sweasel.com

For the life of me, I cannot figure out why Her Grace is displeased with the circumstances. Inebriation was had, the pharmacological remediation is soon to follow, sharp incisors rendered the soft steak… I dream about days like this.
48 and plenty of fire percolating in the Magic Polecat.

Heh. They got wifi here, so I’ve got goof-offness between shoots. Also, free food! The put out a spread morning and afternoon in open break areas.

I used to work in this building. I lost ten pounds when I left.

HaPpY BiRThDaY DEAR WEASEL! Happy Birthday to YOU!

My best birthday was my 25th. I had been dreading its approach for months. I had this feeling that, at 25, it would be time to grow up and become a responsibile citizen. At that point in my life, I was single and my sole possessions were a seriously kick-ass stereo system and a Kawasaki 750 motorcycle. I was living the live-fast, die-young-and-leave-a-beautiful-corpse life in Tokyo at the time: The Big Yellow Apple.

But, 25 is time to grow up. I mean, “When I was a child, I played with childish toys. When I became a man, I put my childish ways behind me and acted like a man”. Right?

Then, on the eve of my 25th birthday 3 of my friends came over with a bottle of whiskey and other delights, and around midnight I found myself racing another bike though Tokyo at over 100 MPH, drunk. Later we hid out behind a Skylark (Japanese Denny’s) while the police looked for us. It was a delightful evening.

The next morning, home, safe, and sober, I realized that anyone who would do such things was so far from mature, that there was no point in pretending that I was ready to get serious and grow up. I smiled all day. I knew I had at least another year to play, like the grasshopper I am was when I was young.

Of course, at 27, I got married and we bought a washer and dryer. Those material possessions have weighed like anchors on me ever since…(the marriage is still nice, though 🙂 )

Anyhow, THAT was a birthday!

Welp. I’m off-camera for the moment. Yep, I blurted out a spontaneous off-color remark on tape already. They might leave it in. I’m guessing when boss-lady sees it, they’ll go with the expurgated version.

Did you say it in an English accent? You might get away with it with an English accent.

And I like the wavy stem on your glass.

Oh, what English goodness! Noreen and Harry Hutton both have new posts up! Today’s a good day!

And check out the English Deogolwulf if you want something serious.

Thanks for taking me out of the Spam Bin.

For your amusement, on my British daily trivia calendar, the anniversary for May 8 was:

John S. Pemberton’s new headache remedy, Coca-Cola, went on sale for the first time in Atlanta, Georgia (1886)

Feexed. I have to type quietly because the camera is rolling.

No, my regular increasingly stupid accent. Can you imagine what the Tennessee/Rhode Island/England blend sounds like? I’ve tried hard to hold onto a neutral mid-West American white-bread Weather Lady accent, but it’s not working out so well.

Be sure to refer to yourself (in the third person) as “the talent”. Corporate video directors love that shit.

We actually has a talent. The professional actors who work in corporate video are a hoot. They behave like real actors, only smaller.

It’s a fake gameshow, a corporate version of Hollywood Squares. He’s the MC. I’m a contestant. They won’t give me the right answers ahead of time. We have to retake until I get it 🙁

I’ll take Weasel….for the win!

Is Hollywood Squares the game that had “Dumb Dora was so dumb…”?

We watch the Gameshow Network extensively at home. I like the reruns (of shows from the 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, and 90s) the best. Oh, so fun!

From a site that talked about the origins of Dumb Dora:

So there was this blonde who just got sick and tired of hearing dumb blonde jokes. So one evening she went home and memorized all the state capitals. Back in the office the next day, some guy starts telling a dumb blonde joke. She interrupts: “I’ve had it up to HERE with these dumb blonde jokes. I want you to know that THIS blonde went home last night and did something probably none of you could do: I memorized all the state capitals!” So one of the guys says, “Oh yeah? What’s the capital of Wyoming?” “W,” she answers.

That’s weird…. sumthin turns my 4th . into a , !

…

….

…..

So my eyes came out two radically different sizes, like Moron Billy made flesh.

LOL Poor weasel.
We want to see it.
The last couple of times I got my license pic taken, the nice older lady will wait until you get your face ready and then will count to 3 before clicking.

It’s impossible to get a good driver’s license photo. Mine got smushed a little when the lady pulled the film out of the camera so I have a goofy, grinch-like grin on my face. A few years back while going through airport security, one TSA gal actually bust out laughing at it. She didn’t even apologize. 🙁

I second pnb! You can blur out the rest of your card and even make it look like you’re wearing a digital burka if you prefer… 🙂

C’mon, this is the high point of my day – here at work with a migraine, again.

Keep at her, LK!

We have her hands – one, anyway – from the photo of her holding a .357Mag revolver, we have her feet from the Thanksgiving (xmas?) England Badger-House photos, and her shoes from a photo of her workstation at work, and we have a blurred partial torso from her house painting photos. That’s all I remember.

Eventually – like Dr. Frankenstein – we will piece her together!

Heh, good luck piecing together the shape-shifting Weaselette. Nobody put more effort into it than I did and what do I have to show? a left-over clump of scented fur and half a dustbunny.

Weasels do not yield to coercion. Try bait doused with ethanol, and above all, be exceedingly warm, still and polite. Once a year the fleeting flash of movement and a partial on the sand is the best what one can hope for.

At which time, Steamboat, she’ll go on a confused rampage and try to kill us all. We’ll have to put her down.

Now, you wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?

Hulkweasel scares me.

I just want some eye-age. Is that too much to ask? Just a pair of hung-over, bad-driver’s-license, moron-blogger eyes.

Pweeeeeeeese?

Now you got me thinking, McGoo. What about “FrankenWeasel”?

See, we are giving her all sorts of photoshop ideas
– Frankenweasels
– piecing together the few bits we glimpsed
– hung-over moron-blogger eye-age
– shape-shifting weaselettes
– left-over clump of ‘scented’ fur

The least she can do is oblige. If not now, then when she gets hitched to the Badger. I love me some ‘hitchin’ photos.
/yes we’re nosey

I wouldn’t push Weasey too far on the photograph, dear minions. You never know what she will reveal of herself, not being held hostage to contemporary morality or sober society.

*whistles innocently*

Oooh, I like shape-shifting, but the twist should be that the weasel can only shape-shift into kitchen appliances.

and her shoes from a photo of her workstation at work

Wait just a minute!

I thought she admitted to cheating with the shoes, and leaving me in gender confusion!

Holy sheep shit! You’re right, EW!
Now I remember!
Those were fake shoes at her desk! It was a ploy to hide her genderosity!
Faux tennies!
Ersatz toe-muffs!
Fraudulent sock covers!

It’s hopeless, folks. M’lady Weasel is too slick for any of us: She knew waaaay back then that she’s need to set a false trail. Even Mycroft Holmes would throw up his pudgy paws in despair.

Plans within plans within plans…

But remember: “oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”

yeah, LK, but notice it’s only when FIRST. She’s been at it quite a while so I figure she’s got it down pat by now.

I’m not takin’ her on: I don’t want to end up like certain runnybabbits I’ve heard about.

Ew. (as in yuck)

Hey! Those were somebody else’s sneakers, and I did pick them because they were less apparently feminine than mine, but the picture I stole them from a woman was wearing them. Somehow, I felt less like a lying sack of shit that way. Don’t ask. It’s how weasels do integrity.

I had to drive into Boston to my old office this morning. I’d forgotten how funny that commute could be. I got behind somebody who apparently had all his worldly possessions roped to the roof of his car. At the very top was an office chair, strapped on upside down. The swivel base was twirling like a propeller beanie. Thusly:

Sorry about the picture. It was trafficky and he was going like a bat out of hell.

Was the bicycle wheel spinning, too, or was something interfering with its free motion? Bicycle wheels and those trailer-hitch propeller thingys just entertain the snot out of me.

And shiny things.

Hmmph…avoidance of the topic of showing us your Billy the MOron eyes is duly noted and filed.

Oh, yeah, RIGHT. I’m going to take the most unflattering part of the most unflattering photo I’ve had taken in years and post it on the internet.

I may look like a moron, but I’m not dumb enough to do THAT.

Party pooper. Taker of fun-making. Guess we will have to target someone else.

*looks around for that Gregory guy…oh wait..there’s McGoo…*

Don’t worry about me, as I lie here, silently weeping. I (sniff) guess I can live without the only picture that might bring a smile to my eyes today.

You may not be dumb enough to post it, but I’m dumb enough to ask for and grovel for it. 🙂

I may look like a moron, but I’m not dumb enough to do THAT.

Anonymity makes the heart grow fonder, or some shit.

Happy Birthday Weasel!

Dumb Dora is from Match Game, by the way.

Happy birthday, Weasel!

I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours. (Driver’s license photo, of course. What were you pervs thinking?)

Many happy returns, dear Weaselness.

If we get blown away in tonight’s storm, I always loved you.

True.

Happy birthday, and many many more.

As for the DL picture–I always say, remember that essentially it’s a picture taken by cops, and the pictures cops have most experience of are mug shots, so why would you expect a DL picture to come out looking like something that’s not a mug shot.

Ironically, my most recent DL shot is a very good picture, so I can’t use that line any more.

And remember that you will undoubtedly get to ditch this one when you translate yourself to England.

The silly Britishers have the temerity to gripe that the gray Sciurus Americanus replaced their wimpy redhaired and buck-toothed Squirrellus Britannicus. Hey! old blighty red-coated fleeing poofters in dire need of dental repairs! we the hospitable and all-too-patient Americans have taken 150 years of your English sparrow infestation without so much as a shrug.
If the SWeasel uproots and moves to Old Dart, I’d wager two shilling, one guinea and a grote that the local wenches will be found resting quietly, pale and withered as if asleep… only exsanguinated by a neck incision.
If there was some Unca Badger previous sniffery, I almost feel sorry for them.
Volunteers, re-colonize the monarchic skansen of Zoo-rope/Eurabia while we still can converse with the Brit-o-bats. It shall not be for long, Wellie oulde chap, I should fear.
That once proud nation, only 3 generations prior putting up some heart-warming scrap for survival now decides to bleat meekly before turning into some halal chunks with a burning tire around the neck.
Go Weasel, Go! we will hold the Fortress America through the superb training, steady marksmanship, overwhelming resources and resolute will to stomp. Show the Nigels and Cyrils what it is to be a free citizen, they abhor that, poor constitutionless subjects dwelling on QE2’s property while paying her exorbitant rent.
But I digress. If you are still on the circular (instead of linear) calendar, it is the exact anniversary of the SWeasel. Respect is given, sixth amber glass raised and clinked, while Toto plays “English Eyes”.
“There’s nothing in it if a weasel with eyes like you”

Stig, the American

Weaz – I think Stig is sweet on you!

Happy birthday, Weaz! Did I wish you that before? oh, well. I probably will again, too.

*How ’bout you posting a photo of the good eye?*

Stig’s impressive collection of martial soundtracks blares through Bang & Olufsen while the significant whereabouts of missing volume of Blanton’s are somewhat investigated. The option of switching to reserve tanks of Pappy Van Winkle are seriously considered…. and accepted.
Meanwhile, Stig shucks the surgically clean straight pull bolt of low-numbered Blaser RG93 in 6.5×55 LH while lovingly patting the Schmidt & Bender’s Zenith with illuminated reticle. “my sweet peace sign”.

Stoaty, faretheewell to Dunny-on-the-Wold, a tuppenny-ha’penny place. Half an acre of sodden marshland in the Suffolk Fens with an empty town hall on it. Population: three rather mangy cows, a dachshund named `Colin’, and a small hen in her late forties.

Remember this… the silly Ruperts who believe in safety through defenselessness secretly envy us and when nobody looks, they practice!!
youtube.com/watch?v=mQOQWAKnB1Q&feature=related

Heh. Poofter. What exactly is that before I start saying it on a regular basis? Does it have to do with butt pirates?

Stig, I don’t know how long we could hold down the fort when we have a bunch of poofters selling it out under us and making our overwhelming resources unavailable. See, we can’t become oil independent because those foreign campaign donations comes in handy.

Like I’m gonna pop up and let you have your wicked way with me, pnb.

Heh. Your nick, now that I’m reminded, reminds me of that stupid show “There’s Something About Miriam”. You can see them *frank* ‘n’ beans under that thar skirt. (Actually, it was during the Aussie Big Brother 2004 that this phrase was used, as none of the guys figured it out on the original show)

Anyways, back to work-and-lurk-mode for me.

True story: my parents were entertaining a British friend of a friend one evening and showing her around town, and she asked to go somewhere to look at the poofters. I think she actually said poufs, but same thing.

I just realized that this story has no meaning unless you know Houston well enough to understand why, once my parents figured out what a “pouf” was, they immediately took the girl to House of Pies.

Let’s just say that that restaurant isn’t nicknamed “House of Guys” without reason.

yeah – I always thought “pouf” or “poofter” was the same as Nebula Boy.

You know, sometimes a thread just wanders off where no insane person ought to lead or follow.

It’s like a dream, say it’s name and it appears -like Beetlejuice. Who needs hallucinogens when you have the innertubes.

*frank n beans, frank n beans*

Oh but Gregory, how you tempt me so.

The words ‘poof’ and ‘poofter’ are more something of my grandfather’s generation. My generation is more partial to the euphemism ‘BBC employee’.
But it’s true – we still wake up each morning and lament the loss (through outbreeding) of our beautiful (possibly lazy-spermed) Red Squirrels, and shed a tear as we gaze upon those cocky American Grey Squirrels sat on our lawns arrogantly chewing their nuts before stopping, locking eyes with us and then shouting ‘Wadda you lookin’ at you Limey fuck?’ and then doing that little ‘chin flick’ gesture.
I tell you, it’s enough to make you ‘harrumph’ and ‘I say!’ and for your monacle fall into your tea.

Mrs. Peel, it is funny that you mention pies and poofters in one place. Several times a year, a group of friends and fellow ‘collectors’ converge on a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. There is a small bakery/diner in the center of town, very well known for it’s pies and cakes, that teh gheys within our group love to hang out in because of it’s tea party ambiance. One in particular has since been able to duplicate the recipe of two of their cakes. His clone of their Hummingbird cake is to die for.

Yield not to temptation,
for yielding is fun…

What!?

That’s NOT how it goes??

Ooops.

Well, it should be.

Muslihoon:

Thanks too much for the link to Emerald Bile. I am now officially in love with Noreen. My wife will be so happy.

Oh, and Sappy Mirfbay, Weaz!

Every license I’ve had depicts me as looking incredibly arch (I’m 6’2″ and the DMV cameras everywhere appear to be permanently situated to photograph the faces of, um, Little People).

I’ve discovered, however, that there are worse ways to be depicted; I shaved off my mustache once for work (don’t ask) and the resulting license photo made me look like an assassin. My face is naturally cold & merciless; I now wear a mustache again, so as not to appear as though I always breakfast on kittens.

“The *IT* you’re referring to is a human being beairng XY chomosomes.”

So. Try using the pronoun ‘he’, pnb, if you don’t mind kindly.

And I didn’t start the whole poofter conversation 🙂 Can’t pin this one on me this time around…