Quite Possibly The Most Random Post. Ever.

I'm quite possibly the most random person this side of the Pacific Ocean. Aw, that is a cute play with words because the whole entire United States is this side of the Pacific Ocean. Well, except for Hawaii. But, I can't compete with random people in Hawaii since watching "Dog the Bounty Hunter."

I never knew that place had so many random people and meth ice heads. That show has done nothing but replace my visions of paradise with visions of a sunny afternoon in Detroit.

I've tagged myself as "regularly random." Isn't that a cute play with words, too? Random is totally the opposite of regular, and yet I fused the two. I know, I know. I should definitely be in show business. I came close to being in show business, but I understand that one time gig of brushing a cucklebur out of a show dog's ear hair doesn't count.

On a random side note, I've never-in 30 years-spelled the word cucklebur. I had to Google it, and it took for freaking ever. I kept getting things like cucumber and kookaburra as results. Maybe my southern ignorance is showing, but I don't pronounce that word the way it is spelled. I've been schooled, and I'm so glad I can now spell cucklebur. I just know this will come in handy someday.

Anyway. Back to describing my randomness. 

I say weird things at weird moments.

Other person: Do you smell cat shit?
Me: We are having burritos for dinner.

I don't say this off the wall stuff because I am mentally challenged. I'm really NOT mentally challenged. Nine out of ten dentists agree that I am quite normal. I just happen to think random things at random times, and I have to say what I think-if it's appropriate.

Actually, many of the things I think aren't appropriate. I keep my mouth shut often.

So, this is going to be a random post. I hope you dig random. If not, please be aware of your exits and have a great time.

A couple of weeks ago, my friend texted me a picture of a monokini. In so many words, she said, "WTF is this and please blog about it."

I searched photos of monokinis to post here, but it was pretty much like looking at porn (or reading 50 Shades of Grey), and I can't bear to put a photo of some chick in a monokini on my blog. I have major jealousy issues. This is MY blog, and unless you wear a size 8 or up and have at least 3 stretch marks, I will not be posting any half naked photos of you here.

I'm sorry. I just won't do it, so quit asking me! 

Since I refuse to post actual smutty photos here, I drew a picture. It's a good thing that drawing monokinis in Microsoft Paint is one of my many specialties.

Overlooking the fact that she has dislocated shoulders and a repulsive and awkward body, she is wearing a monokini. What is the point of this article of clothing? Do you swim in it? Do you make babies in it? Why not just wear a bikini and be done with it? What purpose does that slinky piece connecting the top and bottom serve?

My husband's answer?

"It's hot."

Why do men find random pieces of fabric hot?

Let's take thongs, for example. Who thought it was cool to put a random piece of cloth up their crack hole and label it as hot? I assume it was the same perv that created the monokini.

I hate to break it to you fellas, but one particular piece of fabric on a thong is riddled with germs. Dudes, what if you accidentally grabbed that germ-riddled piece of fabric on your woman's undergarment? Germs aren't hot, my friend. Germs lead to vomiting, diarrhea and 6 hour stints in waiting rooms. I've never thought of that setting as romantic. 

I guess my point is that thongs will ultimately send you vomiting, pooping and sitting in the ER. They should be handled with caution. 

Moving on.

My sister recently told me a harrowing tale of buying those new super light bulbs. Did you know that if you break one of those Eco-friendly bastards, you have to call HAZMAT in to clean it up? Awesome.

I stocked up on the old school GE 65W light bulbs when I heard these new bulbs were taking over, so I've not had the experience of purchasing them. But, as my sister and brother in law told me a tale about calling over a manager at Home Depot, getting out a calculator to determine what bulb they needed, and the half hour ordeal for simply trying to light their living room lamp, I was dizzy. I was also sad that my children will never know what a regular light bulb looks like. I was also sad that "bright idea" cartoons will now look like this.

Are you having an idea or did intestines just burst out of your head?

More randomness coming your way in 5,4,3,9,7.

I am a mystery, aren't I?

I am terrified of stalkers. I've had like 2.7 million 2 stalkers in my lifetime. I never want to go through that ordeal again. I learned the hard way that training a Bull Mastiff to attack anyone in a ski mask is a bad idea when you take the dog on a ski trip.

Anyway, since I'm terrified of stalkers and Bull Mastiffs, I rarely use my real name in blog posts.

I've been called The Writer, Rinser, Repeater, WRR, and even W. I like W. It makes me feel connected to the Bush family.

Thanks to my URL, I am often called Zannah, and I've even been called Brown. I like Brown. My closest friends call me Brown. It's a household name.

However, Zannah is not my name. This is a nickname invented by my mother and sister. I like it because it rhymes with Vanna, and I love me some Fortunate Wheel. Brown is one of my names, but not my surname. Tricky, tricky, isn't it? You can see a short snippet about that, if you care, here.

So, who am I, and what should you call me?

I really just want to be called Francine Scranton III. I just made up that name. Don't call me Francine Scranton III.

The truth is, you can call me whatever you want. Just don't call me late for guinea pig insemination class. Hardy, har, har. 

Signed,

?

My last random thought of the hour pertains to horseradish. I don't know WTF it is, or if it even comes from horses, but I had some on a pastrami sandwich and haven't looked back. Speaking of which, WTF is pastrami? Now that I look back on that entire meal, I don't know WTF I was even eating. Rye bread? Another mystery.

I just concluded that eating pastrami on rye with horseradish was the most confusing meal I've ever had. However, the digestive process was the same as if I'd been eating broccoli. And, my friend, I know what broccoli is. Broccoli is those little tree-like vegetables that grow in Hidden Valley next to the ranch dressing factory.

Since reading this, you think I'm crazy, don't you? You probably think I am some unpopular looney tune that still carries resentment about missing her senior prom and is now living under a bridge with a pet rat named Farquar.

Ha! Whatever.

I actually missed my Senior Prom because I couldn't pick one guy out of the hundreds that wanted to take me. I had boys camped out and lined up at my door like hippies waiting to get Phish tickets at the box office. Matthew McConaughey was in the running, but his bongos wouldn't fit in the limousine. Matt was a brokenhearted boy that night.

That's my story. And I'm sticking to it.