Random Stuff OR How I've Got Nothing OR Hurricane Schmurricane! We Don't Need No Stinking Hurricanes!

WARNING:  I have an urge to simply blather on about various and sundry subjects.  This could bode ill to those who like a straight-forward blog about one subject.  May also cause warts to appear on the webbing of your thumb and mad cow disease.  (Okay, maybe not the latter, except in my head.)

First off, I learned a new word from one person who reviewed one of my novels, Bubba and the Dead Woman.  Homophone.  (Homophone for those of you who can't read the rainbow colored letters.)  This means words that sound the same or possibly are spelled the same but mean different things. (Like a rose can be a flower or someone rose from the dead.)   Apparently this reviewer, of a review that I'm not supposed to read anymore, felt that I abused homophones in my novel.  My comment: The word 'homophone' sounds like a communication device that has decided that it doesn't like other communication devices that prefer the same sex.

So I suppose I should swear off reading reviews again.  I really should.  We'll see how that works out.

Onto the next subject.  Recently on Facebook several friends were discussing Duck Tape.  I do mean, Duck Tape, not Duct Tape.  (Brand name difference.)  So when I went into Target last week, I found this, and I mean the display of various tapes, not the kid.  I came to Target with the kid pre-attached to me:

Cressy showing her choice of which Duck Tape should
be used ideally.  (Paint splotches.)  I liked the
leopard skin one.  But hey, they had so many to choose from.

I applaud those who use Duck Tape in inventive ways but why do we need 40 different colors?  (There's probably more.  Target probably didn't buy all of them, just the ones they thought were funky enough for their particular market.)

So then I was compelled to Google funny uses for Duck Tape and discovered these.   (All pix from Uses for Duck Tape who apparently has lots of time and alcohol on their hands):

HIM, the man to whom I'm married,
will love this.  Now everyone can drink Foster's, including
people without thumbs.

And since I went looking, I found this one, which bears mentioning because, well, just look at the guy!  I'm not sure what was going on here, but it looks kinky in a manner that I've never thought about before.  (I swear.  If I write another Bayou Billy type book, this is going into that book.)  (This picture falls under the category that people will do stuff that writers can NEVER make up in a million years.):

I think there might have been padding going on here
and everyone is going to hear the screaming when the
tape eventually does get removed.
(I want to point out that I correctly used a homophone in
the above caption.  Here and hear.  Take that,
Random Reviewer!)

And I swear this will be the last one.  (At least the last Duck Tape related photograph.)  I'm having trouble visualizing what was going on with the group of people who did this.  More alcohol was probably involved.  They might have been using the stuff that comes from a still with the bad chemicals in it.

How did they hold him up long enough to get the Duck Tape to stick?
What if he has to go pee pee?  (I'm just saying.)

Abrupt Subject Change Alert!

I'm sorry to announce that the pumpkin with the weird butt has passed onto the place where all pumpkins go.  (From 'The Attack of the Giant Monster Pumpkins OR What to Do When Your Garden Doesn't Produce (Get It?)' from August 2011).  The poor pumpkin developed some kind of wasting disease and started to rot.  Then it had to go into intensive care.

I know this is truly horrifying but it had to be
seen.  The poor pumpkin.

This, of course, led me to think of famous last lines.  So here we go with that:

I bet some of you are Googling right now.

All righty then.  On to the next one:

Hah!  More Googling.  This is only for die hard Casablanca and
African Queen fans.

OH, NO!  This should be the time for a subject matter change, but I seem to be stuck.

These are the famous last words of many an inebriated redneck.
It doesn't really fit the empowered pumpkin with the weird butt
theme, but WTH?

Here's the subject change that should have come earlier but didn't.  I'm sitting in front of the laptop typing all this random crap because no one can go outside.  Hurricane Irene (Mean Irene or Goodnight Irene both pop into my head) is meandering up the coast.  She's pretty much hosed us on our beach vacation that was supposed to take place this week.

With that in mind, I came up with a conclusive poem.  It's called, 'The Lament of Irene.'  (I know.  I'm not a poet and I may never write another one.  Someone will probably legally restrain me from doing so, but go with the humor on this one.):

Oh, mean, mean Irene,

Our summer vacation is so lean.

We could have had such a fun beach scene.

Instead Chuck E. Cheese's is from which we're forced to glean.

We're forced into a mundane routine.

Oh, I pray this is the end of Irene.

I can hear the comments now.  (GROOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAN!!!!!)

And so this is the end of Fat Woman's blog.