sweasel.com

You mean “Toot! Toot! Chug, chug!” isn’t legitimate foreplay?

Rats.

Hahaha…that was my first choice for image stealings. But I was afraid Uncle B would find it too frankly erotic.

You know Brits and trains (or perhaps you don’t).

I’ve kinda gotten an idea that Brit/train relationships can sometimes be steamy.

Heh. That was by accident.

But trains can be said to have shaped (or had a hand in shaping) British culture and civilization – and the cultures of a shitload of other places, to an extent.

It’s true… Look at it this way, no trains, no USA, either.

I … umm… had a box of tissues around here, somewhere…

O. Winston Link. He understood.

http://www.linkmuseum.org/

Oh, hell yes. Trains united and settled this country, and made it great.

I read that book (“greatest thing ever” or whatever) about the building of the transcontinental RR. It was pretty amazing. Its also interesting what “spun off” of this effort, like explosives research, refrigerated freight cars for trains, the desirability of fresh produce, etc.

But the Brits built RRs all over the world.

“My wife is weeping with delight over my hardness and enlargement.” —jwpaine, from his unfinished novel, Things I’ll Never Say, Ever

yeah, Steam, Nothing Like It In The World was Ambrose’s best and most interesting book, IMO.

“Is it viscous?”

I read that line at first glance as “Is it vicious?” Which, quite frankly, seems more useful.

That was the book, jw. It’s right over there on the bookcase – somewhere.

Things McGoo never said: “I’m saving myself for my future wife.”

Oh yeah, and,”Sure, I’ll go to church with you Sunday.”

I’m fairly indifferent to trains. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Something else, I mean. Actually, come to think of it – no, I’m not indifferent to trains; I’ve got a powerful dislike of them. This is modern Britain. Travelling by train is a miserable experience. It’s expensive, unreliable (*Bing-bong*’The 7:43 GNER to Newcastle is delayed due to a cow in a field giving the train driver a sarcastic look, prompting industrial action. This service is cancelled for the forseeable future.’*Bing-bong*) and uncomfortable (you have to commit life insurance fraud to be able to pay for a ticket that guarantees you a seat, otherwise you spend the journey sat in the connecting doo-dad basking in the unholy stench of one of the backed-up toilets). Travelling by train in modern Britain has been known to cause Spontaneous Anal Bleeding (SAB).
‘You’ve got a great navel. It’s so exciting to know that this is where you were connected to your mother’s progeny manufacturing node. Oh, hey, look – a piece of lint. Have you noticed that it’s always blue? Why is that?’
‘What are you doing? This isn’t turning me on at all…’
‘Smack!’
‘H-hey, what are you doing?’
‘Smack! Smack!’
‘Ow, stop hitting me! I’m calling the police!’
‘Smack!’
‘…’

Of all the blogs I read, I love the comments here the best. You all crazy.

That picture is hardening my arteries as I look at it.

And if any man points out the depth of my navel, I will kick his ass.

I feel truly blessed with my commenters, Jess. A more impressive gathering of minds has surely never been assembled outside the walls of a state institution of some kind.

And I know me some state institutions.

MY favorite aspects of this blog are all the free prizes and the discount vacation packages.

And the Hot Babes with Navels feature, of course.

Amazingly within two months of using this website I have seen new (fill in the spam blank – hair growth, larger penis, sources of stay at home income). Other people have noticed as well. I feel alot better about myself and have gotten some confidence back, Thank you. I finally found a website that works.

Oh crap – was that a blogger faux pax? Please don’t hissssss “it’s a blog not a website…”

I’d be more likely to hiss the other way around, Dawn. I didn’t get into blogging for the longest time because I was all Stuckup McSnootersons about it. I was, like, “blogs are for people who can’t code. I have a website.”

But then if you’re doing manually what blogging software does automatically, it’s a gigantic pain in the butt. And I’m nothing if not bone lazy.

Besides, Dawn…no worry!….faux pax shrink without surgery here! Trust me!

IMHO – any place that has its own domain is a SITE. (sniffs arrogantly) sweasel.com is a SITE. Harrumph!

Sorry to differ, Weez, but just yesterday me, Steam, Gibby, Lokki, Dawn, and Does 1 through 27 were assembled outside the walls of a state institution to show our support for the acquisition of 100 more women (don’t ask me why Dawn insisted on joining us; she’s quirky, but a tad too quick with that butterfly knife, so ix-nay on the ide-snay omments-cay).

And I’ve got the arrest report to prove it.

There are free prizes?

Ahhhh…institute architecture. I’m a fan. Remember my trip to an insane asylum crematorium? Good times.

And if any man points out the depth of my navel, I will kick his ass.

I used to have a navel. Then my progeny organ grew some progeny and mangled it.

Jessica, by the time mens get to the navel, they don’t see it as their ‘little engine that could’ gets ‘tunnel vision’.

Now if you had a third nipple, that may give him some pause.

I do. That’s why I posted a shot of Colorado’s own looney bin. When I was in high school, we had a cheer
Rootie toot toot!
Rootie toot toot!
We are the boys from the In-sti-toot!
P-U-E
B-L-O!
Pueblo! Pueblo!
[sound made by humming while rapidly flicking side of finger across lips]

I also remember a similarly-themed joke when I was a sonar tech in the Navy:

What’s the difference between an idiot and a sonar tech?
An idiot goes [sound made by humming while rapidly flicking side of finger across lips], and a sonar tech goes [sound made by humming while rapidly flicking side of finger across lips, following by a cupping of the ear while wearing an attentive expression]

Good times, indeed.

pork, you gotta get that progeny organ under control. And remember: It’s a fetus until it graduates medical school.

‘tunnel vision.’ ‘little engine that could.’ heh-heh.

I remember that post, Weaz. Seems like a loooong time ago.

I was calling you “Sir”, and Wabbit was still posting.

Ah, then you might also remember, McGoo, that the first home I remember living in was designed by a famous European architect who also designed the local mental hospital. I feel sure I mentioned that in a Nemail.

I have hated mosaics, and turquoise, ever since.

I remember it – and still have the email. You Google-Earth’ed it for me, bless you. And I was so friggin’ jealous. That was a really neat home.

pork, you gotta get that progeny organ under control. And remember: It’s a fetus until it graduates medical school.

No, can do. My progeny organ did it’s job too well. The husband likened our progeny, upon arrival, as ‘wall mounters’. Nine pounds of porky progeny each. Does remarkable things to navels, that.

Eh? Til med school, huh? That explains them being a pain in the rear (sometimes) all these years.

Whatever happened to wabbit? I remember her getting huffy about something weasel said.
Did she stop blogging?

She biffed her original blog, PnB…and I’m dipped if I remember what she replaced it with. There was one after that, I know. She could write, that one.

I’m so dysfunctional and I so seldom address politics that I attract the occasional lefty reader…who feels pretty comfortable rolling around here…until the inevitable Rantday arrives. I feel bad about it, but I yam what I yam.

I think her nickname is amurin (or Amurin) now, but I don’t have a blog link.

Yeah, she could write…

It’s so different it’s hard to believe you’re both human males.”

I, for one, am both human males.

[…] **Chicken fried bacon courtesy of the weasel lady, who also turned me on to frozen faggots and spotted dick. […]