A bit of graphical silliness to end the week. Have a good weekend, everyone!
July 31, 2009 — 5:39 pm
Case in point: the leech (seen here struttin’ at yet another village fête).
We have a sort of moat-slash-drainage ditch out the back that may or may not have leeches in. Exciting leeches. Leeches that would guarantee a raftload of excitable government leechophiles descend on us like a ton of unwashed hippie.
You know what else the prospect of leeches in our ditch guarantees? That I personally never, ever, ever, ever, EVER set foot in that fucking ditch.
So help me, that one scene in African Queen. With the leeches.
July 30, 2009 — 6:10 pm
This’ll be short and lame. Had a convivial — but tiring — evening with several of the neighbors. We walked the fields of a local farmer’s land (got thoroughly rainèd upon) and then repaired to his house for food and drink. Oh, I say!
One of the features of his farm is a raised square-ish area, about a hundred feet on a side. Archeologists have told him, based on local history, it’s probably something from the 12th Century, but they’re not sure what. He’s not allowed to dig into it to find out.
Huh. One ancient house we looked to buy “probably” has a smugglers’ tunnel connecting it to the ancient inn across the street. But we wouldn’t have been allowed to dig for it. And there’s this whole town nearby where the terms of sale say you aren’t allowed to dig in your own back garden any deeper than a foot or so, because you’d almost certainly hit Roman ruins.
Folks, if it were me? I’d be out there with a flashlight and a teaspoon before you could say curiosity sent the weasel to prison. Who’s with me?
July 29, 2009 — 6:41 pm
It’s the funniest things that throw you, when you’re a immigrant. Like pickles. If you think pickles is pickles, then you, sir or madam, are a booboo.
My hankering for a big fat kosher dill ran into a brick wall of gustatory mixed metaphors when I bit into my first British pickle. I did not know the pickles I’m accustomed to are preserved in garlicky brine with just a soupçon of vinegar. British ones? 100% vinegar. Looks like a pickle, tastes like what the fuck??
Hence, Uncle B very kindly grew me some gherkins for pickling. So, ummmm…any gardeners out there grown gherkins? Google was no help at all. Do they turn orange when they’re overripe? Like Ticonderoga pencil orange? Like, line-down-the-middle-of-the-highway orange? Because I plucked a mutant off the vine this afternoon that looked like a knobbly safety vest.
I ate it, of course. I cut it up with a couple of the ordinary green kind some herbs and junk from the garden, and I made soup. And very tasty it was, too. I feel okay so far.
Only, my farts could strip wallpaper.
July 28, 2009 — 5:55 pm
These poor girls haven’t fallen down or anything. This is a deliberate part of their baton-twirling routine, thenkyewverymuch. It was the worst exhibition of twirling expertise I have seen since…ummm…the one before it.
Yep, it’s the village fête season! Do we have a similar phenomenon in the States? In the Midwest, perhaps? I don’t know.
I remember we had a state fair in Tennessee, which was a big ol’ 4H-meets-midway-carny kind o’ thing. Seems like every year, they announced on the news that somebody had found a black widow in the bathroom. I got lost at that fair one year, when I was five. That was fun.
Then there was the Fiddlers’ Jamboree in Smithville, which was a musical cornpone county fair sort of dealie.
But here, pretty much every village around picks a Saturday in Summertime and holds itself a little fair, in varying degrees of size and lameness. They’re built around stalls selling baked goods and used books and knick-knacks. Local charities are usually represented. There are a few rides, maybe. Perhaps some livestock or other beasties. The antique car people turn out to show off their handiwork. And then some kind of live performances; a band, performing animals. Twirlers. Lawnmower races.
There must be a dozen of them inside our usual roaming territory. Sadly, we can’t go to them all — they cluster on particular weekends.
I can only imagine what I’ve missed…
July 27, 2009 — 6:20 pm
A white cop will arrest a white man for being mouthy.
A black cop will arrest a white man for being mouthy.
A black cop will arrest a black man for being mouthy.
So it’s sure as shit not news when a white cop arrests a
black man for being mouthy.
July 24, 2009 — 10:05 am
Spotted crossing a supermarket parking lot. I think I made a puddle.
The Mail has a bunch of neat examples of this principle applied to garage doors.
Want! But it doesn’t really go with the whole “Tudor farmhouse” thing.
July 23, 2009 — 7:17 pm
A nature-lover has been coined the ‘The Badgerman’ after a badger sett accepted him into their community.
Huh. Secretive my ass. One jam sammich and he’s anybody’s. What made this article worth reading was this:
His most moving moment in 30 years of studying the badgers was seeing a sow bury one of her young cubs.
Gareth said: ‘It was a sight I will never forget. The baby badger had broken its leg and managed to get back to the set. A few days later other members of the badger family began digging a hole a short distance away. Then I watched the mother badger come out of the set with her dead baby in her jaws. She carried it to the hole and then the others covered it with soil.’
‘The badgers never went near that area again – it was like consecrated ground to them.’
Now, I’m not absolutely 100% sure I believe this story, but there’s no question animals sometimes have a meaningful concept of death. And not just, “ZOMG! That thing that used to be Bob smells like Friskies — let’s eat it!”
I’ve read that a cat will stop looking for a dead companion if you show him the body. And I’m sure I’ve posted this story before — one of the eeriest things I’ve ever seen was a cat, early one morning, standing in the driving rain with water drizzling off her whiskers, staring into the grass of my neighbor’s lawn. She backed off, very slowly, when I came toward her (she’s the neighborhood cat I’m sure was Charlotte’s mom and she never let me near her). She’d been standing over the dead body of a great big dead ginger tomcat. Probably hit by a car, but there was not a mark on him (including bite marks — I did wonder).
Well, it’s all very strange. Let’s drink!
July 22, 2009 — 7:02 pm
Couldn’t let yesterday’s anniversary pass unblogged. I think the Onion captured the wondrous spirit of that first moon landing better than I could hope to:
Man Walks On Fucking Moon
July 21, 1969—The distant, lonely, mysterious satellite that has fascinated mankind since the dawn of time is distant and lonely no more. At 4:17 p.m. on July 20, 1969, astronauts Neil Armstrong and Edwin E. Aldrin Jr. touched down on the Sea of Tranquility in the lunar module Eagle and radioed back to Earth the historic report: “Jesus fucking Christ, Houston. We’re on the fucking moon.”
Yeah. It felt exactly like that.
The latest version of Google Earth includes the moon, with all kinds of special features, hi-res and video clips relating to the Apollo missions. If you love the fucking moon as much as I do, I totally recommend it.
I remember watching the landing with my dad, who also completely loved the fucking moon. I was nine. He let out a breath and said, “by the time you’re in your twenties, you’ll vacation up there.” I am still inexpressibly pissed that he was wrong and we blew the whole species escaping into outer space thing.
On the other hand, I never guessed I’d have my own personal supercomputer that fits on a tv tray and lets me explore the fucking moon and demonstrate my potty mouth for strangers all over the world in realtime. So, you know, that’s pretty sweet.
July 21, 2009 — 7:02 pm
Hear ye, hear ye! The first ever sweasel.com celebrity deadpool shall now commence (seriously — right now! Nip into the comments and pick Ted Kennedy FAST).
Here be the rules:
- Everybody gets one pick. Just sing out in the comment section.
- Doesn’t have to be a politician; any famous (or infamous) person will do.
- What constitutes “famous” will be wholly and arbitrarily decided by moi, with an assist from Uncle B in the case of Englishpersons.
- Your pick has to be alive at the time of choosing (duh).
- When any chosen celebrity kicks der bukkit, the prize is awarded and we start again from scratch. (Unless the whole thing is a flop, in which case I’ll pretend it never happened).
- Anonymous submissions are fine; I can tell you apart by IP.
- If you want the fabulous prize, you have to send me a real mailing address. If you don’t want to do that (and who can blame you? I’ll probably turn up and ask to crash out on your couch), you can do it just for the bragging rights. And the delicious schadenfreude.
- There will be no handicapping for age or illness; weasels don’t do math. This is just a straight-up, who-goes-next kind of thang. If you pick somebody young and fit and that person dies, we’ll all move away from you on the Group W bench.
I so don’t care if you’re a regular or if I never see you again; I’d better have good response on this or me and all six of my regular readers will be sitting around for twenty years waiting for George Fucking Soros to shuffle off. Fucker.
Him. Not you.
Remember, it’s not necessarily a death wish. You can pick someone you like and admire, if you think he or she is likely to be pining for the fjords anytime soon. It’s all about getting your paws on this:
July 20, 2009 — 10:12 am