this week I was rudely locked out of two of my accounts and prompted to reset my password.

I decided to go with my REAL feelings on this matter, so I chose FuckyouOldNavy2013 and GmailBlows666 …or something to that effect.

I may remember these, but probably not.

This has been an Extreme Mom snippet.

Short but not necessarily sweet.

Captcha Codes Suck Robot Balls

Captcha codes make me want to smash my computer screen with a sledge hammer.
On average, it takes me three to four tries before I finally solve the almighty puzzle that was ironically intended to prove I’m an independent thinker and not a smart-ass computer bot.


This makes no sense to me, as it’s no secret that computer bots whoop our mortal asses regularly at pretty much EVERYTHING.
I’ve concluded that these eye-stabbing codes are actually the workings of wiseass robots sitting around a board table smoking weed taking bets on how many attempts it will take us before we finally crack.
 I also suspect there’s a padded room full of captive toddlers and illegible script writing physicians, who do nothing all day but write captcha codes and drink vodka out of a straw.
I wouldn’t be surprised if we the victims (and the butt of their jokes) were being recorded for an episode of reality TV in the bot world.

“Hahaha!! That man is on his 92nd attempt. Taking bets that he self destructs before he gets to 100!!”


Having been recently tortured by this riddle-type nonsense, I was inspired to jot down a list of things that would be easier and considerably less painful than cracking a typical mind numbing captcha code-

*Solving a quadratic equation in your head after drinking a pint of Jäger
*Shaving a female Bigfoot of Italian decent
*Writing a best selling novel… in German after consuming a case of Heineken
*Removing a steak from the jaws of a hungry female sabertooth tiger with PMS
*Giving a badger a pedicure- complete with pretty little recreations of the Sistine Chapel on each toe
*Recreating the Mona Lisa on an Etch-a-sketch blindfolded
*Getting my kids on the school bus peacefully… on the Monday following a holiday weekend
*Flossing Jaws teeth (the shark or the gnarly beast character from the James Bond movies- you pick)
Certainly there are more efficient, not to mention less excruciating methods of determining that a person is not in fact a robot.
Perhaps, a simple check box.
My race can be best described as:
American Eskimo…Asian…African American…Caucasian…Latino…Native American…ROBOT

I’m pretty sure robots can’t lie because duh, they’re robots.

Everyone knows robots are trustworthy.
Highly intelligent and evil, but nonetheless… trustworthy.
All in favor of a check box…
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Facebook Security… NOT


I’m re-posting this little spoof on Fb SECURITY with a catchy picture to trick you guys into reading it.
I have something to say about the latest Fb chain letter thing-a-ma-bullshit that says, “I want to stay PRIVATELY connected with you, blah blah blah, hover-over-my-name-and-recite-The-Declaration-of-Independence-backwards-3times-while-standing-on-your-head-shaking-a-tambourine bullshit.
Adjust your own stinkin privacy settings.
This forum is called the Internet and it’s bigger than the Milky Way (not the creamy delicious candy bar, the galaxy… as in stars and shit)
If you post a photo of your cat, chances are Hitler’s great grandson’s cross dressing lesbian cousin may see it… and even like it.
She may even copy it and use it for her screen saver.
Shit happens. Especially, if it’s a cute cat.
Plus, you guys this is the INTERNET, it’s not an Amish Farm house isolated from society all quaint and private, it’s the Inter-freaking-NET.
By the Inter-freaking-NET, I mean you’re fb status is as private as a flashing billboard on Route 66.
Example: You can meticulously tweak your privacy settings to be as secure as Fort Knox, covered in barbed wire, guarded by rabid flying monkey’s, but there’s no guarantee that a Fb friend won’t share, copy or paste your posts elsewhere.
If you post it, expect it to be displayed in it’s full glory, neon lights flashing in the giant Internet showcase, right next to the Milky Way’s, M & M’s and Twix bars on Route 66… or the Great Wall of China.
I think the best privacy setting is common sense.
Which probably explains a lot.
If you must delete me, I’m totally cool with it.
You will probably miss my very fun posts though, so don’t forget to follow my blog, Extreme Mom, which happens to be a very open-ish format where you even get to follow me to doctor appointments, the dressing room at Macy’s and on occasion, even routine traffic stops by the po-lice.
I’m totally hip like that.

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