sweasel.com

Hello, imaginary people who live in my computer. How are you today? You’re like those damn sea monkeys, aren’t you? If I don’t feed you…well, the less said about those damn sea monkeys the better, hm? Okay!

St Paddy’s day eve, I got up in the night to drain the weasel and somehow slipped and fell. Falling down under the influence of strong drink is a painful thing. Landing asswards on a ceramic tile floor, more painful still. Perhaps most painful of all, however, comes the following morning, twisting and craning to view a sad, middle-aged left butt-cheek in the medicine cabinet mirror.

Is it visibly bruised? Begorrah, it is not.

Oh, hell. I’m not even Irish.

So I needed a new mop head. Yes, I’m changing the subject. This has nothing to do with my buttcheek or my drinking problem or anything. When I got to the supermarket, I was blindsided; there were like a dozen different kinds! What brand and size is mine? I have no idea. There’s no writing on my mop at all. It’s got two sticky-outy things where the head goes, and that’s all I know.

Damn you mop makers and your confusing mop monopolies!

I almost bought a whole new mop, but I had a feeling I’d done that before. I had a feeling a lot of people do that and the whole stupid issue might be quite deliberate, and that pissed me right off. So I bought a mop head and a roll of duct tape.

Yes I did.

And, no, it didn’t fit (the two sticky-outy things were about a millimeter too far apart and too short), but the duct tape worked fine. Remember, the tape doesn’t have to stick to a wet mop; it only has to stick to itself. And there’s nothing tape sticks to better than itself.

While I was in the supermarket, I spotted a woman buying something that looked like a cyprus knee.

“How the heck do you cook that?” I said, because I’m one of those annoying people who strikes up a conversation with anyone, anywhere.

She looked at me blankly a moment and said, “No speak English.”

Look, I won’t go into the whole immigration thing just now. But, would you immigration officers or social workers or whoever primes newcomers before releasing them into the wild do me a big fat favor? Teach them to say, “I don’t speak English.” Okay? It’s just one more syllable than “no speak English,” and it at least gives the impression they’re trying to understand how complete sentences work in their new home.

So (changing the subject again) somebody in my area got fired this afternoon. Not the good kind of fired, where you get severance pay and a letter of recommendation and a cake in the break room. The bad kind of fired, where you show up in the morning with your Dunkin’ Donuts medium light no sugar, and leave in the afternoon with all your stuff in a box, escorted by Security. All’s we know is, he did Something Bad with the network.

And I’m, like, “something bad like…oh, I dunno…blogging?”

Nobody knows. Just…Something Bad. So, until I find out more, it’s early mornings or late evenings for me.

And I swear to god, if I find you guys floating around on the top of this blog not moving, I’m not going to cry this time. I’m just not.