sweasel.com

summer crucible
customer wants his modules
I am in such shit

no television
miracles in the offing
Weasel starts rollin’

fantasy weapon
from the ranks of minions
spastic bowel syndrome?

itchy piles will do
systemic lupus might, too
canned sardines won’t help

Weasel knuckles down
blood piss is not an option
gives the ass his stuff!

But…but…the Resteses post sat there – empty! – all morning! I couldn’t help it.

Ask NOT what Weasel
Can do for you but how
Weasel can avoid this shit

(with abject apologies to Samual Taylor Coleridge)

In Santa-Loo did ‘Goo The Damned
A shapeless dullness-dome obtain:
Where Yawn, the mindless genie, ran
Through intervals measureless to man.
The boredom! Oh, the pain.

So twice he journeyed out of town
In search of thought – and land most cheap
And there’ll be weather – most profound
That wiggles tyres – steering – buns?
and leather seat wedged ‘twixt his cheeks.

“Back next week!”, McGoo did babble
“I’m all packed up! I’m outa here”
“In Dallas first I”ll gently dabble”
“While car is fixed used books I’ll haggle
“And then to Austin – Spicewood – beer.

Weave a circle round ‘Goo thrice!
And close your eyes with holy dread!
For he on bakéd beans hath fed,
And peed in th’pool of paradise!

Okay, the scansion of that last line bites, but I’m from Porlock, so go screw, Sam!

Dang! How clever I might have seemed had I only said “put that in your pipe and smoke it” instead of “go screw”!

Oh! Mighty Muse on Weasel’s site
Has struck repeat’d – we do the dance
Ol’ Sage’s writing – we’ll r-write
Kennedy, scansion, paradise.
This poetry-boil – we’ll get it lanc’d.

There once was a man from Nantucket…..

Ah, to hell with it. You win, Steamboat!

new contender?

One beautiful Saturday morn,
Found Stoaty considerable torn,
“I’m sure in the mood
For a tramp in the wood,
But I bet those goddamn minions would write poetry in my comments section again if I did that.”

I was about to say the same thing, jw. It was a small museboil – quickly lanced. But then you wrote that Nantucket thing and I squeezed another bit out:

There once was a drunk from New Bedfid
Who confused me with Weasel and then said
“Ol’ Weasel, you’ll catch up –
“make daily the backup
“Or nightly you’ll crap in your bed!

Ok. I’m drawin’ blood now. All gone.

But look how nicely we filled that imposing, looming BLANK page. I’m thirsty. Ah! Weasel! See how finely we filled that page?

There once was a blogger named Weasel
Who, for minion appeasal,
Permitted Haiku,
And Brit-edible goo,
Which made him remarkable measel!

Yes, measel is a word. Nyah-nyah-NYAH!

Yes, I was trying for a “measel” ending, too. I was pairing it with “these’ll” — but it just didn’t gel. Sometimes the poetry biz is like that.

A Steamboater known as McGoo
Strayed from the strait path of haiku
Now Coleridge he’s stealin,
O, ‘Goo without feelin!
To make of such poetry poo!

“Rhyming weasel with something ain’t easy”
Said Weasel (a tiny bit weezy).
“Tried ‘measle’ ‘n ‘these’ll’
‘n fiezel ‘n diesel’
Think I’ll stick to my Windows-based easel.”

Dang, I got caught up in the ‘weasel’ rhyme and blew it on the last line!

Aaarrrggggggghhhh!

Okay, replace that last line with:

“Jarlsberg’s is my favorite cheesy!”

All better.

ARG! I’m caught in an endless loop of fixing stupid mistakes on an even stupider limerick!

“Jarlsberg is my favorite cheesy!”

I wonder if Wordsworth every went through this.

I mean ‘ever’.

%$#* it’s contagious.

Thanks, whitish! Now I only feel moronic (up from idiot!).

An idiot-poemist named Paine
Nearly drowned outside in the rain.
Looked up in the sky,
Mouth opened to sigh–
Then tried to rhyme ‘orange’ with ‘Spain.’

Took 45 minutes off and what happens? Paine gets his second wind, battles Weasel, and typo-lepsy infests the site. I squoze mine jw, if you keep pickin’ at it it’ll fester.

LOL. “Typolepsy”, that’s too good.

I guess I never mentioned it: I’m a carrier. Caught it on the ol’ Mississippi while having a tramp on deck.

Br’er Paine was a known typoleptic,
Which made him a touch apoplectic.
Brow furrowed in thought,
Typed not what he ought,
Whined “Hey! My keyboard went septic!”

You and Weasel. Having tramps on boats and in the woods. Hope you used protection.

Ok. You win. Uncle. Mea culpa. Nolo contendre. Hasselblad. Beans ‘n franks.

Ow. I think my poetry bone is bruised.

I was gonna hand you the feather, just for coming up with such a great word as “typolepsy” but it appears a guy by the name of jason varsoke used it back in 1999. But it hasn’t been used since, which strikes me as odd, because it’s a great word!

Unfortunately, I didn’t. Doc said if he hadn’t caught it in time, my hyphenations would’ve fallen off.

I had to work today guys. I gots my own deadlines.

I was laying out someone else’s copy and discovered it trite. I then went to my boss and told her there was no value, blah! blah! blah! Now guess who is rewriting copy? Fun!

How dare he invent a word before I was ready to use it!

Oops, Dawn. The only thing you can do now is rewrite it so badly he’ll never tell you to do it again.

Or you could claim spastic bowel…?

Hamburgers await.
Grill smokes quite seductively–
I’m freakin’ hungry!

Sorry, I misattributed. It was Tim O’Connor who appears to have coined “typolepsy.” Same link though.

Weasel, a stiff drought of alcohol often eases the pain of a pulled muse muscle or bruised poetry bone. Poe swore by it.

Jw, I don’t care: They’re both asshats for touching my word before I got around to inventing it.

Alcohol. Does wonders for my plantar fasciitis, too. I hiked seven miles today.

Hell on my typing, though.

Minions

Amok

Pup sighs

Them hamburgers was good!

I agree, Steamboat. If I were you, I’d seek legal representation; your intellectual property rights must be protected from a priori squatters. They’ll rue the day!

Rue, I say!

Um, Weasel? I could be wrong, but typing with your feet might just have the teensiest bit to do with your typing difficulties. I’m just spitballing here; have you considered typing with your hiking boots off?

Kinda goin’ out on a limb there, eh jw? Why, I’ve known any number of folks who can type every bit as well with their feet as with their fingers.

I love the smell of rue in the morning. It smells like burgers. We had ’em yesterday.

Pupster! Tag – you’re it! I gots to get my sleepies. 2000 miles to drive starting about 4 hours from now. Back Mon 7-2.

I wikipedia’d amok and I think it deserves its own thread.

There once was a minion named Lokki
who thought everything was all okey-dokey
But, while he slept – just his luck! –
Dawn ran amuk and Weasel’s blog was left all broken and smokey.

But enough of all that. For some reason, I work up this morning with “Ring around the Rosie” running through my brain. There is no logical or Freudian reason that I can thing of for this (well, maybe the “we all fall down” part could come from those 1 a.m. shots of tequilla we were drinking).

In any case, I started thinking about nursery rhymes for the 21st century. I mean all our nursery rhymes go back 500 years. What do kids say now days? Dawn – are there any “Rich man, poor man, beggar man – thief’s (sic) out there anymore? I know that enee, meeny, miney, moo got pretty well stomped out.

I tried my hand it at, but this may be a job for McGoo and JW. I got as far as London Bridge is in Arizona and realized this is a job for professionals.

Maybe you could jump rope to:

Mother Earth is getting hot
Got to give up all we’ve got
TV, AC, SUV,
Windmill, solar energy
No gasoline for you and me.

Or in the tradition of celebrating death in children’s rhymes:

Laser, Taser, Semi-Aut
nine-mil, ’45, double-ought
Show your Homey what you got
booby-trap, put-a-cap
In his ass
RPG his SUV
Yo, white trash!

You can see that these really do require some professional help.

“reason that I can thing of ”

!#$!@#%! PMIF. Thimk Lokki! Thimk!

A lot of blogs develop a sort of subtext, a profound and shaping undercurrent. Often it’s political angst, or deviant sexuality. Sometimes it’s intellectual elitism, or gender ambivalence. It’s tacit. No one says, ‘this is the rather frightening motivation that drives readers and writers here from the darkest corners of their secret souls.”

I’ve seen some frightening undercurrents, sure, but nothing quite so disturbing as the primal poetry obsession at sweasel.com.

Well, it keeps us off the streets, Whitish.

“Mother Earth is getting hot
Got to give up all we’ve got
TV, AC, SUV,
Windmill, solar energy”

That’s great stuff, Lokki.

Two moks will never be found,
Though we search over there, and around.
Three moks are much rarer.
Four moks? You’re in error
To believe there’s amok breeding ground.

If we minions have offended
think but this, and all is mended
that you have but slumbered here
while this rhyming did appear
and this ABAB, lyric scheme
just a nightmare, or a dream
Now to scape the sonnet feast
click down on ‘Archives’ and release…

Ahhh, that’s better, kitty blogging,
no more iambic pentameter flogging.

Oh no!

I lost my masterpiece before I could even apologize for it.

Whitish, I suspect you’re merely the first victim of Weasel’s new spam filter, which automagically deletes posts containing anything that rhymes, slanders Coleridge, or follows a 5-7-5 syllable pattern.

I’ve spent the last 3+ hours catching up on S. Weasel posts and comments (I’ve been on vacation with spotty computer access) and I must say that you people are some of the most entertaining commenters I’ve ever been intimidated by.

Tangent upon Google rank upon poetic waxing on top of Shakespeare parodies. Flame war and stalking and ax murder and justifiable homicide and time vault engineering.

My mind, it boggles
At the depth and breadth of the
Minions amok here

Hey, Pupster did spotty computer access enjoy the vacation, too? 😉

Lokki – sorry to leave you hanging about the rhymes kids sing today. I suppose if I was a better mother I might know some. We don’t have television so it can’t teach them any either.

Meeting deadlines is easy — just cut some wild-ass shit from whole cloth. Never time to do it right, but there’s always enough time to do it over.

Wabbit: the filter ate your verse. No idea why; it usually goes after hotlinks. I kicked it loose.

I…no, there’s no catching up to this thread now. Instead, I believe I shall drink.

See, Whitish? Tolja.

Yup. You called it jw.

I’ve heard of the new anti-poetry filter, I think it’s in Beta though. Not akismet but aKeatsSmite.com

(I reached for that one and strained myself.)

As some guy once said, “Whitish’s reach should exceed her grasp, or what’s a metaphor?”

Anti-poetry filter? Well, there’s my posts back to 0 comments.

And I want it on record my timestamp is, for some awkward reason, set to Central Standard Time. Weasel does not drink before 5 in the evening. Not any more, anyhow.

Oh, Damien Weasel Sunday Body Count: two. Some sort of decapitated bird first thing this morning (feathers everywhere) and another big fat woodmouse this evening. At least they were well and truly dead.

He likes to throw limp bodies against the banjo. I’m guessing it’s the punggg sound.

My husband is throwing a guy’s night of stupidity at my house this Friday. You know a whole night of shooting heavy projectiles at exploding objects while smoking smelly cigars. He built a five foot air gun that shoots cans of corn. They went rabbit hunting with it a while back. He has a great story about how the rabbit didn’t know whether to get out of the way or eat the corn pellets. Anyway, I’ll let him tell you all about it. Ask him what a can of corn can do to a refridgerator.
We’re country, I know.
I have been feverishly cleaning my house in case one of the guys lifts my sofa. Stranger things have happened. I don’t want them going home to their wives telling them how filthy it was. Don’t tell me guys don’t gossip.

A gun that shoots cans of corn? Wow! Is he going to make these available commercially? Will you accept PayPal?

I bet he would send you a picture and some plans for the low price of $9.95. 🙂

Oooooooh! Canned corn cannon. There was a short video of one once upon a time and I watched it.

Country or not, it was seriously cool. Awesome even.

Is it just me, or is it funny that the active ingredient in Cialis is tadalafil?

As in TADA lafil. “Look here, honey. TA DA!”

Build myself, Dawn? Like I could pry my fat ass out of my chair long enough to build something.

And Gnus? Ta-Da! doesn’t even come close. I play “Also Sprach Zarathustra.”

…and three-point-six minutes later, my wife plays this song.