I suppose Tic-Tacs are poison if you eat enough of them, but this stuff is made of cherry pits and thus has a bit of cyanide in it (as do most members of the rosaceae family — thenk yew Uncle B for this information). It’s supposed to deaden the nerves at the back of my throat and deliver me from the horrible, racking cough that’s been keeping me up nights for eight weeks now. Got it from a medical herbalist.
Yes, I did see a proper doctor first — with the diploma and the white coat and the cold listen-y tube and all. No fluid in my lungs, so she wasn’t impressed (which makes me wonder why I keep waking up making squeak-toy noises).
Eh. Sometimes, it’s just easier to buy hobbit medicine.
One of these days, I owe you a real post about the NHS. It isn’t nearly as bad as the Daily Mail tells you it is. It’s just not good enough for what it costs.
But not today. I’m still on holiday slowdown. If I don’t see you before Sunday — Happy New Year! Get really drunk and do something you regret!
December 30, 2011 — 11:19 pm
Oh, man…I don’t believe I forgot to tell you this story. It was damp on Christmas Eve, so I let the chickens into the kitchen while I made rolls. I threw a towel over an old chair, and they sat on it, burbling happily, while I kneaded dough.
And then one of them farted.
It wasn’t a prolonged, nuanced affair, but it was a definite blaart. And no, it wasn’t a poop that coincidentally made a noise. This is significant, because the topic has come up on this blog before. You’ll get over a million and a half returns on the Google query “do chickens fart?”
(My favorite is from Google Answers. The question was “Do chickens Fart? if so can you light the fart on fire?” And the answer voted #1 is “your father doesn’t beat you enough.”)
Anyhoo, the definitive answer is NO, chickens do not fart. The site Farting Chickens put the question to 22 professors and got a bunch of blah-blah-blah about incompletely digested carbohydrates and short colons and…well. No, they cried. Chickens do not fart!
Well, Poindexters, there were only the five of us in that room, and SOMEbody cut the cheese. Let rip. Played the butt trumpet. Fired a retro rocket. Popped a fluffy. Stepped on a duck. Baked an ass biscuit. Fill in your favorite euphemism.
I didn’t see who, but my money is on Mapp. She’s the Eric Cartman of chickens.
December 29, 2011 — 10:33 pm
It’s official. We’re all turkeyed out for the season.
Here’s Asbo, our outside cat, enjoying a well-deserved leftover. Poor old boy; it was so delicious, it frightened him. He was sure we were giving him the good stuff by mistake and he was going to have an old shoe pitched at him any minute.
Oh, must tell you a chicken story. This time of year — if I let them out at all — the girls put themselves to bed about four in the afternoon. Evening comes, they trundle off, hop up on the perch and I come out a few minutes later and lock everything up.
Well, two days ago, I looked out around 4:15, the two younger girls weren’t anywhere to be seen and the two older girls were milling around outside the hutch. They caught sight of me at the window and came running up, all excited.
So I shoo’d everybody into the run, where I found the two little girls sitting on the floor of the henhouse, miserable. Someone had managed to knock the wooden slat down and there was nowhere to perch. And so the big girls came to get me to fix it.
No shit. It was a total, “what’s that? Little Timmy fell down the well?” moment.
I’m telling you, those damn chickens are smarter than Lassie.
December 28, 2011 — 10:01 pm
Holy shit, have you dipped a toe in the papers since Christmas? I haven’t seen such a doomfest since my Great Aunt Ruth was alive (to the extent she was ever alive).
You know, Uncle B has this theory that everyone is holding it together by brute force until Christmas is over, at which point the whole global financial doo-dah will shriek, burst its corset and spontaneously combust. I’m putting that out there in case he’s right, so he gets the bragging rights (and if he’s wrong, we can all rag on him together).
We’ve got cash, canned goods and armed farmers for neighbors. We’re positioned about as well as anyone can be, comes the shitstorm.
Graphic nicked from The Telegraph, on account of I am doing my best to squeeze a whole week out of the Christmas spirit — which, to me, involves equal parts gluttony and sloth (with a soupçon of dipsomania).
December 27, 2011 — 11:07 pm
Uncle B got me a soft new seat cushion, a trackball mouse and three games (Witcher, Deus Ex and Skyrim). I think it’s pretty obvious: he never wants to speak to me again.
Oh, also some enticing bath products, because if I’m going to be a permanent piece of kinetic livingroom sculpture, probably best if I don’t stink too bad.
And this thing, which is one of those wacky plasma orb things. I have ALWAYS wanted one of these, but could never justify buying it. Only, this one’s USB powered! w00t! (I really, really miss being a stoner).
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m sure there’s something I have to…kill or…drink…or rescue from ghouls. Or something.
December 26, 2011 — 11:33 pm
Midnight in Old Blighty. Uncle B wanted to wish you all a Merry Christmas, but he felt funny doing it in the Dead Pool thread.
So I made him this here post.
December 25, 2011 — 12:22 am
Mrs Peel wins it with Kim Jong-il, meaning she has won the Dead Pool twice in a row. This makes Mrs P the kindest, most intelligent, attractive, all-around-terrific blog commenter this weasel has ever had. If she wants any of my stuff, she has but to say the word.
Right! Hit it, Mister Claus:
0. Rule Zero (AKA Steve’s Rule): your pick has to be living when picked. Also, nobody whose execution date is circled on the calendar.
1. Pick a celebrity. Any celebrity — though I reserve the right to nix picks I never heard of (I don’t generally follow the Dead Pool threads carefully, so if you’re unsure of your pick, call it to my attention).
2. We start from scratch every time. No matter who you had last time, or who you may have called between rounds, you have to turn up on this very thread and stake your claim.
3. Poaching and other dirty tricks positively encouraged.
4. Your first choice sticks. Don’t just blurt something out, m’kay?
5. It’s up to you to search the thread and make sure your choice is unique. I’m waayyyy too lazy to catch the dupes. Popular picks go fast.
6. The pool stays open until somebody on the list dies. Feel free to jump in any time. Noobs, strangers, drive-bys and one-comment-wonders — all are welcome.
7. If you want your fabulous prize, you have to entrust me with a mailing address. If you don’t want the fabulous prize, you’re too smart to be a regular. It takes me forever to put them in the mail, packages go by slow boat, typically take minimum eight to ten weeks and lose the will to live along the way.
8. The new DeadPool will begin 6pm WBT (Weasel’s Blog Time) the Friday after the last round is concluded.
What do we want? Aunty’s dick! When do we want it? When somebody on the list dies!
December 23, 2011 — 6:00 pm
This old snapshot is Kim Jong-il and Kim Jong-un, having what probably passes for fun in a psycho dictator family. Geez, talk about your awkward family photos.
Right. I’m going to queue up the Dead Pool to autopost for tomorrow. Which means — I’ll see you on Boxing Day! Have a fan-fucking-tabulous Christmas, everyone!
Except that Tiny Tim guy. He really pisses me off.
December 22, 2011 — 10:33 pm
Uncle B says, “what are you going to post about tonight?” And I’m, like, “pff! I dunno. I’ve posted Kim Jong-il twice. Maybe I’ll just make it Kim Jong-il Week!”
So there you have it. That’s where posts come from.
It’s the Holidays. I’m going to be a complete waste of skin from now until after the New Year.
That’s my solemn promise to you.
December 21, 2011 — 10:44 pm
Aw, did you see this? Dear Leader may not get the waxwork embalming treatment. Apparently, it costs about $300,000 to fly in the Soviets for the full plastination dealio, so they might bury him like a common mortal. The Norks are a bit skint at the moment.
Oh, but hey — good news! I got to use the Photoshop “plastic wrap” filter for the first (and undoubtedly last) time.
Speaking of Photoshop, Adobe is turning the crank something fierce. For several years now, they’ve been overpricing individual software products (~$600 each), hoping to force users into “suites” of programs (to the tune of about $1,500 a suite).
Now, they’ve changed their upgrade policy, just in time for Christmas. Used to be, you were allowed to upgrade at a discount for three releases. Now, they’ve announced you have to buy every release or fall off the upgrade ladder. Because what they’re really trying to do is get everyone on a subscription, so we pay every month for the privilege of using their software.
However you slice it, it’ll be a steady $600 a year or so to have the latest and greatest Photoshop. Weasel, out
December 20, 2011 — 9:45 pm