Are you a Bubba Fan? Do You Luv Bubba and His Wacky Family? You Can Name Bubba 4!

Are you a Bubba fan?  Do you love Bubba and Miz Demetrice and Precious?

You can name Bubba 4!

Read the teaser below and make a suggestion about the name.  Okay, rules.  1.  The name must relate to the basic story.  2.  It must start with Bubba and… 3. I will take entries through email and Facebook posts.  The email address is clbevill@clbevill.com  4.  If there is more than one suggestion for the same title, then the one who was earliest will get the credit, if that title is chosen for the winner or the runners-up.  5.  The first place winner will be selected by myself.  That person will get a Basset hound plush, a free copy of Bubba 4 (Kindle, Nook, or Smashwords), a $25 gift certificate from Amazon, B&N, or another e-reader service if applicable, and credit in the front of the novel.  The five runners-up will get a free copy of Bubba 4.  6.  The contest will run through October 5^th, 2012.

Just when you thought it was safe to go back to Pegramville…

Oh no!  Bubba’s got problems…again!  For months, Pegramville and Pegram County have been relatively peaceful.  But then there’s the “attack” of the Pegramville Murder Mystery Festival, organized by none other than Miz Demetrice herself.  Who knew people would make fun of the murders that happened in their own town?  To add a spoonful of hot pepper to the mix, the local judge has just announced his run for the gubernatorial seat of Texas, and The Purple Singapore Sling has a new persona, causing all kinds of confusion, chaos, and commotion.

During the midst of the festival madness, Bubba’s truck has broken down, and he’s found a cache of original car parts.  One of the boxes contains a lost soul’s plea that may be as old as the antique truck, “If someone finds this note, then I have been murdered.  My name is M—.”

And you thought small towns were boring…

 

Part 2 - Atlanta International Airport - The Seventh Gate of Hell OR My Connection

I don't really think this blog will be seven parts, but I seem to be dragging it ooooouuuuuttttt.

I learned a lesson in Atlanta.  If you have a very large piece of luggage that you don't want to pay Delta Airlines to check because you're cheap or because you think Delta is greedy, then simply bring it with you to the gate because as soon as the flight crew sees it they will check it for free!  In the four flights I took going and coming from the convention, I saw this happen over and over again.  In fact, I wanted to scream at the crew and the people both.  "YOU KNOW BETTER!  CHECK IT AT THE GATE, YOU CHEAP BASTARD!  And DELTA, WHY CAN'T YOU JUST TAKE ONE DAMN PIECE OF LUGGAGE FOR FREE, YOU GREEDY BASTARDS!"  But I didn't because I didn't want to meet the undercover air Marshall in an up-close and personal way.

I also learned another lesson at the Atlanta International Airport.  There is a website called People of Walmart.  See it just to get your brain wrapped around the context.  Oh the hell with I'll just use one of their pix so you can get a solid frame of reference for your head.

I don't know who the guy with the purple beard is but the other
one is really freaking me out.

Here's another one so you can really skip your cheerios this morning.

It's the what-were-they-thinking factor.

Okay, you're asking yourself, what does this have to do with the Atlanta airport?  I will tell you.  All the people from people of Walmart went to the Atlanta airport while I was there.  They were there.  Every one of them.  I counted.

Personal note to the 450 pound woman wearing the purple sparkling spandex with the fuzzy tube top: It's not a good look for you, dear.  I'm truly sorry but it didn't work.  (I didn't take a picture because although she outweighed me, I thought she looked like she could whup my butt into patootie cakes.)

Also to the woman wearing the six inch stiletto heels while running for her gate: You tripped because you were wearing the heels, not because the floor was uneven.  I don't think the security people had anything to do with your heels.  Next time try a flatter shoe.  Seriously.

Ah, but you're saying, "Surely, you exaggerate, fat woman."  Hahaha.  I do not.  There WAS a woman of rotund size (obviously I could not weigh her) wearing purple sparkling spandex with a fuzzy tube top.  I cannot say how much she weighs exactly but it was more than several hundred pounds.  There WAS also another woman wearing the heels running for a gate.  She tripped and I believe she might have broken her wrist.  As I was sitting there waiting on my plane, she did blame security for her mishap.  (Security wasn't anywhere around when she tripped.  Perhaps that's what her perceived problem was, that they didn't catch her when she fell.  Atlanta Airport Security, you worthless bleeps.)

Anyway, I took a picture of the ceiling tiles because I noticed that they had little airplanes on them.  The decorator, in his or her infinite wisdom, decided the people in the airport would undoubtedly look up and notice cute little planes on the tiles.  (I did.)

Bet you thought I was making that one up.

I caught other people looking at me looking up and who then looked up, too.  Pretty soon the whole section was looking up.  I started an airport trend.  You see, I was antsy and I had to do something.  Unfortunately I cannot sing well otherwise I would have started with show tunes.

I felt compelled to add a ceiling tile design
from the Charles Addams line.

Finally, I got on another plane, next to someone whom I can't really remember, except that the person did not want to talk.  (I remember that I said hi and the person said, "Nmrgh."  I'm not good with other languages but I interpreted that to mean, "You may sit next to me, fat antsy traveler woman, but do not further address me else I will close the little window cover and pretend I am sleeping against the side of the plane.")

Which brings me to another little point, why do they make you turn off your phone when it's got the "airplane mode?"  I mean, do they have a little gadget in their flight attendant uniform that will secretly beep to them and tell them that one of the sheep has NOT turned off their phones?  Will they pounce on you and throw you and your little cell phone off the plane?  I realized I had forgotten to turn off my cell phone on one leg of the trip and no one noticed.  I suppose it was a good thing I didn't make the plane crash.  (More headlines: Fat Woman Forgets to Turn Off Cell Phone: Plane Goes Kaput!  Fat People Everywhere Pelted by Wet Noodles!)

Okay, I admit I drank too much iced tea again.  I used the bathroom many times.  (There was the whole underwear issue, you know.)  Did you know the airports are cheap and put in teeny-tiny rolls of half-sized toilet paper?

This wasn't on the airplane, this was in the airport
so what the hell?  I could have understood if this
had been on the plane.

See.  It even says compact on it.  The picture doesn't do it justice.  I should have stuck my hand in there so you could see the scale of these.  These are half-sized rolls of toilet paper.  So if you have a serious bathroom issue, you're going to have to work for your potty paper.  (The half size goes hand in hand with the hard-to-roll technique.  You have to be King Kong to get more than three sheets.  Or maybe Popeye the spinach-addicted sailor man.  Seriously, you cannot move this pint-sized roll more than a quarter turn without breaking your fingernails.)  (I'll have to reconsider taking pictures in the bathroom with my Droid based on the reaction of the woman in the next stall over.  It wasn't pretty.)

Finally I got to Norfolk, Virginia.  The plane hadn't crashed.  The meteor hadn't hit.  I was so happy to get off the plane I nearly plotzed.

While I was walking to get my luggage there was a man in front of me who had a backpack.  I had to take a picture of him because he had bungied a banana in the back of the pack.  (Get it?  Back pack?)

See the yellow thing.  It's totally a banana.
He strapped his snack on his back.
This was the safest place he could think of
for his snacky-poo.

I wanted to say something but hey, isn't that what the little bungee cords on the pack are for?

Okay.  Next to come, Part 3, Fat Woman is at the Con!  Finally!  Only good things can happen!  Right.

Traveling to the Con! OR Stuff Happens and I've Got to Make Comments! Snarky Comments! Part 1

The Failure of the Underwear!

Recently I attended the Hampton Roads Writer's Conference.  Yes, I know. I have mentioned it before.  But let me tell you, nothing ever goes the way you plan it to go, just as a general rule.  Never.  Nopus mopus.  Not going to happen.  Fret not.  I shall explain.  I shall illustrate.  Also I shall caption photos for I had my Droid and was happy to use it in a nonlethal fashion.

Day one.  HIM and I dropped the kid off at school and then he dropped me off at the airport.  The Huntsville International Airport is not a large airport.  In fact it has three (3!) baggage areas for those times where tons of passengers will be plying for their luggage in an unruly, impatient, I-haven't-gotten-to-smoke-a-cig-in-3-hours-sort of manner.  I quickly dropped off my bag.  I paid Delta Airlines $25 for the privilege of doing it this way and I've got something to say about that later.  (This may be a long blog.  Possibly it could be a two parter.  Possibly it could be longer.  I can wax prolifically when I'm so inclined.)  Then I got to go through security.

Let us briefly contemplate the word security.  I believe that folks need to be able to travel safely.  This means that we all must go through the metal detector and whatnot.  Our luggage must be checked.  Thanks to the shoe bomber dude, our shoes must be checked, too.  So okay.  I totally get that.

But these full body scanners?  Well, I'm somewhat ambivalent about.  When I came into the security area and saw they had one, I went, "Well, that's special."  I did everything I was supposed to do.  Took off the shoes, jewelry, wrist brace, et cetera.  I waited my turn.  Then I went into the thing.  It's kind of like a space capsule.  It's got little footie prints at the bottom to show you where to put your footies, little or otherwise.  Turns out that you have to spread your feet pretty wide to get your feet where the footie prints are.

As soon as I did that, the elastic in my underwear failed.  (Catastrophic failure, friends.  They fell.)  (Too much information?)  Fortunately I wasn't wearing a skirt but jeans and jeans are GOOD in this situation!  But I was imagining what the guy looking at the screen image of me was seeing.  So I raised my arms like the other guy told me to (There was also a graphic image on the inside of the space capsule 5000 so you couldn't mess it up unless you happen to be blind, in which case, sorry) and all I could think of was "Failed elastic!  Failed elastic!  Failed elastic!"  (This is the story of my life.)  (Fat Woman: A Tale of Failed Underwear.)

Here's an image from http://inglesaviacao.com/airline-alliances-and-a-changed-passenger-experience/ so you can imagine what it looks like, if you haven't already experienced this thrill.  (I couldn't find one where someone's underwear decided to go south so oh well.)

There was a guy with a gun watching me.  Not a lady who looked happy.
I can only assume that she had elastic that did not fail.

And here's an image of what the person at the computer sees.  (I couldn't find one of a fat woman, but I found a woman with a gun and a little plumpness.)  This is from http://www.infiniteunknown.net/2010/11/17/wednesday-november-24-2010-is-national-opt-out-day/.

I totally did not have the gun or whatever else this woman's got.
I'm so sorry but this woman looks completely funky.  She's
like a mix of zombie, ghost, and freaky character who was once
dipped in heavy-duty acid.

I was so mortified that my underwear's elastic broke that when the TSA agent said to walk out, I walked into the wall of the scanner.  (If I wasn't beat red enough before that, I quickly made up for it.)

Then the other TSA guard stopped me because in the scanner image there was a suspicious black thing running down my back.  I don't know what they thought it was but it was my braid, which was still wet.  (People, I've got hair that goes to my tushy and I don't blow dry it because it would take forever.  Yes, the braid was wet and yes, the full body scanner sees something wet as something black and they will check it.)  (Yes, the TSA actually felt that it was necessary to examine my braid to see if it was a deadly weapon.  I'm not making this up.)

So the TSA people had to determine whether or not my braid was a deadly weapon.  Haha.  I wasn't laughing at the time.

After a certain length of time (no pun intended toward length of hair) I was allowed to go and stock up on Starbucks and run into the bathroom.  Fortunately the people at the full body scanner said nothing about the catastrophic underwear failure.  But then I hadn't gotten to my first stop at the Atlanta International Airport.

This requires another moment of contemplation. 

 At the Atlanta International Airport, failed underwear is nothing special.  I'm telling ya.

Part 2 to come.

Taking A Blogging Break OR I Can Make Excuses Ya'll!

Yes, I've gotten so busy I haven't been blogging like I should.

First the mailman broke the flag on my box.  (Trust me.  There's a funny story that goes with this.  And I've got pictures that I shall illustrate with funny captions.)

Then I'm trying to find a doctor in the area.  (This is developing into another blog.  Apparently I have to beg doctors to see me here.  I must bow and kiss their ugly gold pinkie ring.  After the whole a/c debacle, I'm not so sure I want to kiss any one's pinkie ring or anything else for that matter.)

I've determined that if my daughter is to be in Girl Scouts, I must be the troop leader because the troops here are plumb full.  This would be a blog too but it's something I can't really blog about, but I can bitch and gripe to HIM about at great and nauseating length.

Finally, I'm off tomorrow to a writing conference in Virginia Beach, VA.  The Hampton Roads Writer's Conference.  I will be doing several break-out sessions and a panel.  Fun should be had by all.

Finally, finally, I'm writing my tushy off on Bubba 4.  And for those of you waiting on the naming contest, it's coming on the 25th of September.  So get your keyboarding fingers ready to name away.  I'll tell you a little bit about the plot (not too much).  You'll make suggestions.  The winner will get a basset hound plush, an honorable mention in the book, and a free e-copy.  The five runners-up will get e-copies of the book.  Fun will be had by all.

In the meantime, I'm off to Virginia Beach, so blogging will be offline until next week.  Peace.  Out.

Oops. I Missed a Blog OR I Shall be Stricken Down by the Wrath of the Blogger Gods

Yes.  I missed a blog.  Busy writing Bubba.  My mind is all a-bubba.  That's a new word.  She's all a-bubba.  He's a-bubba.  They're a-bubba.  You don't even need to change the ending unless you feel like it.  They went a-bubbaing.  I shouldn't write blogs when I'm tired.

Recently my daughter invented a new game.  Balloon tag.  The one who has the balloon is it, chases everyone around trying to tag them and screaming frantically.

HIM, the man to whom I'm married, decided to hide the balloon.  Don't fret, however, I took pictures.  Then I got carried away.

That's what I call a badonkadonk.  I'm going to look that up and see if I'm spelling it correctly.  But then I got ahold of my bamboo pad and things went downhill from there.

I once had a trainer tell me she used to have a "shelf" ass and she could park a coke can on it.  It's one of those things that I will never forget.  (I was skeptical of her once voluptuous figure and the shelfiness of her buttocks.)  Anyway.

Someone, somewhere is going to tell me that I'm being mean to HIM.  It wasn't my fault that he let me take a picture knowing what I was going to do with it.  I went around saying, "The hunch butt of Notre Dame," and giggling for the next hour or so.  It was a clue.

But hey, earlier in the week a squirrel was chewing on the siding of our house and HIM went out with his BB gun and attempted squirrel-a-cide.  I, of course, saw the humor in the situation and felt compelled to take a picture.  But then once I took the picture I also had to caption it.

Okay, I'll stop before it's too late.  Please notice in the last photo his actual butt is shown and he doesn't have a real badonkadonk.  Just sayin'.

Not Again OR Yes, Again OR Yes, I Said Again!

Recently I ranted about home improvement drama.  (That's pronounced dram-ah because it's not drama, it's dram-ah.)

I thought whilst I ranted I would educate the common folk
on what to expect when utilizing a contractor.

I have had my a/c unit fixed.  I should shout it out on the mountaintop because it nearly took an act of Congress and a secret deal with the devil.

What it actually took.  It took four contractors, 26 phone calls, and two bottles of Tums. (The big kind that you buy at Sam's Club.)  I had to swipe three of my husband's sleeping pills and I seriously considered taking some old Prozac.  Four freakin' contractors.  Each one told me a different story.  The first one said it would cost $350-500, er $700-$800, er, over $1000, er a whole NEW system for only $4500 or so.  (I might not have the numbers exactly right, but it's in the ball park.)  The second one said nothing was broken and flushed out the condensate lines.  The third one said the drain pan was broken and I would either need a new pan (if he could get the parts) OR I would need a whole new system, but don't forget that the vent work is separate on the warranty.  (He threw out a $600-ish number for me to digest.)  Then he wouldn't return phone calls.  The fourth one said it was a bad connection between some metal and some PVC pipes.  He fixed it in about twenty minutes.  He even had the parts in the truck.

26 phone calls.  26 phone calls.  26 phone calls.  26...phone...calls.

People wonder why I get so irate with customer service.  I think my sister deliberately walks behind me so people won't think we're together when we're at some such business or another.  (I'm like a booby trap.  You never know when I go off.)  (This stems back to a time when we ate at a restaurant that had all-you-can-eat-spaghetti, which my sister ordered.  The waitress never came back to see if she wanted more spaghetti, so I was displeased.  I didn't think the waitress should get tipped on account that the all-you-can-eat-spaghetti was really the one-plate-if-you're-lucky-spaghetti.  My sister said it was because we went on a Saturday night and they were busy.  My sister worked for many years as a waitress so I believe she's sympatico.  I disagreed with her compassion.  Anyway...)

There WAS a turning point in the a/c contractor story.  In actually definition the turning point is the part where I became dogged.  I mean that I was intent.  I was determined.  I wasn't going to let go.  When I called the warranty people to complain about contractor no. 1's lack of professionalism (Specifically I thought the price jumping technique employed to garner new business was fraudulent and made me want to throttle the woman on the phone) and the warranty person who ended up talking to me (Shawn) said he would call me back once he got all the details.  He did not call me back.

Right there.  Right the frick there.  That was the point where the fat camel broke the skinny little straw's back.  The camel said, "Yo, bee-otch, when you said you would call me back and you did not, my straw broke.  It did not feel good."

My husband, HIM, who is basically a good husband and a decent person, attempted to run interference.  He said, "I'll fix it.  I'll just take some silicone and bubble gum and possibly some instant weld, plus some an ancient voodoo ritual..."

I said, "No, they (the warranty people) are going to fix it or replace it.  I have pronounced it and thus it is so."  Whereupon HIM backed away because he heard the message in the tone.  Right there.  Dogged, thy name is Fat Woman.

"They WILL fix it because I have had enough of this bull sh**," I was later heard to say in a dogged fashion.  (Word for the day.  Dogged.  It does not mean that I chewed bones and chased sticks.  It means I became the bone.)

Anyhoo, 26 phone calls later, they have fixed it and you can be sure I didn't have to pay for the service visit from the 4th contractor.

I'm feeling vindicated...until the water heater breaks.

Also I swear I will not blog about home improvement for a full thirty days.  I am fore sworn.

More HI Drama OR I WILL Rant OR I Will Rant Some More!

New house.  New problems.  Contractors.  Me.  What does not fit?  (Remember in this blog, HI stands for Home Improvement not Hawaii or Hi or whatever else HI can stand for.)

The situation: the a/c is leaking.  The primary drain pan is broken.  I called the warranty people.  They sent out Company X.  Company X RUSHES over, says, "Your shizz is broken.  I will either order parts to repair or replace it.  Give me a few days.  Give me my $100 service fee check."  I gave them a check and a few days.

from www.radix.com
Think this is what happened inside my brain.

August 14th - Contractor X appears, waving his a/c willy about in an unseemly fashion.  He manly struts to the a/c unit and determines that I am, in fact, correct.  The shizz is leaking.  Soon the shizz will be leaking down my walls.  He will get back to me.

August 17th - Contractor X has not gotten back to me.  I called and left a message.

From www.freakingnews.com
Maybe this is what happened.
Not exactly sure.

August 20th - Morning - Contractor X has not gotten back to me.  I called and talked to "Twinkie."  (Not her real name.  Names have been changed to protect the stupid.)  Twinkie is the poor dumb sap who's been delegated phone duty at the Contractor X company.  Clearly she has gone through this process of evasion before.  She said she would have the tech call me back.

August 20th - Afternoon - Contractor X has not gotten back to me.  I called and left a message.

From
http://alieneyes.wordpress.com/2008/04/23/reality-explosion-hollywood-movies-propane-fuel-fire-colour/
Okay, this is really what happens when I have a period,
but I liked it for the blog, too.

August 21st - I called and left a message at Contractor X's place o'fuckitoffitness.

August 22nd - Contractor X has not gotten back to me.  I called and twalked to Twinkie again.  (Twalked, that's funny.)  Twinkie said the tech would call me.  (Twinkie also twalked like she hadn't twalked to me before because clearly she's related to my daughter's moron cat.  Possibly first cousins.)  (Now I want to sing, "I go out twalking after midnight," a la Patsy Cline.)

From
http://www.motifake.com/big-explosions-explosions-demotivational-posters-102457.html
Okay, nothing to do with the blog, but I'm on a roll.

August 22nd - Contractor X CALLS!  I nearly fell to the ground in ecstasy.  The earth moved.  I almost didn't know what to say to him.  I was stupefied.  Said he was waiting for parts and would call no later than August 29th.  Gave me his cell phone number.  (Big mistake on his part.)

August 31st - Contractor X has not gotten back to me.  I called and left a message on his cell phone.

September 4th - Contractor X has not gotten back to me.  I called and left a message on his cell phone.

September 5th - I tried Contractor X's cell phone once last time.  He answered and then immediately hung up on me.  (His caller ID must not be working.)  I said to myself, "Someone doesn't want to speak with me.  I am dismayed.  He must think I'll give in gracefully.  Haha.  He doesn't know me very well."

From
http://sayforward.com/tags/explosions
I'm thinking this is really disgusting when it
pops kind of like a snot bubble,
but it's supposed to be from the Trinity
Explosion, so I guess it's nuclear history.
(New-clear.)

September 5th - I called the warranty people and said their contractor sucked big hairy moosedick.  Warranty Wendy (another clever name change on my part to avoid Law Suit City) said, "Would you wait on hold whilst I call Contractor X?"  I said, "Good luck with that."  Five minutes later, Warranty Wendy came back on and said, "I left a message."  I said, "What a surprise."  Warranty Wendy said, "I have to give them a few shots."  I said, "I believe hot air has just been blown up my skirt, but wait I'm not wearing a skirt."  Warranty Wendy said, "Is your a/c unit still leaking?"  (I think my brain cracked at that moment.  Let me ask you, do you think that Warranty Wendy REALLY believes that my a/c unit stopped leaking and that I conveniently didn't need the service anymore OR did Warranty Wendy hope that my a/c unit had stopped leaking and that I wouldn't sue them for damages?  Personally I think she dropped out of school in the sixth grade and forgot to get that GED.)  Warranty Wendy cleverly ignored my sarcastic snark and said she would call me back later today.

Tomorrow I will call Warranty Wendy back.  I hate contractors.  I hate warranties.  I hate toe cheese.  Also I hate that little plastic ring on milk jugs but that's a whole different reason.

The Mysteries of a Moron Cat

Today's blog is dedicated to my daughter's moron cat, Megaroy.  Previous readers of my blog know that the cat is, indeed, stupider than a box of hair and a noteworthy subject of my intermittent sarcasm.  (Intermittent, shmitermittent.  Oh, hell, all the time.)


Does that look like a cat with a brain?
If you look closely you can see the light
coming out of his ear on the opposite side
of the window.

The moron is a Maine Coon Cat.  HIM, the man to whom I'm married, took him to the vet, and the receptionist took one look and said, "I thought you were bringing a kitten."  HIM said, "He is a kitten.  He's only eight months old."  This means not only is he a bubba cat, but he's a big bubba cat and he eats a lot.

What does this have to do with the mysteries of
the moron cat?  I do not know, but that's
what the picture looks like to me.  The
moron stoner.

There should have been a size and poop warning on this cat at the place we rescued him.  WARNING: This cat will grow until he is 3 - 5 years old.  Yes, he weighs 10 pounds now and no, it isn't fat.  Just wait and also invest in kitty kibble.  Consequently, he poops a lot, too.  You might buy some shares of Fresh Step.  Just sayin'.

This is what I found when I started looking for images of a cat's anatomy:

This is the one they show to kids.  Haha.  I cannot leave this be.  This image
is SCREAMING at me to do something.  Stop me before it's too late.
Whoops.  Too late.

However, I was forced to revamp that image and do my own:

This is how my daughter talks to the cat.  She didn't get it from me.

This would be the simplistic version.  There is a simpler version:

I walked into the house the other day and I wished I had never been born.  It was like a great green cloud of hazard materials waste billowed outward, not unlike a hurricane spinning toward a trailer park.  I honestly don't understand why a special team hadn't been called and the neighbors evacuated to a safe distance.

I mean, OMFG, what was the cat eating?  Why I knew what he was eating.  I get to buy the stuff for him once a week.  He's eating Friskies.  Their website says it's frickiticious!  There's even a Friskies game that you can play if you friend them on Facebook.  (I friended them to play the game and it wouldn't load so I unfriended them.  That will teach the corporate weenies something.)  Wowsers.  Now I'm going to going to take a detour just to make fun of them.  Here's the pic of their product:

It's a Feline Festival of Fun!
Get your beach bunny on!

These are the crunchy treats that our daughter, Cressy, gets to feed the big numpty.  See how the cat on the cover is all like, "Yo bitches, give me the kibble before I whack you all upside yo head!  I know where you sleep!  Also, I'll barf in your favorite shoes!"  Does Friskies The Corporation really think that people look at the cover with the cat having a beachside party with kibble and say, "Oh my goodness gracious, that cat looks like he's having a beachside party with kibble!  He's so happy!  I must buy this product so my cat can have a fun beachside party with kibble!  He'll be surfing the big kahuna waves in no time with Beachside Crunch Party Mix!"?  (I see the umbrellas and the sun, so where's the surf boards, Corporation Dudes?)

I don't think so.  (This might explain why the big companies never ask me for my consumer opinion.)  But hey I bought it because the stupid cat likes crunchy food and I've been buying Friskies for decades.

Anyway, so that's part of what the cat is eating.  But it turns out he's been supplementing his diet, which might explain the humongous smell emanating from the litter box in a great, gaseous cloud of death-smoke.

It's 10 PM and the cat is sitting in the bathroom on counter.  This is not a typical position for the moron cat.  He's usually on the deck or on his kitty castle or staring me into playing with him.  (He knows that if he keeps looking at me, something will happen.  Usually with string or other feline fanciful delights.)  But he's sitting in the bathroom.  So I go in the bathroom and there's a huge cockroach on the wall looking at the cat looking at the cockroach.  (They were totally looking at each other.  It was right out of a Sergio Leone movie, I swear.  Try to picture slow motion looking at each other with a Clint Eastwood grimace on their faces.)  I don't know how the cockroach got all the way up the wall.  I would imagine it was fleeing for its ever-loving, insecty life from the ferocious megabeast with the Friskies Beachside Crunch Party Mix breath.  I would imagine but that's just me.

Let's just say neither the cat nor the insect were happy with the outcome of that particular event.