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She’s off!

steam powered aereoweasel

Here I go! Going to be the red eye this time, which I haven’t done in years, but it’s better to fly into Gatwick Airport now, and all the flights into LGW arrive in the morning. This means jet lag, another thing I haven’t done in years. Expect me grumpy tomorrow. Uncle B says we have a innernets at Badger House now. I wonder what Old Skullcracker thinks of that!

Oh, and I have a driver, just like those monumental public figures Madonna and Paris Hilton! I hope he holds a sign that says Stoaty Weasel, so my fans know to congregate and squeal.

December 19, 2007 — 8:34 am
Comments: 57

But I don’t wanna marry Kevin!

bless this mess

So I had this dream. I dreamed there was this ratfaced dude with long, limp brown hair and they were like, “right. This is Kevin. You’re going to marry him.”

And I’m like, “wait…what?!”

And they go, “you promised you’d move to England and get married, didn’t you?”

And I’m like, “uhhh…yes. I guess.”

And they go, “well, the regular guy can’t make it, so you’ll have to marry Kevin.”

And I wail, “but I don’t wanna marry Kevin!”

That’s going to be my personal catchphrase for a while. You’d appreciate the power of this dream more fully if you had any idea how many suicidally stupid things I’ve done in my life because I felt like I’d promised somebody something.

And don’t get me going on the irresistible power of the dare!

Okay, so this here is what I laughingly call my studio. Actually, it was a proper artist’s studio for years, but then I raised three baby squirrels to robust adulthood in it. Squirrels are a genetically-engineered cross between rats and psychotic trapeze artists.

It was my task this weekend to pull out everything I want from this great tottery pile of squirrel-tainted weasel poo so the Garbage Fairies can come over the holidays and whisk the rest away to Santa’s Landfill. This was what it looked like on Friday. I took one look and wailed, “but I don’t wanna marry Kevin!”

But I learned something, going through my old drawings and other artwork. I learned that, if I work hard and put my mind to it, I sure can suck. I also learned that ammonia dissolves india ink — good to know when you find a big crusty pool of dried ink with squirrel tracks radiating outwards in all directions on a hardwood floor. This happens to everyone some day, and now you’ll be prepared. You’re welcome. Also, I found many hidden caches of inky peanuts and dessicated broccoli, so you’ll be relieved to know I’ll be okay in the lean times, thanks to my beloved psychotic trapeze rats. Fare thee well, boys — wherever thou mightst be!

Wait! How long do gray squirrels live in the wild? Never mind…

December 18, 2007 — 7:09 pm
Comments: 12

Separated at birth

mike huckabee huckleberry hound

Am I the only one to notice? People, people: MIKE HUCKABEE HAS A NAME THAT SOUNDS A REAL LOT LIKE “HUCKLEBERRY HOUND” WHO HE ALSO LOOKS LIKE AND RESEMBLES IN OTHER WAYS! Geez, why are these things always left up to me? Okay, it was a cinch I wouldn’t like the evangelical Christian candidate, but seriously — this man’s face has more doofus per square inch than the law allows, even in Arkansas. I can just *hear* him going, “hyuck, hyuck!” Can’t you?

Yes, I’m from rural Tennessee. Bite me.

OH! And speaking of Tennessee I DEMAND AL GORE SHOVEL MY DRIVEWAY! We’ve had more snow in the last four days than we had all Winter last year. Literally. Maybe not a sign the planet is getting colder, but last year’s warm weather was sure as shit interpreted the other way.

Rain fell on top of snow, then temps overnight dropped into the teens, with a whippy wind. That knee-high mountain of slush the plough left at the end of my drive froze into something resembling cement. And razor blades. I crushed it a bit in the middle and hoped I could get up a good head start and sort of…jump it, but the Weaselmobile did a bellyflop and stuck fast. May you never have to wangle icebergs the size of your head from under a running Miata.

I have used up every drop of my happy chemistry this morning. WHERE ARE MY ENDORPHINS?!?

December 17, 2007 — 12:09 pm
Comments: 72

Smack! Ah!

chicken fried gravy

Chicken fried bacon! With cream gravy dipping sauce. Once again, you can thank jw for this. The “chicken fried” construction — for the sake of you Johnny Foreigners out there — means ‘dipped in batter and deep fried.’ Yeah, you can KEEP your fagotty deep-fried Mars bars!

What’s that? Only posting a Weekend Weasel on Friday is cheating? Geez, okay:


Another sex manual stolen from Tokyo Damage Report.

Look, I know you guys will figure this out for yourselves…but…never, ever, EVER, EVEREVEREVEREVERRRRR say anything in this book to a woman. ‘K?

December 14, 2007 — 7:17 pm
Comments: 34

Smut week continues on sweasel.com

japanese manual for holding hands

It snew! Yes, the big storm racing across America reached a Weasel this noon. I flew home at a cumulative speed of 6.25 miles an hour (wot a beaut of a traffic jam!) and…continued putting things into boxes.

So here’s a link to somebody else’s shit! Tokyo Damage Report has been on my reading list since before I read blogs, even. The proprietor is a messed-up American dude in Tokyo who comments on…bands and porno, mostly. This is where I first heard about tentacle porn and used panty vending machines — without the knowledge of which, my life would be immeasurably poorer. Yet, despite the subject matter, his posts are somehow never in the slightest prurient or even smutty.

But the site can be hard to follow. Whenever he gets jammed up in the structure of his own site, he shifts everything around and opens entirely new pages in different places. No blogging software, either; it’s all free-form and bewildering. Sometimes interesting links go here to die.

The photograph above comes from what purports to be a Japanese sex manual from the 1960s. I think. The description got severed from the page scans and I can’t seem to find it again. Anyhow, here’s the book. Sure, it starts off innocently enough, making hand-holding as complex as docking the shuttle to the international space station, but it gets pretty hot after that.

Click at least as far as the nice lady in the leotard making vague gestures at an artist’s mannequin from across the room. That’s oral sex! It looks so wholesome.

December 13, 2007 — 7:44 pm
Comments: 32

Wait, I haven’t posted anything tonight? Really?

cat x-ray

This isn’t Damien’s X-Ray. It is a cat, though. I Googled it. The image is from the University Hospitals of Cleveland radiology website. The childrens’ department.

It’s pretty much what I imagine Damien’s x-ray looked like, had I remembered to ask for it, though. With a little more “hallelujah!” thrown in. Yeah, I guess the little bastard bumped his elbow. Against a Buick or something. I watched him gimp around the house for three days before I couldn’t stand it and took him to the vet. I just got back.

He’s okay, but there’s one more expense I could live without. And I hate his vet. Vets. Whatever. Different rant for another night.

It’s not a fracture, but a bad bruise. I have to give him anti-inflammatories for a few days and “keep him quiet for a while longer than that.” Huh. Thou doest not keep the Prince of Darkness “quiet for a while.” So I asked for specific instructions.

Vet: “Oh, keep him in a small dark room. Like the bathroom. Even the cat carrier. He’ll just think it’s a very long night.”
Me: “But I’m going away for Christmas.”
Vet: “No problem.”
Me: “I’ll be gone for two weeks.”
Vet: “He’ll be fine.”

In a box. For fourteen days. What is the matter with people? If my cats are shut up in the house for two hours, they get antsy. If you locked Damien in a tiny box for fourteen days, he’d be a howling psychotic. More of a howling psychotic. Seriously, it would be bad news.

December 12, 2007 — 8:07 pm
Comments: 34

Do you know the old joke?

my mother in the nude

A: Do you have any naked pictures of your mother?
B: No!
A: Would you like to buy some?

This is why you must never try to set me up for that joke. Yep. It’s Mom, in the buff, circa 1960. She was 30. Actually, it’s a photo of a Xerox of a stat of a Polaroid my dad (whew!) took. The original hung on the wall of my office. It was a popular attraction. My mother only visited me up here in Yankeeland the one time and she was shocked when she saw it.

“What kind of daughter hangs a naked picture of her mother on her office wall?”
“The kind of daughter who has a naked picture of her mother.”

Then I showed her the Miracle of Photoshop and she spent half an hour trying to fluff up her right tit because, “it was all flat from nursing you.”

I was going to try to elevate the tone of this blog today, but screw it. I got a notice that I never quite finished some paperwork related to Mother’s sad little estate, so I had to go into the Ouchy Folder tonight and try to find one last copy of her death certificate to file with some useless scrap of bureaucratic hoo-ha. One more verse of the Intimations of Mortality Rag.

I found her Do Not Resuscitate order. She had to counter-sign it herself. Can you imagine what a downer that was for her? There’s a real grown up moment, right there. I found a bunch of paperwork from the hospice, chock full of vomitous metaphors about ships and naps and adventures. I found a bunch of uncashed checks I never opened because I assumed they were bills I had taken care of (yes, Uncle B, I’ll make some calls tomorrow).

And I found a whole stack of Xeroxes of this picture. Mother always said, “I hope you don’t post this on the Internet” in a tone that sounded like of all the things in her life she really didn’t want to happen, if this one happened it would make her the least unhappy.

So there you go, Mom. Immortality.



p.s. I don’t seem to have any more copies of the death certificate, dammit.

p.p.s. I’ve called my mother “Mom” twice in this post, which might be just enough to earn me a haunting. Only I’m pretty sure she’d have haunted me already for the hell of it, if she possibly could.

p.p.p.s. No, we don’t look all that much alike.

December 11, 2007 — 6:49 pm
Comments: 19

How to make an alien fossil computer mouse

alien mouse

A helpful video. I’m not sure why it takes thirty minutes to explain how to do this — I bet I could cut it down to a few snappy stills and some text — but I don’t really know as I haven’t watched it. No vids from work, you see.

The blog, DailyDIY looks like it’s worth keeping half an eye on, anyhow. It seems to involve a lot of knitting and gluing shit to other shit. Hooray!

It’s amazing what you learn looking for photographs of adorable fluffy rodents.

On a less felicitous note, I learned what a vaginal plug is and how to examine lady mice for them. I’d warn you not to Google it, but what’s the point?

December 10, 2007 — 3:21 pm
Comments: 39

There are a lot of places I COULD have gone with this graphic

friday's weasel

You know, jw has a website of his own to feed. I’m so flattered when he saves the good stuff for me.

December 7, 2007 — 6:40 pm
Comments: 53

Pathetic loser asshole who couldn’t get laid or keep a minimum wage job

pathetic loserHEL-LO! People! We have GOT to stop turning these jerkwads into rock stars.

This useless punk walked into a mall and murdered eight of his betters because he got a little taste of adulthood and he wasn’t up to it. He wasn’t man enough to live with it, either. So he took the one snap-your-fingers path to instant tabloid celebrity. Why, even a loser like him can do it!

He left a note that COULD NOT HAVE BEEN more explicit: “I’m going out in style” — “I’m going to be famous.” It worked, too. Congrats, d00d, you’re the snootch-flashing Paris Hilton of underachievers.

If you’re tired of this shit, we’re collectively going to need a lot less COMPASSION and a lot more RIDICULE. They aren’t troubled into it. Or bullied into it. Nothing “drives them” to do these things but an awareness of their own inadequacy and a desire to get a badass headshot at the top of the Drudge Report.

Losers, not monsters. This is a twenty year old man who couldn’t keep a fast food job or a girl friend. Monster is a huge promotion for this ass. Monsters are scary and powerful. They make movies about monsters. Pimply ex-fry-cooks…not so much.

It doesn’t matter for this dweeb — he did the future McDonald’s customers and mall cops of Omaha a favor and took himself out, too. Do it for the other losers. You know they’re out there. Show them your contempt for what this moron chose to do. We can’t keep making mass murder an attractive exit strategy for weenies.

And use simple language. Remember, they’re losers.

December 6, 2007 — 10:13 am
Comments: 19