Browsing the news tonight, I was struck by how much Debbie Wasserman Schultz resembles the goat from yesterday’s post (note: may have been slightly ‘shopped to emphasize goatiness). Ordinarily, I might feel bad that Debbie Wasserman Schultz looks like a goat, but she’s a really horrible person. So, actually, on the whole, I feel pretty good that Debbie Wasserman Schultz looks like a goat.
This afternoon, Uncle B and I were discussing a woman we know who has a really tragic case of resting bitchface. Also, she’s unpleasant. But we were debating whether she’s really unpleasant, or whether bitchface makes her seem unpleasant, or whether walking around with tragic bitchface has made her actually become unpleasant.
We’re philosophical like that.
So I told him the story of this guy I knew when I was a wee slip of a weasel. He was a good-looking guy, in a cute boy-next-door way. He was a little dim, with a sunny, outgoing personality. A pleasant guy to be around.
Then he smashed himself up in a car accident. They put him back together, but he totally looked like a thing that had been put back together. Hollow cheeks, mad staring eyes. In a word, creepy.
But did he really become creepy after that? He seemed to. Or was he the same sunny, happy guy in a creepy shell? Or did the stigma of living with a creepy face make him creepy? It’s so hard to see past basic biology.
Still, we have the whole weekend to figure it out.
February 20, 2015 — 9:23 pm
Year of the Goat, ladies and gentlemen. Though I’ve seen it described on some sites as the Year of the Sheep. I suspect that’s because sheep have better PR.
Sadly, it would appear that the Year of the Goat does not mean we get to head-butt and stink in 2015. Honestly, what is the point?
Did I ever tell y’all about the herd of fainting goats we had when I was small. Yes, it looks like I did.
February 19, 2015 — 10:35 pm
We did our weekly shop at Tesco this afternoon (we did our weekly shop, and unusually it was at Tesco. We don’t shop at Tesco weekly. We dasn’t like Tesco, nasty hobitssesss). They had a display of genu-wine Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
I come from deep in the heart of Krispy Kreme territory, you may recall. The appeal of our local KK was less the doughnuts than the fact it was the only thing open on 21st Avenue at two in the morning, and the whole back of the shop was glass. Doughnuts in various stages of doneness bobbled down conveyor belts being dunked, filled, baked, packaged and otherwise given birth to.
To the stoned, it was magic.
When I went to art school in Providence, I worked at a Dunkin’ Donuts for a couple of years. Which I liked very much. I like menial jobs, which probably doesn’t do me much credit. By and large, I preferred the doughnuts, too — except nothing really replaces a klassik Krispy Kreme glazed doughnut.
So, get this — the ones on display in the South of England today were (working from memory here) £1.40 ($2.24) for one, £4.20 ($6.72) for three and £8.80 ($14.08) for a dozen. Holy shit! I know my doughnut days are in the distant past, but is it just us? How the hell much does a box of doughnuts cost over there now?
Yes, I bought three. They were awesome.
February 18, 2015 — 9:33 pm
So there was this one day I had a terrible craving for pancakes. You know how it is. We went to a Little Chef (a better than average side-of-the-highway fast food chain) and I ordered some. Imagine my surprise when — expecting a big, fat stack of flapjacks, dripping with butter and syrup — placed before me was one thin crêpe, folded over, with a squeeze of lemon. A perfectly good crêpe, I have to say, but not what I meant, yo.
This is what Brits call a pancake. I’ve since seen them sold as fairground food at village fêtes — very large ones, cooked to order on portable griddles and topped with a variety of things. They’re nice. And when I want a stack of flapjacks, they’re dead easy to make.
Anyway, it’s Pancake Day AKA Shrove Tuesday. British Pancake Day traditions go back hundreds and hundreds of years, the main one being a footrace. Women (and sometimes men dressed as women — a thing British men will do at the drop of a chapeau) run with a pancake in a skillet. Sadly, they don’t have to flip the pancake the whole way, but they do have to give it a couple of turns.
There are also street football games some places. I get the impression street football games aren’t so much games with rules and winners and people keeping score as, just, a mob of people in the street kicking a ball around. Whatevs. I don’t do sprot.
Pancake Day is always a small surprise. I think of Britain as being so secular — and I think of Lent as being Catholic — but the CofE is closer to Catholicism than I’d realized, and they do have pancake ingredient displays in the supermarkets beforehand. No fasting tomorrow though.
Me? I’m having pizza tonight.
February 17, 2015 — 10:03 pm
That little boy looks hella jacked — and you would be too, if dad bought you a science kit with four (4!) different kinds of uranium ore, three (3!) separate radiation sources and a geiger counter, so you could chart the progress of your radioactive ass.
It’s American (of course it is), it was only available in 1951-2 and it cost $50, which was a lot of moolah. The one thing I can’t find — and I’ve looked up every article I could on this thing — is whether it was actually dangerous. I assume, not very.
It goes on display at the Ulster Museum next month, in an exhibition called Elements.
When I was a little girl, we had a chip of…radium, I guess. Something radioactive and glowy. One of the curiosities my grandfather collected. It was in a thick glass cylinder and I would often take it into the closet, close the door and hold it up to my eye for long, loving looks.
Which is why my right eye can see into Valhalla.
February 16, 2015 — 9:49 pm
Happy Friday the 13th! Alert readers may recall that sweasel.com went live on Valentine’s Day 2007, making tomorrow this blog’s eighth birthday.
Alas, Drew doesn’t get dick, but everybody gets a big, wet weasel smooch RIGHT! ON! THE! MOUTH! Thanks for being here. Have an awesome weekend!
p.s. Oh, yeah. Tomorrow’s our sixth wedding anniversary, too. Can you believe it?
February 13, 2015 — 9:51 pm
Hey, remember back when we were in school, when there was absolutely, positively only one species of human? I mean, not counting those hairy Neanderthals that we absolutely, positively didn’t have sex with?
Welp, thanks to modern genetic testing, we’re now up to twenty different species of hominin — that’s a monkeybeast genetically closer to modern humans than modern apes. Looks to me like they’re analyzing old specimens and finding one after the other is sufficiently different to warrant being called a new species.
Godnose where that’s going. Did the others die out? Did our direct ancestors kill them off? Did they interbreed until their genes were indistinguishable? Or do differences in modern humans persist somehow? Those questions are so potentially unacceptable to 2015 sensibilities that I don’t expect to hear clear answers any time soon.
Oh, and ummm…grandma definitely screwed a Neanderthal. Sorry.
Phun phact — do you have your ten foot pole ready to hand? — everybody on earth has some Neanderthal DNA, except sub-Saharan Africans. Even Australian aborigenes, who split off from (probably) Asia freakishly early. I’ve read from 2.5% to 4% of our DNA is caveman.
I had kind of fallen in love with the Neanderthals years ago, long before anyone admitted they were ancestors. I’m sure we’ve done them a great wrong. They wore clothes, used tools, expertly butchered large animals. Played music (flute music!). I mean, what are the chances of a manbeast that sophisticated developing in parallel and being unrelated to modern humans except through a distant ancestor?
But the fact that got to me — when they excavated some burials, they found a layer of pollen on top of Neanderthal skeletons. Meaning they buried their dead covered in flowers. That’s too awesome.
February 12, 2015 — 9:44 pm
I suppose you’ve seen the video of Boston Dynamics’ latest robot dog. The internet assures me it’s gone viral. Worth a watch if you haven’t.
This is the first version of that thing I’ve seen that is untethered from an external battery pack. The ones I’ve seen before, it’s connected by wires to some guy with a power source walking along beside it.
I won’t go so far as to call this deceptive, but I’d be willing to bet it can’t store enough power to go more than a…well, what? A minute? The data at the video says it weighs 160 pounds; that’s a hell of a wind-up toy.
That’s going to be the limiting factor on this — the enormous amount of power it will chew up, and the pitifully small amounts we can store in a reasonably-sized battery.
Anyway, watch the video. If the way that thing moves doesn’t give you nightmares, you’re dead to me.
February 11, 2015 — 10:02 pm
Okay, that was mean. She’s always been a slightly strange looking person, age has just added a subtle layer of WTF.
There’s a long article on Joni Mitchell in NY Mag this month, if’n you’re interested. I was a huge fan in my teens. Back when she wrote great love songs, not incomprehensible jazz boolshit.
The other day, I was trying to tell Uncle B about the freaky disease she’s got, and I couldn’t remember the name. It was in the article: Morgellons disease.
Have you heard of this thing? The Wikipedia article states flatly that it’s a delusion. Which surprises me, since Wikipedia is usually willing to equivocate on controversial topics — so perhaps it’s not so controversial any more.
I read about it years ago, when it first appeared (2002, per the article). Sufferers believe itchy little colored wires or fibers come poking out of their skin. They claim the fibers, when analyzed, are not vegetable nor animal nor mineral.
Doctors say Morgellons patients are round-the-bend bugshit animalcrackers.
If you ever want to spend an afternoon down the rabbit hole, have a Google at Morgellons. You can start with the Morgellons Research Foundation.
How come the clever ones are always crazy?
February 10, 2015 — 10:08 pm
We went to see 10cc in Canterbury Saturday night. Canterbury is a long old haul for us, but it’s a great place and we don’t go often enough.
Remember 10cc? I’m Not in Love…Rubber Bullets…The Things We Do For Love. They were big in the Seventies.
They still had one member from the very first configuration, two who had been with them since the early Seventies, and two who have played with the band for a decade. It was a tight, impressive performance in a good sized auditorium that was very nearly sold out. Mucho recommendo, if you’re in the UK during the rest of their tour.
I don’t know why I was shocked — possibly because I’m stupid and innumerate — but I was pretty much the youngest person in the room. Blue hair and walking sticks as far as the eye could see.
Funny thing about that. By the end of the performance, every old crock in the auditorium was upstanding, clapping, stamping and rocking out. I think that had a leeetle something to do with the beer and wine they were selling in the lobby. I saw convoys of oldsters slipping off for reinforcements.
Still, it warmed my heart to see them newfangled mechanical hips working out so well.
February 9, 2015 — 11:45 pm