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Seven little nekkid dudes and an apology

figure sketchesBlame Mrs Peel for the ‘things I do when I’m in a long, boring meeting’ meme. Blame me for recent bloggy lameness.

I haven’t quite figured out how to blog from my new digs yet. Being unable to go to sweasel.com isn’t a problem; I can just as easily write offline in Notepad and post it later. The problem is that, without the internet, I don’t know anything worth posting about.

Yeah. Whaddya know. I sit there at my desk all day like a big stupid pumpkin, my mind a perfect and absolute blank.

“Heh,” I think, “I’m thinking nothing. They think I’m thinking, but I’m not.” Who knew I was so Zen?

But fear not, my imaginary friends who lived in the computer. We’ve come too far and debased ourselves too low to give up on it now. I’ll think of something. You can trust a weasel.

Hey, I know! Cute cat pictures! That’s bound to be a crowd pleaser!



Comment from Steamboat McGoo
Time: November 7, 2007, 6:51 pm

Whoa, Weasel!

“Guy” sketches aren’t my topic-of-first-choice, but you’re eff’ing good! I note (in my naive ignorance) that even the anatomically automatic “wide stance” that is characteristic of guys is accurately depicted.

Um…guess that comes with the territory when you’re a pro and – like – make your living at art.

Where’s his trebuchet? Rats.

Comment from BGG
Time: November 7, 2007, 7:51 pm

How about some LOLnekkiddudes?

Comment from Uncle Badger
Time: November 7, 2007, 8:02 pm

If you ask me (and no one did) all nekkid dudes are LOL.

I mean… who designed all that stuff? It’s so… fragile and illogical and ludicrous and… hang on! I’ve cracked it!

God is a Frenchman.

Comment from Steamboat McGoo
Time: November 7, 2007, 8:16 pm

Yep. He could have at least made all our junk retractable or sumpin. Y’know – outa sight, outa mind, and all that crap.

Reminds me of a dialog from “Lamb” by Christopher Moore where Biff (Christ’s childhood buddy) is talking to an angel about its “junk”. But never mind.

Outrageously good book, BTW. I literally howled with laughter several places. Laughed so hard I hurt.

Comment from Pupster
Time: November 7, 2007, 8:45 pm

No internet at work? Dude Man Wow, thats gotta suck. Did you catch the gem mesa blue posted in the IB comments? It’s NSFW but it ought to cheer you up.

Comment from porknbean
Time: November 7, 2007, 9:43 pm

Yep. He could have at least made all our junk retractable or sumpin.

Move to Siberia. I bet it will retract there. 😀

Comment from Mrs. Peel
Time: November 7, 2007, 9:55 pm

Those are so cool. Is there a coherent story behind the progression, or should we feel free to make up our own?

Bob folded his arms and allowed himself to sigh, very quietly. He was tired, but his years of military discipline kept his back straight even as he glanced over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure why Rose had asked him to wait behind her cubicle wall. Nor was he entirely sure that their office did, in fact, celebrate Nudist Friday.

It was only a few moments later that the basketball hurtled into his field of view, and, acting entirely on instinct, he snatched it and shot a perfect three-pointer…

Comment from Steamboat McGoo
Time: November 7, 2007, 11:05 pm

Oh, boy! Its story time! Thank you, Mrs. Peel!
Lord Groinmaster Dique De Bologna Grande Badgerbugger VIII, Last Duke of Stoatfinger (by marriage), Secret Bearer of the Ermine Seal of Royals, KRS, MP- House of Lords, FRS, MRS, PhD, member in good standing – Royal Puttiers & Glaziers Local 1408, and all-around Nice Guy stood and admired himself before the full length mirror. “Not to shabby,” he thought to himself, since no one could read his mind.

“No, not too shabby at all,” spoke Lady Weasel from across the room.

“Wha-? What did you say?” Badgerbugger managed to spout, blushing.

“Nothing, dear.”

Walking past his sweet wife-to-be, Badgerbugger snuck his little finger under her arm and tickled her ribs playfully.

“Yieeeee!” He screamed, leaping skyward with a yelp-like sound, as she withdrew her own hand – dropping an ice cube back into the drink glass she’d finished earlier – and watched as he cavorted around the room – nursing his behind. Sighing, she dried her hand and returned to her makeup – thinking to herself, “Men. So predictable.”

“I know what your thinking”, said Badgerbugger, squatting now with his back to the bedroom door to protect himself from further probes, “You’re thinking about the new house.”

“Right as always, dear.”

Just then, Lady Weasel’s maid opened the door and – seeing Lord Badgerbugger in the buff – immediately swooned, dropping her 25-stone girth directly onto him and knocking him completely unconscious. Silence descended upon the room, except for the faint “squeeeee…” sound of air and other gasses being slowly squeezed out of Badgerbuggers now-supine body.


Comment from Mrs. Peel
Time: November 7, 2007, 11:44 pm

Mmm, I like mine better. For one thing, I’m not killing off anyone but “Bob.”

…or at least, it would have been perfect if he hadn’t missed the basket entirely, causing the crowd to chant “Air ball!”

Bob was embarrassed, not least because he suddenly realized he was surrounded by clothed people. He dropped to crouch on his heels, his back still to the cubicle wall, hoping that his personal region would be less visible in this position. Not for the first time, he wondered why it was that five people couldn’t manage to sing “Happy Birthday” together, but an entire stadium could chant “Air ball!” in perfect, harmonious unison. And why had it taken Dave Barry to point that out?

Rose came around the corner. “Bob, are you still there? Was that you with the air ball?”

Bob was mesmerized by her heaving bosoms, which reminded him of nothing so much as those little red linings you pull off peanuts before you eat them. Except that her breasts weren’t carcinogenic. He was pretty sure they weren’t, anyway. Finally, he remembered that she had asked him a question, and replied, “Yes. It seems that my days as a second string junior varsity player have left me with no great amount of skill. I suppose this should be a matter for some lamentation, but I have other talents I consider to be of more worth.”

Rose smiled. Bob’s way with words always got to her. She was almost sorry she’d tricked him into participating in Nudist Friday. And she was definitely sorry for what she was about to do.

Comment from Mrs. Peel
Time: November 7, 2007, 11:47 pm

Blood. Why was there so much blood?

Bob stared down at what he was slowly coming to realize was, in fact, his own body. He gazed at his face, twisted in the grim rictus of death, and shook his head slowly.

Perhaps her breasts had been life-threatening, after all.

Comment from Steamboat McGoo
Time: November 7, 2007, 11:58 pm

I like yours better too. You managed to work in poisonous breasts and an apparent murder. And peanuts! You worked in peanuts!

Comment from Mrs. Peel
Time: November 8, 2007, 12:39 am

The peanuts were critical. Obviously, I’ve been lurking here too long.

I did giggle a lot at yours. All through typing mine, in fact. I just didn’t like the apparent demise of Lord Badgerbugger. *gets teary* Maybe you could use time-travel to save him.

Bob held his hands up, examining them. He wasn’t quite as surprised as he possibly should have been to discover that they were translucent and gleaming slightly. He found himself thinking back to the afternoon he had spent in his Fortress of Solitude just the previous week.

Rose had stopped by, of course. Women. Never could figure out that it wasn’t called a Fortress of Solitude so that people could pester him. He deliberately kept only the most uncomfortable chairs in the living room, hoping to drive people away. He also entertained in the nude for the same reason.

Neither tactic had worked on Rose, who had brought an ass pillow*, and who, when she saw him naked, had merely raised an eyebrow and stripped down herself.

He well remembered that first sight of her bosoms. He had been transfixed at first by the odd, dimpled texture of her shoulder.

She had seen him looking and had shrugged, the movement causing her skin to ripple in a peculiar way. “A burn. I was very young.”

He had stood, then, and reached out a hand, his palm flat in reassurance, thinking to curve his fingers around her shoulder and test the texture of her skin. But she had stepped back. “Not yet, I think.”

Bob shook himself abruptly. He was still looking at his own dead body, and he couldn’t remember what had happened. The last thing he remembered was Rose telling him about Nudist Friday.

*The chairs in my math classroom are really hard, so I take a small pillow, which I call my “ass pillow,” to class with me. The guys laugh, but at least I am comfortable…ish…

Comment from Steamboat McGoo
Time: November 8, 2007, 1:09 am

He wasn’t dead! Just maid-squished. Obviously I need to work on my descriptive prose. Piebald (his manservant) was going to awaken him by waving fresh putty or something under his nose. Or I could have brought in Covington…

Ass pillow. Heh!

Comment from S. Weasel
Time: November 8, 2007, 9:03 am

I don’t have *no* internet…I just have to watch what I do very carefully, because I’m not the only one watching what I do very carefully.

And so, for example, I can point you to this:


To Sybil,

Lamentably, I killed your cat while trying just to sting it. It was crouched, as usual, under one of our bird feeders & I fired from some distance with bird shot. It may ease your grief somewhat to know that the cat was buried properly with a prayer & that I’ll be glad to get you another of your choice.

I called & came by your house several times. We will be in the Dominican Republic until Thursday. I’ll see you then.

Love, Jimmy

What kind of asshole “stings” a cat with a shotgun? A Jimmy Carter kind of asshole, that’s who. Found via the Corner. The Corner is a pretty orthodox thing to have in my history file, isn’t it?

Comment from Steamboat McGoo
Time: November 8, 2007, 9:18 am

“…I’m not the only one watching…” – Weasel-

Duh. It finally sank in. r.e. the photo of your office posted on 10-31. Your cubical door is somewhere BEHIND the camera – yes? That sucks mightily.

So everyone and their brother can see into your cubical and what’s on your monitors?

(McGoo’s mind moves slowly, but….well, it moves slowly. I guess there is no “but”.)

Weasel, the quicker you get outa there and safely to Jolly Ol’ the better.

What kind of asshole shotgun-stings a cat? I’ll tell you – a Liberal one, that’s who. What a dickhead. But we knew that.

Comment from Steamboat McGoo
Time: November 8, 2007, 9:26 am

I wish Carter would go hunting with Dick Cheney. Just once.

Comment from Gnus
Time: November 8, 2007, 10:24 am

Carter and Cheney hunting together? Or anything together? McGoo, your best fiction yet.

Comment from Steamboat McGoo
Time: November 8, 2007, 12:33 pm

Ya never know. I understand Bush (Elder) and Slick Willy are/were bosom buddies.

But – yeah – I guess Cheney has some standards.

Comment from Steamboat McGoo
Time: November 8, 2007, 4:48 pm

I note that Weasel’s is still Google’s first listing for:

peanut lady fuck

I’m pleased to note that my own small contribution is also now listed there.

Someday I hope some learned academic – or a member of the Royal Puttiers & Glaziers, perhaps – discovers just exactly what peanut lady fuck means, and how it came about that Weasel is the #1 hit for this phrase.

Meanwhile, I for one shall continue nurturing this phrase regularly here lest it dwindle away through disuse.

Comment from jwpaine
Time: November 8, 2007, 5:15 pm

I believe it’s already been pointed out that simply repeating the phrase peanut lady fuck is valueless as a method for achieving top page-rating with Google, or MSN.

Unless, of course, you punctuate it creatively:
Peanut, lady? Fuck!
Peanut-Lady? Fuck!
Peanut?! (lady-fuck!)

Comment from Steamboat McGoo
Time: November 8, 2007, 5:26 pm

Yeah, but I like doin’ it anyway, jw.

Call me, Ismael!

Meanwhile, all of England and this arm of the galaxy is about to be flooded tonight! England to close the Thames Force Fields, er, I mean, barriers.


Well…maybe just England. The galaxy…not so much.

Comment from S. Weasel
Time: November 8, 2007, 5:28 pm

It’s going to miss Badger House, looks like…but I called Uncle B and rattled him anyhow. Apparently, the Channel has been known to steal inland and swallow whole villages, even in modern times, so “tidal wave” is a potent badger-rattler.

Comment from Steamboat McGoo
Time: November 8, 2007, 5:41 pm

Oh, shit. I figured you-all were far enough away that I could make with the funny’s – y’know, the ha-ha’s? – with impunity.

Guess I wasn’t as impuned, um, er, as I thought. Squat.

But I hope you woke him up, anyway! After all, we’re all awake.

Comment from Mrs. Peel
Time: November 8, 2007, 7:49 pm

Sigh. I still can’t think of a good way to end the Tale of Bob. I came up with several different alternatives last night, but none of them really pulled the dangling threads together very well.

How about this?

Rose came around the corner, then, and Bob flinched. But she didn’t seem to see him. Well, she saw him, lying dead on the ground, but she didn’t see him, standing there beside his body. She stared down at the corpse with narrowed eyes.

“I told you. I told you to never call me that. I liked you a lot, Bob. But when someone calls me that, I kill him. Every time.”

Bob blinked. What had he called her?

She rubbed the dimpled skin on her shoulder self-consciously. “I guess it would be easier to just get plastic surgery, instead of seducing men into my bed, telling them my deepest secret, and then killing them.” She shrugged. “Oh well, too late now.” Striding to her cubicle, she added to a long list of tally marks.

Bob admired the curves of her long, lithe form, all the while trying to remember when exactly he had been seduced into her bed, and what the secret in question was. He had always thought Rose was attractive, but supremely annoying, and he had long fantasized about putting her in her place.

And then he remembered. That form stretched beside him, her arms curled around him, her voice explaining. “I was on the volleyball team all through school, and we changed in the locker room together, and when the girls saw my burn, they called me…” A swallow, and a choke.

Bob laughed loudly and pointed. “Peanut Lady!”

Fuck, he might be dead, but it had totally been worth it.

Comment from S. Weasel
Time: November 8, 2007, 8:24 pm

Ahhh…you know, I often think…after the holocaust…when the rag-pickers come out to sweep up the remains of our civilization…I surely do hope a backup copy of sweasel.com is there to be picked out of the smoldering wreckage.

Comment from Mrs. Peel
Time: November 8, 2007, 8:44 pm

The Lilekses of the future would LOVE it.

Comment from Steamboat McGoo
Time: November 8, 2007, 9:19 pm

I love it.

Comment from porknbean
Time: November 8, 2007, 11:50 pm

The ragpickers might turn back-up disks into jewelry or currency or plates.

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