BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

NOTE: This blog entry has been edited. None of the original material was removed, however there have been comments added. You will find them italicized and within parentheses. For the record, I did remove my note of 1/19/11 instructing people to stop trying to engage me in pedantic pissing matches over the origin of duct tape just because they are humor impaired. I’m still instructing you all to not engage me in pedantic pissing matches whether you are humor impaired or not, so that hasn’t changed. However, I thought maybe I’d add some more to it… Here goes.

It seems that there is a sudden upsurge in searches for both Duct and Duck Tape. Per the search terms logged it would appear that there is a rather robust “duct/duck tape fetish” community out there. Wish I’d known before writing this particular entry. Probably would have been much funnier than just the serial killer and stupid people angle. At any rate, due to the enormous number of searches leading to this entry, I have been taking heat from some folks who want to point out to me the errors in this piece. It seems they didn’t get the satire. In at least one instance, said individual even elected to be especially nasty about it. For the record, the name/email address he/she entered remained intact. That was not my doing. Obviously it was aimed at me, but he/she missed.

So here you have it. The original blog intact with some added commentary to help the humor, satire, and parody impaired. You probably don’t know who you are, but trust me, we do.

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Have you ever wondered about duct tape?

I mean like wondering why it’s so popular with serial killers, kidnappers, and the like? At least, that’s how it is on TV. Oh, and just so we are all on the same page, no I’m not a serial killer. Nor am I a kidnapper. Never even played one on TV. Yeah, yeah, I know… I write fiction novels about them, but that’s different.

Also, just so we have our ducks in a row, we are talking about duct tape. Not duck tape. “Duck” tape doesn’t exist (Yes, actually, it does). Duct tape does. (Yes, actually, it does too.)

I have a friend (yeah, I know, amazing eh?) who worked in the music biz as a road manager. Her husband still does, and he handles cameras, lights, and all that jazz. Big deal stuff. They actually swear by “Gaffer Tape.” This stuff is great… You see, gaffer tape is kinda like duct tape on mega doses of steroids. In fact, it makes anything major league baseball players have been using to jack themselves up look like a placebo. Seriously. My friend has even noted that gaffer tape will hold someone on the side of a tour bus, at highway speeds, for at least 50 miles. She refuses to go into the exact details as to how she knows this, except to say that she has irrefutable anecdotal evidence. My guess is someone made her mad and she taped said individual to the side of the bus. She’s dangerous like that… In fact, she and E K get along really well, which is pretty scary.

She also tells me that it works great as a depilatory too – as long as you don’t mind losing the first three layers of skin along with the unwanted (or even wanted) hair. Good thing she’s never given a roll to E K, or I might be bald…

But, as usual, I digress…

The thing here is duct tape. It was originally designed to seal up duct work, hence the silver/grey color AND the name, duct tape. Makes sense all of a sudden, doesn’t it? I mean, “duck” tape was really kind of a WTF kind of name, dont’cha think? After all, what would a duck need with tape? Besides Donald, I mean. And, even though they make glue out of horses, and gelatin out of beef, it was really hard to fathom making tape out of ducks. (This part here, in bold, would be the joke. The part where it talks about making tape out of ducks. If you don’t find it funny, hey, no worries. I don’t hit them ALL out of the park, and we all have different sense of humor, as you will see below…)

So, anyway… I think maybe I need to run down to my basement and grab up a roll of duct tape to keep right here on the corner of my desk.

Why?

Because, like I said at the outset, it seems to be the prime choice for serial killers and kidnappers – not only as a restraint, but to keep their victims from screaming for help. Just slap a slice of the ol’ silver sticky stuff over the mouth and no sound escapes. Of course, these days if you happen to be a more fashion conscious criminal, designer colors are available, but I’m a purist. Just give me the silvery-grey stuff and I’m good.

But, I still haven’t answered your question, have I? I mean, why would I need duct tape on hand?

Exactly.

“Huh?” you grunt.

I need it for my hands. I figure if it works to “gag” victims, maybe I can tape my hands together so I won’t be able to get myself in trouble by answering stupid emails. (This would be yet another part of the joke. For, as you can plainly see from the comment thread below, I didn’t get out my roll of duck, duct, 100 mile per hour, gaffer, scotch, masking, packing, or any other tape soon enough.)

Of course, it might not work. I might need something stronger. Wonder if my friend has an extra roll of gaffer tape laying around… Something in a nice, yellow “caution” sort of color would be good…

More to come…

Murv

NOTE: In reality, Mister Arendt, who commented below, has the real story.  Apparently, however, he didn’t see the humor in my post since I revised history for my own uses. Regular readers here know when to take a post seriously – which isn’t often – so I can only assume he was new to the Leakage. For the whole story about DUCT/DUCK tape go to http://www.ideafinder.com/history/inventions/ducttape.htm

Mister Arendt’s Canadian counterpart didn’t see the humor either. I had once heard a rumor that Canadians, as a general rule, were the most polite people on the planet.  That has been my personal experience up until now…

It was the late 60’s.

The most important things in my world were my bicycle, Shakey’s Pizza, and committing my multiplication tables to memory so the teacher wouldn’t frown at me. Television had three channels – on a good day – and it came at you from behind a wall of staticky snow on a thirteen inch, black & white Philco with tin-foil molded around the rabbit ear antennae.

Yeah. Back then they made foil out of tin instead of aluminum. Probably because it was a better conductor for the airwaves and they knew damn well that just as much of it would be used as antenna boosters as it would be for wrapping foodstuffs.

So, that was my world, living in that little house on Baltimore Avenue.  However, on a daily basis I heard about a place called “Vietnam”. It was a faraway land. The ghostly TV screen images of newscasters like Walter Cronkite told me all about it, and convinced me that it was someplace I never wanted to go.

Then, one morning, my mother was opening the drapes on our front windows. As they slid apart she gasped, then muttered, “Oh no…”

My father joined her at the window and his expression turned grim. Being a kid, I had to know what had elicited such a reaction from my parents. I ran to the window and peered out. What I saw didn’t fit with the way they were acting – at least, it didn’t to my young mind. But then, I didn’t understand what I was seeing and I hadn’t lived through the things my parents had.

The tableau on the other side of the picture window was normal as far as I could see. The street. The houses. Nothing had changed. The only difference I could detect was the dark blue, four door sedan parked in front of the house across the street. On close inspection, one could see some official looking words stenciled on the driver’s side door, although they were unreadable at this distance. The only other things out of place besides the car were the two solemn looking men in uniform standing on our neighbor’s front porch.

Back then, I didn’t understand. There are those times now that I wish I still didn’t. But, I am also thankful that I do.

Yesterday I posted a Facebook status update lamenting the fact that I hadn’t yet written my Sunday morning blog entry, and wondering at what the subject should be. I received many suggestions, most of which will probably end up as future entries. However, when I sat down to pen this one something dawned on me…

I have an uncle buried at Jefferson Barracks Cemetery. He saw action with the Navy in Korea. I have a great uncle who saw action in Korea as well. My grandfather was in the National Guard during WWI. My father-in-law was in the National Guard. At least one of EKay’s uncles saw action in WWII.

I have an uncle who was in Vietnam. I have friends who were in Vietnam. I have friends who were deployed during Desert Shield and eventually, Desert Storm. I have relatives who pulled multiple tours in Iraq. I have friends whose children – kids that I watched grow up at our weekend BBQ’s and float trips – who have seen action in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Friends in the Air Force. A nephew who was a Marine. A nephew who is going into the Air Force…

The list goes on, and on…

So, today, instead of writing something funny, I thought maybe I’d take a moment to say thanks to all of my family, friends, and everyone else in uniform who is separated from me by a mere six degrees… I may not always agree with the reason behind a given war, (conflict, or whatever they may want to call it), but I’m thankful for those who defend my right to be funny the other 364 days out of the year.

More to come…

Murv