sweasel.com

If someone hands ME a bone? It had gawdamn well better be a delicious BBQ rib or fried chicken part, or theres gonna all kind of bones cracking and flying about.

You left off the classic ‘os pecker’.

To Pupster, a bone.
Want it BBQ’d, or fried?
Os Tallywacker.

Pecker is a personal favorite. It has such a downhome, sonofthesoil ring to it. But I used ‘peckerbone’ way up in the first graf.

I did at one point resort to a Google search of “slang words for penis”…and then remembered IS keeps track of these things.

Pricks.

Whoops. Didn’t see that pecker.

I guess you could say I pulled a boner.

…”More to the point of Jim’s query, though, i can testify from personal experience that raccoon penis bones were used as charms and curios among white farm boys and men of the Missouri Ozarks (in south-central Missouri, near the Arkansas line) during the 10 years i lived there in the 1970s-80s.”….

Might explain the problem Bubba Clinton has.

I think you pegged it, Weasel. We lost our bony stiffies when we stood upright to see if her husband was approaching. There ain’t nothin’ less dignified than to be running pell-mell through the savannah with a waggling weiner in front of you.

“All the better to run through the jungle with, my dear”

It always strikes me when someone tries to explain why something turned out the way it did via evolutionary process they’re working from an a priori argument. That is, they assume evolution is the answer, then they try to figure out how to fit this block in the little pegboard with all the funny shapes.

It just seems easier to say “that’s how things are” rather than try to come up with some complex explanation to how everything changed to become how they are now. Like why humans have so little body hair.

I dunno, Mcgoo… I’m pretty sure it’d be worse to be runnin’ pell-mell through the savannah with a waggling weiner behind me.

Of course, in that situation I’d have the advantage of runnin’ on dry ground, but still…

On further consideration, neither position, leading or trailing, appeals all that much. Savannahs tend to be full of nasty critters. At least they do around here.

And Sweasel, has the bone thingy brought ya luck?

Who knows? I’ve carried it all my adult life. You need a control group to make science.

I can remember one long family car trip when we discussed how unfortunate it was that the organs of elimination were placed alongside the organs of procreation and, in some cases, shared the plumbing. Hardly an original observation, but we did spend some time trying to work out the optimum placement of parts, were we allowed a redesign. All’s I remember is, we agreed it would be most convenient to piss out of our armpits.

I don’t think so Weasel. You may dribble on your shirt. I think it would be more convenient to piss out your pointy finger.

And I think it is a good idea human females didn’t have pouches to carry their young. We would keep peeking and touching it whilst it develops.

Phew. Think how rude it would be to point if you peed out your index finger.

The middle finger then? It’s allready rude to point that.

oops – already

I guess I’d prefer to eliminate through my feet. Then I could just skid through life. It would give new meaning to the term skid-mark.

Waggling weiners – in front or behind or next to – and savannah just don’t mix. I’m sure that when we men stood up for the first time, the ladies took one look and decided “this’ll never do!”.

Which makes me wonder anew about the name…Johnson grass? There’s something subtle there – I don’t know what though.

I have a friend who is seemingly intelligent. I say seemingly for reasons that will be clear in a moment. One time after discussing some issues she was having with taking care of her biological daughter (which I mention because it provided pretty good evidence that she had sex with a human male at least once), she made a comment about how human boners are called that because of the penis bone in humans. Really.

She isn’t an evil person. In fact, she is quite nice but I couldn’t help myself. I laughed at her.

…”I’m sure that when we men stood up for the first time, the ladies took one look and decided “this’ll never do!”….

I worked at a place where one gal was the butt of many jokes. Seems on her wedding night, she took one look at Mr. Johnson, and locked herself in the bathroom. Her mother had to come over and talk her out.

I’m sorry, but this can’t go on any longer without touching the tra-la-la.

Oh Enas you didn’t. I don’t even have to click on the link to know where that goes. And was the pun intended?

And Weasel, I thought this was ‘coon porn not weasel porn–need a weasel boner for weasel porn.

BTW, some interesting, if useless, trivia. In relation to bodymass gorillas have a very small penis and testes, chimps have a very large penis and testes, humans fall in the middle. There is a correlation between package size (by species) and levels of promiscuity, ie. chimps wander around boinking everything, gorillas not so much.

I forgot we have an animal perfeshunal on board. I am strangely comforted to know that gorillas are not promiscuous. Big as a gorilla and boinks like a bonobo doesn’t bear thinking of.

Weasels do, indeed, have a baculum. You can buy one for five bucks here (scroll down).

Someone has just reached this site with this Google search:
“who brung the mustelids ?”

I did! I did! I brung them all! Ahahahaha!

Heh. I was just looking at the calendar, trying to work out some appointments. I read the header as “Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, WHAT THE FUCK?, Saturday…”

Get it? S M T WTF S?

Oh, god. I’m having a conversation with my blog…

Weasel, you may have stumbled upon a hitherto unknown Great Truth in our calender system.

The WTF region of the week.

This is the region of the week where everything that was scheduled for now (earlier in the week) falls apart, and where plans for the remainder of the week go awry.

This is the region of the week when: the newest software re-write no longer compiles, the parts orders are delayed, suddenly the circuitry doesn’t work right, the customer is having second thoughts or thinking about a spec change, one of the kids gets sick or arrested, the car starts that funny expensive noise again, you get a letter from the IRS, your credit card is rejected – once – for no apparent reason at the self-serve pumps, or your spouse starts going out at night – oddly dressed up.

Yeah, it all makes sense now, McGoo. It hangs together. Instead of wishing each other a happy hump day or thanking god for fridays, we should be observing the begin and end of the dreadful WHAT THE FUCK? period.

Incidentally, watch your back. It’s WTF-1.

Incidentally, watch your back. It’s WTF-1.

Yep. Had a damned gnat in my coffee cup already. How’d it get in the house – I dunno?

Be careful at DullGreyCorp this morning, Weas. My Maroon Sense is disturbed. Might be the pizza fom last night, though.

B/c it’s late here and I really should be going to bed. Every time I visit this site (which is daily–don’t let the lack of commenting fool ya) I think sweasel which turns into swizzle. That’s all, thanks.

In my head that really did seem appropriate for this thread. Now that it’s out in space, not so much. Ah, well. Night!

Swizzle. Works for me. In the American sense of “a small stick for stirring cocktails” more than the Aussie sense of “swindle.” Or the computer science sense of “the conversion of references based on name or position to direct pointer references.”

I wonder if you could market beaver boner bones as novelty cocktail stirrers? Or would that be in …..wait for it….poor taste?

Swizzle means sweet in the ghetto. True dat.

No comment on the swizzling. I do find myself in the grip of a well nigh uncontrollable urge to repeat “beaver boner bones” over and over in a high-pitched, comical voice, placing an emphasis on the first two syllables, and then rushing quickly through the last three. Like this: beeeeeeeeeeeeeever bonrbonz.

I struggle to live with this disease. Every day.

The WTF theory works quite nicely in my universe. Today, for example, I’m wearing my red and white pin-stripped Brooks Brothers shirt for a very simple reason.

When the British Officers went into battle, they were dressed in red so that the blood woun’t show when they were wounded. They didn’t want their troops to be discouraged and their enemies to be encouraged. I have a particularly ugly showdown meeting this afternoon.

I understand and sympathize, Weas. That phrase has been obnoxiously knocking around in my noggin since I went to that genuine weasel-boner-bone site and noted that they had beaver apparatus. I had to get rid of it – or at least dilute it – somehow. I chose to share.

No mercy, Lokki! Rip ’em a new a-hole! And remember: the Muse is with you! Your Haiku-Fu is powerful.

We’re all behind you – waaay behind you, back here where it’s safe!

Hey Lokki! The French officers did something very similar for the same reason, except that they wore brown pants into battle.

Enas: That’s an old joke, originally made about Hitler. Little known fact of history.

Kinda late to be pointing this out, but that “coon bone” looks more like a broken arm of a wooden chair.

heh. I worked with a guy who used to keep one of those in his mouth like a toothpick and chew on it all day.

He was one of the smarter programmers I’ve ever known.

Your mom sounds *awesome* (jabbing finger skyward like Chris Farley), weasel!

My mom was definitely awesome. Often in ways one does not wish one’s mom to be quite so awesome.

I used to dream I belonged to June Cleaver. But “Weasel Cleaver” sounds awful.

“weasel cleaver” sounds like a tool one might find in use at the mustelid abattoir.

Somehow this thread has managed to make it seem appropriate to comment that I’m split over whether the name “Beaver Cleaver” was a good nickname or a bad one for a growing boy.

You know how hard it is to work that question into polite conversation? Sitll, I figure that it’s probably OK in at thread titled “Weasel’s lucky coon bone”. Besides think of all the people who’ll now find this site when looking for the “Leave it to Beaver” show. Hi Folks! Hi!

[…] Deductive Reasoning-Eve Not Made From Rib Bone I believe SWeasel .Makes more sense than global warming. There isn’t a word in Biblical Hebrew for skinflute, so some speculate that Eve was actually created out of Adam’s os tallywhacker. This would neatly explain both our modern lack of dickbonage and (insert your own woman/penis joke here, because I couldn’t think of a good one). […]

Can we do that? Get credit for original comments even though all we do is repost portions of previous comments?

I can’t speak for everyone, but that’d sure make my job here a hellovalot easier.

Ah, it’s a pingback, not a comment at all! How clever!

Oh. Yeah. It’s what WordPress does. Annoyingly, it even does that when I make a link to another post on sweasel.com.

Man, between your remark and Lokki unexpectedly bursting into italics, I really lost the plot there for a minute.

“I worked with a guy who used to keep one of those in his mouth like a toothpick and chew on it all day.” – Dave in Texas

Just so we are clear here…Dave, did he keep a swizzle stick or a dick-bone in his mouth all day? Inquiring minds, etc.

“I really lost the plot there for a minute”

Does this mean there will be subsequent chapters? You had me after the WTF days.

You know, Pupster, I was wondering that, too.

Then I thought ‘Stupid Badger. Dave said “programmer” – it’s obvious.’

I was visiting Malkin’s site and the video she bestows upon Osama Obama, seemed appropriate to this thread in honor of boner talk and boinking chimps.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LbcmFgIp8EM

Lokki,

You’ve no idea how many times I’ve wondered about the “Beaver Cleaver” question. It’s been in and out of my mind for decades.

…And this sure is a weird-ass post, Weas! We’ve gone from ‘Coon Bones to Beaver Bonrbonz to Cleaver to the weekly WTF region.

…and I thought that Pingback was Pinback, al a Dan O’Bannon in Dark Star. I don’t know why.

You shoulda twigged, Steamboat, when all “Pinback” had to say was whatever Weasel said.

Yeah, what he said.

Sorry. My duh.

Tell you what – it really is a WTF day today.

Damn! What a day!

Finally, I’m out of here.
Fortunately, I have about five fingers of 18 year-old scotch saved for emergencies like it. It’s a start.

I do not know how morons like these end up in the offices of modern corporate America. I guess there’s not much call for stable-cleaners anymore, so they have to work somewhere.

Did I call them morons? Mob-mentality morons at that. I don’t think I’d trust them with stable shovels. They would have to use their hands.

In the fell clutch of today’s ugly meeting
I would not concur and so was shouted down by the crowd.
Despite the bullying and the beatings,
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Ohhhhh…a “corporate dipshit” day. Condolences. My 24th year of driving a desk will be complete in about 19 days.

My favorite “you have to be kidding me” moment came when a very senior communication manager was trying to describe to me over the phone a chart of some kind that I would need to reproduce for her. She repeated several times, “it looks like a pill, but there’s a piece out of it.” Somehow, absurdly, the image of “Contac and its tiny time capsules” went through my head. She faxed it to me. It was a pie chart.

A pie chart.

How the fuck do you get to be senior management (in communications, for chrissakes) without knowing what a pie chart is?

Pie chart? LOL dude everyone switched over to pill charts in the ’90s.

Well, she probably didn’t take higher math. That’s the only place I know that uses pi charts. Which are round, by the way. Cornbread are square.

Yankee! Cornbread are not square! Nor sweet.

It’s my theory that the coon, et al, need a constantly hard tallywacker because predators abound, and they needed to take care of business today.

It’s also my theory that we male humans had the same thing at one time, but that millennia of foreplay took the bone out of boner.

Thanks, ladies. We lose our prize possession because you need a little more attention paid to your nipples.

You’ve got a problem with female nipples?

No, but I got a terrible problem with male nipples. What the hell?!

I got a problem with sweet cornbread. And I don’t care what shape it is.

It’s my theory we lost our tallywacker bone because it became magnetized during a shift in the earth’s poles at some point in our evolution. This caused men with a tallywacker bone to constantly point North, thus lessening their chances of reproductive success. But I could be wrong about that.

Well, I like sweet cornbread. But it’s not cornbread, it’s some kind of wierd yankee corn…cake.

Secret of cornbread is pouring cold batter into a smoking hot skillet. Which is, oddly, the secret to toad-in-the-hole. Sometimes, it’s tempting to think Britons and Americans are related in some way.

Weasel, that smokin’ hot skillet should be a shiny, black cast-iron one handed down to you from your grandmother. And you put 1 tablespoon of bacon grease in it before you pour the batter into it.
That does it. I’m off to make cornbread.

You cannot make true cornbread w/o using a cast iron frying pan. That’s the only way to go. And to this day I remember the first time my Yankee grandfather served my Alabama mother his version of cornbread, in a cake pan 🙂

PattyAnn beat me to it! We have one from my greatgrandmother that’s already divided into wedges.

I had to buy my own ironware 🙁

I have a terrific deep frying pan with a lid that I can practically use like a dutch oven. When I first moved into this house, the oven was broken and I couldn’t afford to replace it for a while. I actually baked biskits in a skillet. Thanksgiving turkey was started in the microwave and finished on the stovetop.

Thank god I’m going down to southern MO tomorrow – otherwise my just-now craving for cornbread would be left unsatisfied. All of my relatives make good CB.

In skillets.

Big black ones.

Hotter’n snot.

With a dab o’ bacon grease.

Tattoo’d I,

We’ve got one of those rectangular flat cornbread skillets that have corncob-shaped divisions on it. The CB’s come out as individual “corncob” shaped cornbreads.

Doesn’t work worth a shit though. Overcooks the CB.

Cute idea, though.

…and this CB stuff reminds me of Yorkshire Pudding.

Love it. Haven’t had it in waaaay too long.

Mmmmm…! Yorkshires! In case you’ve never had it, toad-in-the-hole is basically yorkshire pudding with link sausages stuck in it. It’s my favorite Brit food. Especially the low-rent supermarket version you buy frozen. I’ve tried making them from scratch, but they just don’t taste the same.

I was thinking roast beef with yorkshire pudding! Just like mama used to make.

Yum!

I’ve heard of the link n’ pud stuff but never had it. Sounds good and robust.

Sugar in cornbread. I lived in an orphanage when I was a teenager. We had a sweet old black lady who cooked for us. She put sugar in everything including her refried beans. Even though I consider myself a true Texan (no barbeque sauce on my brisket, thank you very much) I developed a taste for sweet cornbread. Don’t be hating on me. I am but a product of my environment.

Cornbread. Sweet old black lady. In the orphanage.

Dawn, you have made Weasel get all misty.

Oh, man – I am so making cornbread and a big pot of beans this weekend.

I get the feeling you don’t believe me. My mom got sick with cancer and no one else in my family was worth anything to take me in. So I went to an orphanage and stayed there after she passed away.
Here’s where I spent my teenage years.
http://www.methodistchildrenshome.org/
And there are the black ladies to prove it.

I guess the homepage didn’t prove anything – if you hit refresh the image changes. Keep hitting refresh and you’ll see the sweet old black lady cooks. They are a lot younger than I remember.

Holy cow, Dawn! I wasn’t doubting you! I totally believed you and it really did make me feel a twinge.

Partly because I was more or less raised by sweet old black ladies, myself. But as mine were hired help of my intact family, now I also feel like a shit.

Oh weasel. I am sorry. My past is just so colorful sometimes it sounds made up. Even to me. The home was a wonderful place to be. Those people really loved kids. We felt privelaged to be there.

If it helps, my parents divorced when I was nine and it sucked pretty hard after that. On a commune, no less.

I had to cultivate an acre of peanuts the Summer of the Seventeen Year Locusts. I was picking carcasses off my nuts all summer, if you’ll pardon the expression. Then, come Fall, they turned the hogs into my peanut field.

I didn’t know I was working my ass off to grow hog food.

You were a peanut farmer!

Hey I just learned something – they sent the surviving kids from the Branch Davidians to the home I lived in after the Clinton/Reno Waco debacle. I moved out the year before.

Just that one Summer. I grew cucumbers in the greenhouse, too. It was a big geodesic dome, thirty feet across, we made ourselves out of ironed polyethylene sheets and two by fours. It was lit with a potbellied stove, which got out of hand one night and somebody put out the fire with my cucumbers.

Then a hurricane came, picked it up the dome like Mary Poppins and blew it over the hills and far, far away.

I have never grown anything since.

Whoa. I bet those were some unhappy and distinctly odd children.

Who ever heard of putting out a fire with cucumbers? Silly hippies.

Very silly hippies indeed. We weren’t very good back-to-the-landers. We lived mostly on handouts and welfare peanutbutter.

Oooooooh. Government Surplus peanut butter! That is/was such great stuff! Delicous!

One summer, when I was a kid we got a GIANT can of Government Surplus peanut butter – we didn’t ever qualify for assistance or anything like that(I think my sister brought it home from Girl Scout camp at the end of the summer or something).

It was the bestest peanut butter, I’d ever tasted. My dad said it was because it was real peanut butter made using just peanuts, salt, and sugar. Most peanut butter, I found out, has the peanut oil extracted, and replaced with other, cheaper oil which doesn’t separate out.

Even today, I try to buy only the peanut butter with real peanut oil. I keep it in the fridge to keep it from separating, and then just microwave it to soften it up whenever I want to use it.

Damn. Here is everybody talking about their childhoods, and I’m here with a Peanut butter jones….

Pay no attention to me, kids, I’m going off to make a PB&J sandwich

Best peanutbutter in the world, and your dad is quite right about why. Welfare strawberry jam was similar: just ground up strawberries and sugar and…pectin, or whatever it is they make preserves with. Exactly the same as that super expensive stuff you get in Whole Foods these days.

But the powdered eggs and milk were feh.

I had a serious peanutbutter jones the other day and didn’t have any in the house. When I checked all the shelf brands, the only one without wierd oil was Goober Grape. (That, for the benefit of our foreign readers, is peanutbutter with the classic American grape jelly mixed right in).

Thing is, it didn’t say refrigerate after opening. Now, I know regular supermarket peanutbutter is cool with that, but jelly? Isn’t jelly like crack cocaine to bacteria?

I freaked out and put it in the fridge. But I suspect what I should really freak out about is whatever they do to that stuff to make it okay if you don’t.

And now here’s…..Debbie Downer.
I have a peanut allergy. I have to eat sunflower and almond butters.
wwwamp…wwwamp…

Oooo! Do you have one of the really good ones? You know, where if you go in a room with somebody who had a peanut on his sixth birthday, you croak?

Well, I really feel like a shit. I had a relatively normal childhood, with parents that more-or-less loved me and my sib’s – and each other – and did their best to properly launch all of us at adulthood.

How boring.

…but I do have a neat shellfish allergy! I projectile vomit my entire stomach contents almost instantly (we’re talkin’ yards) and sweat profusely and get a really colorful rash and itch like bejesus! And…it all goes away about 45 minutes later.

It’s because you’re old, McGoo. All old people had great childhoods. And a swimmin’ hole with a tire swing hanging over it. I blame Norman Rockwell.

Mine was the first generation of broken homes. I was the first kid I knew with divorced parents.

I was kind of proud of that…

Well, I was going to invite you and Dawn over for some of my famous peanut-butter coated scallops, but I can see that’s out…..

And I was going to invite Weas and his folks too, but never mind…

I’m deathly allergic to brazil nuts. Just so you can get the right hors d’oeuvres, Lokki.

Hey – Nobody’s allergic to Valu-rite vodka, right? We could just skip all the silly polite society stuff like eating.

That would save a lot of time and trouble.

Ahhhh! For some reason I am NOT allergic to scallops. Also – I love ’em! But lobster, shrimp, and crab — they smell like s*** and taste like s*** to me anyway.

Love Brazil nuts – and despise the vulgar nickname that goes with them.

Yeah, Weasel, you’re absolutely right: us older folk come from a time when couples just MADE IT WORK, apparently. You *just* missed being of that generation, and managed to get saddled with hippy-folk for parents.

But look at it this way – you have a life experience that is unique and curious and interesting to those who were born before you. At least, its interesting to me.

And…as I always remind myself: my parents gave me a good brain, a healthy body (with new, improved titanium knob), and an upbeat outlook on life. What more can a person ask for?

“Everybody doesn’t like sumpin – But nobody doesn’t like Sara Lee – and Valu-rite Vodka!”

I’m allergic to many things. Cats and coconut are near the top of the list. Coconut fried cats would put me in shock.

My parents stayed together. There was a lot of anger, hollering, and negativity in that household. I attached myself to positive people and got the hell out of Dodge at the first opportunity. I was dirt poor for a few years. Nothing a little hard work didn’t cure.
So, regardless where you come from, having goals and a positive attitude or influence can do wonders. What doesn’t kill ya, builds character.

Thanks for posting the orphanage link Dawn. I’m glad you had a good experience there and have known loving people.

[…] It seems likely Woody’s World of Penis Euphemisms has never made a profit, either, but Woody’s goal is somewhat more modest: to collect every single word for penis, like, ever. He’s asking for submissions. Can you help? No, I didn’t find this when I was slapping together coon bone post. It’s exactly what I was looking for, but I never found it. Somebody hit this blog on a Google search of “weasel penis” — so, naturally, I ran the same search to see how I ranked. Fourth. This guy was fifth. […]

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

-breathe-

Uh… HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

I think the penis is a muscle, not a bone. I hope you didn’t pay too much for this, it would appear that you’ve been had!