Can’t. Help. Myself.
You’d think on a weekend I’m trying to rehabilitate myself, I could give it a rest. But that would totally misapprehend the concept of “weasel.”
Oh. Ohhhhhh. I just discovered the spot where cool air from the fan shoots straight up my shirt sleeve. Excuse me, please.
July 18, 2008 — 6:37 pm
Comments: 23
Officially: worse than Hitler!
DAMN it! If you noticed the marked absence of Weasel today, it’s because I made the Internet Naughty List.
I thought it was just my local IT department noticing the suspicious stream of traffic going to one small weblog, but Enas says sweasel.com is blocked for him, too. The reason given him was “tasteless” — which, you know, I’d happily cop to if it weren’t for all the egregiously tastlesser stuff out there that isn’t on the list. Like, the whole rest of the Internet, not counting porn, guns and neo-Nazi sites. And I’m not positive about neo-Nazi sites.
Anybody know who I appeal to? Obviously, I can’t make inquiries at work — this would be an especially bad time to get my silky sable ass fired — but somebody somewhere must know how to work out what list your company is using.
If they think I’m going to knuckle under and do my job or some shit, they don’t know the meaning of “weasel.”
July 17, 2008 — 3:56 pm
Comments: 42
How the hell did I get on THIS mailing list?
Goddamn it! I am not fat!
Okay, maybe I’m not as svelte as I was in art school, when I lived on coffee and broken dreams, but I sure as hell don’t be needing no double-wide toilets or extra sturdy waterproof furniture so I can sit down in the shower.
I guess I have to admire the entrepreneurial spirit; this is surely a catalog whose time has come. The headline promises, “unique, innovative products for tall and plus-sized men and women” but I don’t see a whole lot of tall guys up in here.
I think it’s safe to say if you have to turn to a specialist catalog to find an apron of sufficient hugeness to encompass your personal bodymass, you don’t need to be in the kitchen.
Note that the sand chair pictured on the cover is rated to 650 pounds. Heh. That metal tubing might be up to it, but I’m guessing if you flump a third of a ton on an itty-bitty surface area on the sand, your fat ass is going to be sitting flat on the beach, pronto.
Okay, okay. I quit. Apologies to plus-sized minions. Shop online at LivingXL.com
I wonder how many of those high-capacity bicycles they sell?
July 16, 2008 — 9:03 am
Comments: 85
Doctor’s orders
I just gave blood, so I’m not supposed to do anything strenuous. Like think. Or post something interesting.
I always give blood when they phone me up. You give somebody money, you don’t know where the hell it goes. Give them blood? There’s pretty much one thing they can do with it. (Plus, I love giving Uncle B the coffee mugs with the big RIBC drop o’ blood logo on the side).
The difference between the ones that call and ask and the ones that screen you when you get there is shocking. The phone ladies are all, like, “pleaseohpleaseohpleeeeeease give us some blood. You’ll be a hero to adorable big-eyed puppies everywhere!”
And the screener ladies are like, “So, Miz Weasel, are you a dirty, filthy whore? Because you look like a dirty, filthy whore. Yeah, you give sex for money, right? You shoot up? You’ve snuck off to Cameroon again, haven’t you?” I understand the need to keep bad things out of the blood supply, but if I were having sex in exchange for drugs, I’d like to think I’d have the decency to lie about it.
My favorite question is the one about whether you have ever once had sex with a man who has ever once had sex with another man. How the hell would I know? I mean, technically.
A couple of times I’ve been turned away — high blood pressure, stuff like that. They always act like I tried to put one over on them. “So! Tried to sneak some of your filthy whore blood past us, eh?”
Just once, I’d like the phone ladies and the blood ladies to trade places. Sure, the phone ladies would probably poke me full of holes and leave me soaked in my own gore, but I’d feel so good about it.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to lie around and eat things. Doctor’s orders.
July 15, 2008 — 4:45 pm
Comments: 31
I wanna get reincarnated at this lab
The University of Utah has a pretty neat site called learn.genetics, which breaks complicated ideas down into moron-sized bites using podcasts and colorful Flash animations. I love the internet.
I particularly recommend the module on addiction. There you can explore drugs of abuse and examine a variety of stoned mice without having to cut them up or anything.
I don’t mean to ruin the suspense or nothing, but it seems to me from cursory examination that all high-inducing substances work by fiddling your dopamine somehow (except LSD, which works via leathery, batwinged, brain-squeezin’ imps). I guess they feel different because they do kind of the same thing in different areas of the brain.
And if you read it all the way through, you’ll find neat tips for making your highs higher and more long-lasting.
I feel sure.
July 14, 2008 — 2:49 pm
Comments: 12
Good children never put stoats up their nose
I got up this morning and cleaned the fridge. Spontaneously. I think I might be ill.
July 12, 2008 — 10:22 am
Comments: 41
Eva Braun’s nightdress
I find the weirdest stuff doing Google Images searches (though why I was doing a search for ‘nightdress’ I’ll never tell). This one is indeed Eva Braun’s — and, yes, it is embroidered all over with tiny swastikas. No shit.
It’s from a year old article in the Daily Mail about one particularly eccentric British family and their collection of stuff. I recommend it (really. It’s pretty funny).
I hate myself for reading the Mail, but I read it anyway. The Telegraph was once my favorite newspaper, but they’ve slid inexorably toward “lifestyle” pieces and the British equivalent of political RINOism. It’s so boring.
The Mail is impossibly low-rent, but at least they still get pissed off about things. Not always the right amount of pissed off at the right things, maybe, but I’ll take what I can get. Even if I have to go past baby bumps, trout pouts and ‘what’s that up Amy Winehouse’s nose today?’ to get there.
July 11, 2008 — 1:46 pm
Comments: 18
Dude, my cat is SO HIGH
My cat is as high as a elephant’s eye. I read an article on animal pain management the other day that said opiates are still the best choice, so I’m guessing they filled her right up with smack. Her pupils were the size of dinnerplates; almost no green showing at all (I got a nice shot of this, but my SD card burped and mangled it). Yep. A Gig kitty of my very own, at last.
It’s always fun to see Charlotte act goofy. She was three months old, feral and starved nigh unto death when I trapped her with a squirrel trap baited with tuna. By the time she was strong enough to play, she was too old to learn how. I’d dangle a string in front of her, and she’d squint up at me solemnly, like, “yeah. It’s a string. Did you want something, lady?”
Now she got de rubberleg and a tongue that won’t stay in her mouth. Her pupils are back down to usual size this morning, but she’s still teh stoned. She gets a dose in her Friskies for three days, so I got liquid kitteh to play with for a while.
July 10, 2008 — 8:31 am
Comments: 47
With a name like Indignico, it has to be unseemly
Let’s see — where were we?
Indignico, Inc — the people behind velvetpaintings.com — bringing you output of the finest Velvet Elvis painters of Tijuana.
Each original custom velvet painting was painted entirely by hand in Tijuana, Mexico by a professional Mexican velvet Elvis artist for Indignico Inc. And each one was commissioned by average ordinary everyday people from the internet–just like you–who thought it would be worth between $250 and $1250 to have their idea envelvetized by a genuine, authentic, professional Mexican Velvet Elvis Artist with the kind and nurturing guidance of a trained Curator-Of-Sales from Indignico Inc.
Indignico Inc. is just the sort of All-American American company who will stop at absolutely nothing to smuggle–over the border and into your lives–just a little bit more All-American American Quality. . .
Yeah, they’re taking the mickey. But they’re also serious: they’ve got a permanent eBay store and they take commissions. For $250, you can have any ol’ thing you like immortalized in acrylic on velour.
For some reason, they have a particular obsession with envelvetizing Republicans. I mean Lincoln, Reagan…sure. I guess. But who’d fork over a couple of hundred bucks for a velvet Karl Rove or annoyed Jack Abramoff?
I get the snark. I just don’t get the point of the snark. Seems like a lot to pay for a big, ugly punchline.
Thanks to Muslihoon, who asked what was so darned funny about velvet paintings when the topic came up. Poor Musli…it probably makes less sense now than it did before.
July 9, 2008 — 6:00 am
Comments: 28
…a popular blogger who goes by the name Weasel…
Jonathan Kay (said blogger) has a long post praising Hitchens for his courage. I’m a footnote (a footnote! You hear that, Ma?). He says of my remarks:
The logic here is faulty: Hitchens agreed to waterboarding because he knew that he could end the experience at any time — and that he was not truly in the grasp of interrogators seeking to terrorize him into a confession. To cite his willingness to try the experience as evidence that waterboarding isn’t torture is spurious. It is also a study in circular reasoning: By this logic, no interrogation technique can be shown to be torture by a journalistic investigator — since the very act of investigation is taken as proof against torture.
But my logic isn’t faulty, Jonathan. That’s exactly what I’m saying: no technique that a journalist endures right the way through for mere journalistic purposes can be classed as torture. Certainly not if he takes seconds.
Look, if we live long enough, all of us have experiences that are torturously painful: an accident; a terrible medical procedure; the death of someone we love. We all know what torture is because everybody gets a taste. Torture is that thing nobody would take if they didn’t have to.
If somebody’s life depended on it? Yes…if you’re strong enough. To write an article about “dear me, how horrible that was”? Nuh-uh. No way. The very fact that he didn’t puss out kills his argument.
Weasel’s new-and-improved, succinct definition: torture is that which
is so awful, you’ll make it stop if you think you can. Hitchens had
an easy out and he didn’t take it. Is that any clearer?
July 8, 2008 — 5:49 pm
Comments: 24