Do as I say and nobody gets hurt
Because dead cat blogging wasn’t enough to destroy my traffic completely, I’m going to talk about myself. Bugs ‘n’ Gas Gal (who is blogging again, at least a bit) has tagged me with a meme. And it goes a little something like this…
- Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
- Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
- Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
- Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
- Present an image of martial discord from whatever period or situation you’d like.
Hm. Rule #5 must be a milblog thing. How about the famous Roman Weasels, eh?
Numero Uno. I lived in a commune for a few years as a child. It was alternately a religious commune and a plain old hippie commune, depending on what flavor of nutcake was in charge at the time. This was right before I went to retarded school. As a result of my rich cultural experiences, I speak fluent fundie, hippie and retard.
Although, to be fair, learn one of those and the other two are pretty easy.
Nombre Dooce. I am deathly allergic to Brazil nuts. So why not move to the one country on the whole damn planet where people think Brazil nuts are even worth cracking? Also, I was in my twenties before I heard them called “Brazil nuts.”
Free. My great-grandfather was murdered in his bed in 1906. Somebody leaned in the screen door while he was napping and shot him dead. Everybody suspected one particular field hand — who afterwards married my great-grandmother. I didn’t know that last fact until recently. If I’d been a boy, they were going to name me Sam Houston Weasel after him.
Catarrh. Continuing our Texas theme, one of my forbears was a signer of the Declaration of Independence…of Texas. He had a long and bitter land dispute with Stephen Austin, which my ancestor won years after both were dead. If I’d been a boy, I’d want to be named Sterling Robertson Weasel, after him — only because “Sterling” is a dead cool name.
Cinco, cinco, cinco. I love fried Spam sammiches. With melted muenster. On a Portuguese bolo. With mayo and barbecue sauce. Please not to be asking me how I discovered this happy combination of gustatory delights.
Seece. By the time I came along, the novelty had worn off the whole “teach your child to tell time” thing for my parents, so I just had to imagine how a clock works. As a result, the clock in my head is a 24-hour clock with only one hand that runs counter-clockwise. And I still visualize time that way.
Also featured in my head: the numbers 1-20 look like piano keys (the white ones) running from left to right, but after 20 they turn and stack vertically in groups of 100. These “clump” into groups of a thousand, that clump into ten thousands and so on. Then from about 100,000 to a million, they run in vertical stacks of a million each, which clump into billions. Until you get to the huge numbers, which still look like piano keys, but drift ahead like stepping stones, with the terrifying and impossible black void of space falling away below them.
I am not good at math.
Sebben. Good lord! Who’d’ve thunk I could ever get tired of talking about myself? Number seven is…I secretly love these meme things for permission to indulge. But I secretly hate them because I’m too shy to tag forward, let alone seven people. I imagine the recipient thinking, “Dammit! Weasel! Meme!”
So if you’re in my blogroll and you’re struggling for blog fixin’s, consider yourself tagged. If I see a tagback, I’ll link you up for that awesome weaselanche.
Update: His Maj took the bait.
June 18, 2008 — 4:01 pm
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