The team of nine students instructed volunteers to take a bite of a wheat cracker and dip the cracker for three seconds into about a tablespoon of a test dip. They then repeated the process with new crackers, for a total of either three or six double dips per dip sample. The team then analyzed the remaining dip and counted the number of aerobic bacteria in it. They didn’t determine whether any of the bacteria were harmful, and didn’t count anaerobic bacteria, which are harder to culture, or viruses.
On average, the students found that three to six double dips transferred about 10,000 bacteria from the eater’s mouth to the remaining dip. Each cracker picked up between one and two grams of dip. That means that sporadic double dipping in a cup of dip would transfer at least
50 to 100 bacteria from one mouth to another with every bite.
January 31, 2008 — 8:28 pm
…click above to view this masterpiece of the toper’s art in glorious color…
Because Enas Yorl dared me to, that’s why.
It’s a jigger of Sour Puss, a jigger of creme de banana and a jigger of creme de noya (made from real fruit pits!) mixed up in a bud vase (looks all Star Trek, don’t it?) and stuck in the freezer for an hour. It’s…not as vomitously hideous as you might think. It’s…tart. And kicky. Yeah, I’m finishing it. Shut up.
So today, I saw the mover and the exterminator. Tommorow, the dentist, followed by an all day Division meeting.
But tonight belongs to Flaming Asshole.
— 7:42 pm
Tweedledum and Tweedledee
Agreed to have a battle;
For Tweedledum said Tweedledee
Had spoiled his nice new rattle.
Just then flew down a monstrous crow,
As black as a tar-barrel;
Which frightened both the heroes so,
They quite forgot their quarrel.
Big black crow? Uhhhh…no comment. Hey, I don’t write the nursery rhymes. I just press them into service when much brain hurt ouchie.
Excúseme, yo tienen que aprender hablar español.
January 30, 2008 — 12:08 pm
The contents of the liquor cabinet. Not the day-to-day booze, but the Sunday-go-to-meeting booze. The guest booze, as it were. See, you can’t really move liquor, and you can’t pour it down the sink, so what’s a weasel to do?
Some of it is going straight down the sink. That thing in the middle? Sour Puss? It’s a raspberry liqueur. To the right of it is creme de banana. And way over to the left? Creme de noya, “a naturally almond-flavored liqueur made from fruit pits.” These apparently date to a time of life when I was batshit insane. Or twelve years old.
I’m tempted to mix these unique specimens together and invent my own cocktail. I think I’ll call it a ‘BLAAAARRRRRGH’ or possibly a ‘WAAAAAAUUULLLLkoffkoffkoff.”
Don’t dare me.
The balance, I’m pleased to note, is heavy on the Jack Daniel’s and other fine American whiskies. And what’s that I see? A brand new unopened bottle of Glenmorangie?
Oh, it’s rough duty, I tell you what.
January 29, 2008 — 7:13 pm
That would be me. That would be I. I am moving into the basement.
My real estate broad turned up on Saturday and said, “you’re right! The floors do look like shit with the carpets removed! Let’s get a quote on having them refinished.”
Oh, let’s. The quote wasn’t so bad, actually. God knows how good a job they’ll do (“well, I can pretty much guarantee they won’t sand any divets in it!” REB said brightly). But it means the cats and I have to slink off and live in the basement for a week. On a mattress. On the floor.
It’ll be just like college! Only, with less dope. And eye makeup.
January 28, 2008 — 7:57 pm
Last step, while there’s an opening for machinery: hacking away the hedge that separates Badger House from the miles of sheep behind. I sort of liked the Secret Garden look it had surrounded on all four sides by high green walls, but the hedge at the back wasn’t appropriate (Leyland Cypress, a North American transplant) and the view is spectacular.
Wind seldom blows from that quarter, but it’s exceptionally bitter when it does. We’ll have to see what sort of windbreak we can get away with.
And so ends Shit Week on a bucolic note.
January 25, 2008 — 7:27 pm
This thing is a…poo…analyzing…device of some kind. Shit Week continues on sweasel.com. I didn’t start the week with the idea of abdicating the blog to Uncle B and his master plan of septic dominance. But, as it happens, his life was full of exciting shit-related construction, and mine was just…shit.
Yes, the Weasel Acres Project is experiencing mission creep, as my real estate person took a look at the newly uncovered hardwood floors and declared, “yes, you’re right…they look like shit. Shall we get an estimate on having them refinished?” Oh, yes let’s. In this, the worst real estate market since the woolly mammoth quit the Great Plains for the happy hunting ground, I want to spend a bit more money making my pathetic property holding look merely awful.
Eh. Shit computer. Take it away, B!
January 24, 2008 — 8:43 pm
Tractor porn, apparently.
See, yeah, I knew there was a lot of free-floating testosterone wafting around this blog. I just didn’t know so much of it belonged to the guys.
January 23, 2008 — 7:37 pm
He wasn’t supposed to dump our load there. He’s stuck. Blocking the main coast road.
January 22, 2008 — 7:51 pm
January 21, 2008 — 8:18 pm