My Bestie, Zak Bagans

I don't consider weird to be a bad, or even exceptional, personality trait, so even when I do something that someone else may consider weird, I don't think much of it. But I did something that even I think was weird yesterday, and I'm still laughing at myself about it. It was nothing big, important, or anything that will register a blip in anyone else's world, but please indulge me. As I just indulged myself in some spice drops (complete waste of dessert time, but it was all we had in the house). My story starts on Twitter, which I only got into it in the last six months, mainly due to my Ghost Adventures fixation (all three guys tweet regularly, and it's fun to read about their shenanigans while they visit different towns while shooting their  show). I also follow, just to name a few, Ke$ha, Martha Plimpton, Neil Diamond, Queen Latifah, and Joan Rivers. For those who know nothing about Twitter, when someone tweets something you have an option of replying to their tweet, essentially like commenting on a facebook status except that it's not nearly as neat. The thing about Twitter is that you have to click on a certain tab in order to see things that people write about you [am I using that incorrectly? Should I be using which? I don't care.], and I'm guessing really famous people get a billion replies when they tweet their inanities. The lure of Twitter and the reply feature is that maybe, just maybe, one day you will reply to someone famous, and they will RT (retweet) what you said and also respond with their own cutesy response. Because that would mean that they actually, sort of, made contact with you! Kind of. I don't know how many lame-ass comments I've made to various people, none of which ever receive RTs (this doesn't include my actual friends on Twitter who RT my shiz in a polite, orderly fashion). Is this the new way stars are going to ignore my pathetic fan letters/book sendings? Read about my previous attempts here. But -ha!- No more can I grumble about how no one ever writes me back! Because last night I finally received an RT. And not from just anyone, but from my ghostly obsession himself, Zak Bagans. His original tweet was:
When these flight attendants give us the hot steamy towels why do these dudes take a bath with it? Jus wipe the hands off and chill bro
Hee hee. He said, "bro." Anyway, I decided it was time for another sad attempt at a reply from him, so I said:
I once witnessed a man wipe his armpits with the hot steamy towels.

Ha! Thing is? I never saw a man do that. Why did I even type that? I can't stop laughing as I am typing up this blog. It's so ridiculous, to lie on a tweet reply. But it totally paid off because I received my first RT ever back from Zak:
Did the flight attendant use the tongs to get towel?
Mission accomplished! Even if I had to make up a story to get there! I am still a bit baffled by the exchange. Why did I make up such an inane story? Why is that the one tweet Zak replied to? Why did the story continue on in my brain as some lurid tale of a man who also stuck the steamy towel down his pants? Don't worry; I didn't say anything of the sort to Zak. I wrote this weak reply:
I think the guy stuffed it in the back of the seat in front of him. 
Um, why did I even write that? Understand this all happened in a matter of minutes. Albeit a hilarious, action-packed, lie-fueled matter of minutes. Funny thing is, I thought that when I finally received an RT from Zak, I'd feel all satisfied and like I got what I came for. But nooooooo, now I feel like he's my bud, and I continue posting dorky replies to his tweets. So is the life of a stay-at-home mom who is avoiding very much writing her fifth novel. Even though I think about it all the time.


Something about this post is reminding me of Roger Ebert's fixation with the New Yorker's cartoon caption contest. I love him! I have been reading up lots on him lately and do so enjoy all incarnations of his movie review shows. I, too, entered a New Yorker caption contest once! Those fools didn't even put mine in the finals. Here's the pic:

My caption: Send in the clowns.

That is still totally hilarious! And what did they choose?
My wife will be here any moment. She's loading herself into the cannon as we speak. 
Are you fucking kidding me? What is wrong with those people over at the New Yorker? How could they NOT have picked mine? It was GENIUS. Sigh. Maybe I should ask my friend, Zak, and see what he has to say about it.