sweasel.com

Holy Fuck – there’s a giant rodent riding an arrow across the Atlantic. Ireland is already lost! Run for your lives! etc.

That looks like a baby weasel in it’s warren.

And as tribute to your transitional period:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V3gp7B8WC4Q

The Ukelele Orchestra of GB.

Stoaty is in transit?

*rests chin on top of monitor*

Hey, did I tell you my droning, stupid story about my stupid dog or my stupid kid or whatever stupid morsel of my stupid life I’m inflicting on you in slow motion?

TI,

That. Made. My. Day.

Pupster – No! Tell us. We’re all ears. Take your time. Omit nothing.

Seriously, folks – we’re gonna be on our own while Lady Weasel attends to business abroad.

I’m thinking – perhaps – how ’bout lets describe her adventures (in purple prose, of course) as they occur. Or beforehand. Naturally there need be no connection with reality in these adventures.

Lady Weasel – wife of Lord Badgerbugger, daughter of the Earl of Stoatfinger – frowned delicately as the servants stumbled about, bustling to and fro, carrying the last items from her bedroom vanity to the wagons waiting below in the courtyard.
Slapping one stumbling oaf playfully on the buns, she exclaimed, “Get a wiggle on, Covington, or I’ll tell the scullery maid what you’ve been doing out in the barn – and why you always have feathers in your pants!” The other domestics laughed quietly – but sincerely – knowing that “their Lady” (as they proudly referred to her) was jesting again – as she always did when busy. Covington laughed self-consciously as he brushed some chicken feathers from his zipper.

“Been meanin’ te tell you m’lady,” he mumbled, “Looks like that wild stoat’s been in the coop again! Havin’ at our best layers, as it were! The whole coop be nervous as can be now!”

“Wild stoat, my ass.” whispered Lady Weasel to herself,
smiling. “Never mind that now, Covington,” she replied, eying the box he was carrying. “Put those cd-roms with the Master bed linens. Those are Lord Badgerbugger’s special cd’s, that he views when sleep escapes him.”

“Special cd’s, my ass.” whispered Covington to himself, smiling.

-to be continued-

Yeah Pupster
Do tell all. I have hours in a hospital lobby to kill with nothing to do but read this on my Blackberry: I suppose I COULD work but I’d rather not. And since Weas isn’t around to pull me out of the filter I’m not posting anything -so do tell all!

Whoops! Stupid pet stories may have to wait for the adventures of Ms.Ermine in “Gone with the Weasel” or “The Minking of the Titanic” GIve us another verse there master McGee!

Oh, shit. Should I ask why you’re in a hospital lobby, Lokki? For hours?

None of my bidness, of course. Ignore if you choose.

I was hoping you’d chime in, Sir Lokki! Could be tough with a blackberry though. I’ll wait a bit to see if someone else is willing to throw some story at it. C’mon folks! It only hurts a little bit.

No interesting personal story here fortunately! Only (shh!) Mrs Lokki is making her first acquaintence of the infamous Silver Bullet. Lucky for her they’re putting her to sleep for the process

Ah. I have no idea what that means, but I assume its “planned” and elective, rather than an “oh, shit” kinda thing.

At least they have a wifi hotspot there.

*takes a deep breath*

Meh. I got nothin.

Anybody else notice that since the big gender revelation, Stoaty’s weasel pics got a bit more soft and femtastic? Is it just my testosterone-fueled man glasses?

Pup,

Yep. I was debating mentioning that the weasel above is really (gulp) very cute. I thought it was just me…

Meanwhile:

—

It was to the extensive and opulent Badgerbugger Estate outside London that Lady Weasel hurriedly traveled when the news of the imminent purchase of the Coastal Property reached her.

“Beloved,” exclaimed Lord badgerbugger over the phone a few days prior, “I’ve managed to screw old Blofeld – you recall old Blofeld? – yes? Harumph! As I was saying, I’ve managed to get old Blofeld by the short-n-curlies regarding that coastal property of his you liked so much last year! You do recall, my dainty delicacy, that coastal property? Where we had that unfortunate accident with the dromedary and the stale plumber’s putty?”

“Oh, yes,” Lady Weasel murmured, “Why, that’s wonderful, my love! We can have our own putty delivered there, fresh as can be! You are such a darling! I’d better pack!” “Don’t forget my, um, special CDs!” blurted Lord Badgerbugger, “And the chicken coop!” he shouted as she hung up. “And Covington! Bring Covington!”, he shouted into a dead line.

And with that Lady Weasel set about organising and directing the relocation of the contents of the entire
Badgerbugger household – disturbing hundreds of years of dust bunnies, misplaced h’ordeuvres, and the occasional 8-inch floppy disk.

—

“As ye wish, m’lady,” spoke Covington, hefting the box of jewelcased and loose CDs. “Will m’lady be takin’ the family crest from the Great Room? It weighs a shitload, an’ me truss – well, it’s already slipped crackwards twice!”

“No, Covington,” Lady Weasel said firmly, delicately wiping the glistening dew of arduous effort from her brow, “The Badgerbuggers built this estate hundreds of years ago – shortly before all the badgers mysteriously fled the region – and the Badgerbugger Coat of Arms will remain here!

Here, Covington! Here, where the first Earl of Badgerbugger fell from his mount during the Battle of Pantsbulge, simultaneously managing to win the battle and shove his own head up his ass. Here, Covington! Where the Weasel clan first sealed the union between the two Families by offering my own great grandma up as a sacrifice to the Horny Hordes of the North – those naughty fellas – who tried to ‘share the wealth’ way back in the Olden days!

Nodding with understanding, Covington headed down the upstairs hallway, pausing only now and again to switch the
box from arm to arm.

-to be continued-

‘Twas a dark and stormy night…

Oh wait!

I gots nuthin either. Or also. Whatever.

Today’s pic, the arrow-riding weasel is the first time I noticed any softening, but it does look ummm, milder? to me. Like I said, I gots nuthin’.

Ok….

Covington needs to have a conversation with some of the other “help” downstairs – calming their complaints and reminding them of the “good time” they all had last year with the Coastal locals (and the resulting pregnancies, divorces, and medical treatments?). He’ll need to do it in a “commoner” brit dialect. Most of the help is going to the coast. The help all have silly names.

Meanwhile, the mail arrives with a mysterious/threatening letter/package addressed to Lady Weasel?

Well, so much for that. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Anyone know when Weasel flies? I assume she has that nasty commute first.

McGoo – have you taken too many opiates or not enough? I like your story though. Covington sounds like a real character.

I’m clean as a whistle, GH, and actually suffering from a mild sore throat and earache. This is twice in a month I’ve got the same crud.

And I have Muse-diarrhea today – bigtime. The only thing I can do is write in private and shield the public from most of it.

Covington was gonna be the center character, I admit, unless someone here at Weasels took over lead on the story and sent it in another direction. But I’m not writing the next installment until someone else adds to the saga.

I’ve also made a few boo-boos in titles, chronology, physical detail, etc, already. I’m just winging it and not editing at all.

McGoo, an old English manor needs to have some skullduggery afoot! And a haunting! I think Uncle Badger’s family should have some skeletons in the closet.

Well, there is the story about Lady Millicent “Willing, Sir!” Stoat-Weasel, who single-handedly took on the Horny Horde of the North in 1766 and wore ’em all out, thereby saving the bacon of the entire Stoat-Weasel-Badgerbugger clan.

We all already have hints that Covington and Lord Badgerbugger choke chickens in a big way – and maybe do other unattractive things. I figure there should be a lot of ghostly chickens about. I was gonna have the ghostly poultry “ghostily” flee a room whenever M’lord enters. (Think of the unseen “Frau Blucca” horses from Young Frankenstein.)

Occasionally I was gonna have a ghostly badger squeal and flee M’lord, usually when he goes to the WC to relieve himself.

But – hell – you folks write some of it! It’ll entertain Weas over there, if nothing else. Just write snippets if time is short!

Here. Someone finish this off.

“Goddamned truss!” Covington mumbled sourly, plucking furtively at his pants seat, first with one hand, then the other. “Goddamned CD’s! ‘Watches ’em when he can’t sleep’, my left bun! These CDs mean only one thing – “, Covington paused, gesturing vulgarly with his free hand – “Its chicken-chokin’ time!”

Trundling down the curved staircase overlooking the main entry, Covington could not help but but feel a certain pride in his surroundings. “Better’n debtors prison, by a long stretch”, he mused. Scratching his crotch and farting reflectively, he trundled downward.

Emerging onto the marbled landing and looking out the front door across the yard, Covington spied….(person) (doing something strange or vulgar).
….

Or this:

Lady Weasel paused, looking about her at the master bedroom – so recently filled with the clothing, perfumes, frippery, and other accoutrements of a person of wealth and social standing.

“I do hope M’lord will forego transporting all his dresses. Surely a dozen or so for each season is sufficient?”, she thought, idly, her eyes moving across the whips, chains, and astrolabe, before coming to rest on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that were truly “hers” alone.

As she scanned the bookshelves for missed heirlooms, her sky-blue peepers came to rest on an old, heavily used volume. A smile – full blooded and huge – immediately animated her flawlessly beautiful face as a laugh escaped her lips.

” ‘The Horny Horde Invasion of 1766 – ‘ “, she intoned aloud, ” ‘ Or, How I Did ‘Em By The Score and Saved Our
Bacon’ , by Lady Millicent ‘Willing, Sir!’ Stoat-Weasel”.

“Now there was a true family savior”, she said softly, randomly flipping open the book, “And there is a really painful position!’, she remarked, involuntarily wincing, “That duck will never walk again!”

Sighing, she closed the book and hugged it to her not-insignificant bosom and mused pensively.
…

Stay away from the moors

<stares at the thread in stunned amaze>

Ummmm.

Hi.

Wow.

Well, I made it to London. Long drive across town from Heathrow in the drizzle, and now we’re sharing a very nice bottle of champagne.

I’m not completely blacked out until Friday, though we’ve got a busy two days packing ahead.

Ummm.

Anyhow.

Carry on.

Stoat gloria transit mundi.

Coast? Which coast? If’n yer lucky it’s the west coast
up lower Scotland way.
Careful with the frigs and all…

Would Covington like a thurible-swinging acolyte to add to his troubles? I hear they’re quite the rage in certain circles. But he would be out of place in secularist England.

Unless he wears a beard and dishdasha and kafiyyeh.

And someone has to use “send/sent to Coventry”. I learned that from Enid Blyton.

Write it, Mus’! Go for it. Maybe the acolyte is who Covington sees out the front door? Name him and go whichever way you want.

If I remember correctly, Her Grace The Duchess of Essex and My Lord The Marquess of Wessex shall be relocating to Sussex. Across France, ne c’est pas?

Whereupon they might as well be dubbed The Duke and Duchess of Sussex. And if The Queen can be called the Duke of Normandy, why not Her Grace? That ought to upset the French.

nbpun – isn’t the west coast the one that gets the rough weather?

Thus occupied with her pensive musing, Lady Weasel was quite unaware of the shadows behind her that began to writhe and tumble like so much dirty laundry in a deserted laudromat. It was, in fact, dirty laundry–all manner of smelly things that Covington, preoccupied with increasing egg diameters, had neglected to crate for the trip.

Yes. Laundry–and something else, something that rose to tower over Lady Weasel. Noiselessly, two ominous slits opened, revealing twin dull-red embers. The thing of shadows peered over Lady Weasel’s bare and imminently biteable shoulder.

“Good one, ain’t it?” the shadow-thing growled. “I got a couple of wanks out of it.”

Lady Weasel whirled. “What the-?” She grunted in a rather unladylike manner. She stared up into the eyes of the shadow-thing, if eyes they were. “Who–”

“–Am I?” the shadow-thing finished helpfully. A rotting arm, so putrefyingly malodorous as to exude a visible miasma of repellent aroma, emerged from a dark shadow-fold. “Don’t you recognize your own flesh and blood?”

“Um, I’m not seeing any blood on that arm,” Lady Weasel muttered.

A throaty chuckle emerged from deep within the shadow. “Oh, ’tis there, young Stoatess! ‘Tis there!” The shadow-thing paused and its eyes (if eyes they were) lowered, contemplating its arm.

“There was blood there yesterday!” the shadow-thing cried. “Damme!” The shadow-thing whirled away from Lady Weasel, and before her eyes the shadows began to dwindle, become smaller, lessen, reduce in size.

“Wait!” Lady Weasel cried. “Who are you? Why have you come here?”

A sound emerged from the dwindling etc. etc. shadow. Lady Weasel leaned closer. “What did you say?” she asked.

A throat cleared behind her, and Lady Weasel whirled, and for the second time today. “Are you talking to your skivvies again?” Covington said mildly, the smirk on his thin lips begging to be slapped off. For once, Lady Weasel resisted the impulse.

OK, Steam, get with it.

A sound emerged from the dwindling pile of mixed colorfast outerwear and delicate whites. Lady Weasel leaned closer. “What did you say?” she asked.

A throat cleared behind her, and Lady Weasel whirled dizzily for the second time today.

“Are you talking to your skivvies again?” Acolyte Putz said mildly, swinging his thurible industriously.

“I was just passing by and thought I sniffed Covington,” gushed Putz, the smirk on his thin lips begging to be slapped off. For once, Lady Weasel resisted the impulse.

“No, Putz – I was, um, thinking. Yes. I was thinking about the laundry. These whites need to be washed separately in hot,” she remarked, recovering her aplumb – barely. “See to it, please.”

Nearly overcome by the nerve-shattering experience – and the scent of Putz’s thurible (“Lime n’ Mango. Yecchh!” she thought) – Lady Weasel nevertheless paused to observe Putz suspiciously.

“What did you see?” she asked, reaching for the Millicent volume – which she’d dropped in panic.

“See?”

“Yes. What did you see as you came into the room?”

“Oh. Nothing. A painting of an ancient lady doing it with a duck and platoon of…”

“No!”, Gritting her perfect pearly white teeth, lady Weasel spoke slowly and carefully. ” Not. The. Book. What did you see in the laundry?”

“Oh. Looked like a badger. But it couldn’t have been.”

-All your jw-

Wait!
—

Slapping Putz mightily (“I never could resist for long!”, she mused, calmer now) Lady Weasel walked out of the master bedroom.

Ok.

That was a Muse-Oort. I think. Sorry.

“A–a badger, did you say?” Lady Weasel’s delicate hand rose to her delicate throat, delicately. Her fingers felt the pulse in her neck quicken. “Mmmmm…” she mouthed distractedly.

“Yes, you twit–a badger!” Putz said, knowing that the Lady Weasel’s attention was elsewhere.

Lady Weasel glanced up. “What did you say, Putz?”

“I said ‘You saw it–a badger’,” Putz replied, rather pleased with himself.

Lady Weasel’s eyes narrowed. “I ought to sack you!”

“Jolly good!” cried Putz, as his fingers fumbling at his belt buckle. “You really are a good sport!”

“Sack! Sack as in let go, terminate, end the gainful employment of,” Lady Weasel exasperated.

“Feir enoof,” Putz exclaimed in an accent Lady Weasel suspected was more scotch than Scot.

Tag, Steam.

Hey, did I tell you my droning, stupid story about my stupid dog or my stupid kid or whatever stupid morsel of my stupid life I’m inflicting on you in slow motion?

Currently, I am listening to children practice counting to 100. No purple prose here. Lokki is the silver bullet one of those colon scope thingys? Please continue jw and McGoo.

“Oh, get out! Get out! And take that stinking thuriwhatsis with you!”, the Lady cried, furious that – once again – Putz had apparently made one out of her.

Bowing, Putz smarmily mouthed the word, “Yowsa!” and waddled off down the hall, his chin-wattle waddling in counterpoint with his other waddle.

Nervously Lady Weasel observed herself in the mirror – noting the nervous tic causing her eye to twitch nervously.

“I have to concentrate. There are no badgers here. We don’t see no stinking badgers here!”

Picking up the laundry and carrying it out on the upstairs landing and hurling it over the side, M’lady shouted, “And, I said wash this, Putz!”

A “Mpff!” sound drifted upstairs, muffled, sounding like a muffled curse.

“God, the help you get these days!”, moaned the Lady.

***

From an alcove nearby, the scullery maid watched what occurred silently, making no noise whatsoever, and without letting loose with so much as a single telltale squeek.

“So.”, she thought. To herself. Alone in her musings.

“This is how it begins.”

Padding silently down the hallway and back stairs on her recently-padded feet, she returned to the scullery to finish the sculling. “God,” she mused abstractly, resuming her scullwork, “I can’t wait to become
a handmaiden. Hand jobs have gotta be easier than scullery work.”

Pausing again, and stopping work while she thought further, she reached into he ample bosom and withdrew the gold coins – there were still twelve of them – and smiled.

-to you, jw-

Twelve coins, she thought. And oh, how they glistened.

Suddenly, her smile unfurled into a frown. One of the coins was different, somehow, dull, plain, unshiny, lacking in reflective qualities. Annoyed, the scullery maid reached into one of her uniform’s many pockets and removed a tiny bottle of Mr. Brain’s Reglistening Solution (‘Now With Lemony-Fresh Pork Faggots!’) and applied a tiny amount to the coin. Within moments, the coin was glistening again, nestled there satisfactorily amongst its eleven cistern. She sighed.

And so it begins, the scullery maid (who, owing to the carelessness of some unknown scrivener, was nameless) thought again. The portents are there, for them that see, she thought. Everything has occurred as foretold.

The scullery maid’s frown folded itself neatly into a tiny smile. Won’t Lady Weasel be surprised. Her left brow arched archly. Or will she?

Back atcha, Steamy.

The antique looking blue phone rang twice before Drakinor’s gloved hand lifted from the cradle. :”Speak”, he hissed, holding the receiver to his face with his left hand while his right held his dunhill cigarette at the ready. “Badgerbugger stirs now, master” said the voice from the receiver.

“Excellent”, said Drakinor. “Destination; companions; route?”

“Lady Weasel has preceded him to the Coastal Property, exactly as you planned, master.”

“The crest?”
“It remains at Badgerbugger Estate, sir”

>”Well Done, Agent 7; you shall be rewarded”, purred Drakinor. “Now – Covington?”

Agent 7 hesitated before responding. The whisper of a powerful force came through the line. Was it the telephone recording some distant storm, or was it Drakinor’s hate of Covington? There were the rumors that had fluttered through the night flashing past and circling around the subject of why Drakinor hated Covington so much – but no one ever spoke directly of the subject. Never.

He snapped back to reality to answer. For a man in his profession to hesitate overlong was to die. Better to risk answering honestly and hope that the rage would not strike him directly.

“Covington is already at the Coastal Property with Lady Weasel – wife of Lord Badgerbugger, daughter of the Earl of Stoatfinger. He was seen with feathers in his zipper.”

Drakinor’s eyes – already dark – became jet black and deadly as a cobra’s. He moved the receiver from his ear and started to slam it down violently- but he stopped himself – stopped a fraction of an inch from breaking the connection – stopped himself from leaving his rage adrift without focus, stopped it from howling aimlessly through through the ionosphere.

He had not gotten his great power by allowing his anger to ground itself without being directed at carefully chosen targets. No. Control it. He would store it now, brew it hot and harsh; contain it carefully, and when the moment was right pour it on out his chosen victim – scalding hot and venomous.

“Agent 7″, he said carefully, ” Go to the Coastal Property and unleash Shrodinger’s ferret. Do so carefully. I shall need you again, and soon, and uninjured. Keep the dromedary and fresh plumber’s putty in waiting. Make sure that Lord Badgerbugger receives a fresh shipment of Rhode Island Red chicken from ,ahem, a ‘secret admirer’. Keep him busy and out of sight. I will send a message to you when I arrive. I need not warn you that Lady Weasel should be kept from any harm. Go now. Do as I direct.”

Agent 7 had instinctively snapped to attention at the tone of his master’s commands. Now he clicked his heels together sharply and said, “Immediately Sir! I have just one question about my instructions. It is important”; but when he listened the phone was already dead. The storm had passed on.

Time for me to say “uncle”, jw! I don’t even know where we are now, and my Muse-diarrhea is now spent.

Volunteers? Anyone?

Oh, wow, Lokki! Yes!

Yippee! Lokki assumes the Chinese Obligation! Thank you, Lokki!

I think you guys’ve just writeen a novel. A bit more bestiality and perhaps a murder or two, and you’re hot to trot.

Gibby (mornin’…),

Does chicken-molesting count towards beastiality?

BTW, I think one of the best lines in the whole thing was jwp’s comment about “… Covington, preoccupied with increasing egg diameters…”

When I read it I nearly snotted myself.

Rip a bodice and burn down the barn, then it’s ready for Harlequin.

Yes, I do believe chicken molestation would be covered under bestiality. Well, maybe not in Norway.
Seriously, you guys should turn this into a novella or a comic book or something, and you-know-who could illustrate it for you.
Now all you need is somebody to bankroll the project, and you can all be filthy rich and hire your own servants to beat and molest. The possibilities are endless.

Illustrate? Whoa. The image that immediately comes to my mind is one of Lady Weasel staring into the Millicent history volume with huge, unbelieving eyes and a combination horrified/amused/outraged smile on her face. Oh – and with some animated laundry and a thurible-swinging Putz in the shadows behind her.

Oh, wow. I just realized why Lady Weasel retained her family name rather than taking the Badgerbugger name:

The Stoat-Weasel females are CHANGLINGS!

Holy sheepshit!

Indeed.

Does chicken-molesting count towards beastiality?

Chicken-choking, as it was referred previously, counts towards self-abuse, you beasties.

I think we’ve implied (or a bit more) that more than one kind of – er, activity – may be going on amongst certain characters.

And — because it was there:

“Damned truss!” Covington mumbled sourly, plucking furtively at his pants seat – first with one hand, then the other. “Soddin’ CD’s! ‘Watches ’em when he can’t sleep’, my back passage! These CDs mean only one thing – ,” Covington paused dramatically and gestured vulgarly with his free hand to no one present – “Its chicken-chokin’ time!”

Trundling down the curved staircase overlooking the main entry, Covington could not help but but feel a certain pride in his surroundings. “Better’n debtors prison, by a long stretch”, he mused. Scratching his crotch and farting meditatively, he trundled onward – an occasional feather drifting downward from his garments.

Emerging onto the marbled landing and looking out the front door across the yard, Covington peered about sullenly, wondering if he’d have to do any more trundling that day. Reflecting on the condition of his shoes, he remarked to the gardener – Mushbeezer – knealing nearby, ” ‘Bout had it wit trundlin’ today, Mush. Me truss is killin’ me.”

“Aw, sod off.”

“What! What did you say, Mush!”, snapped Covington, taking umbrage at this apparent insult from his perceived inferior.

“I said the sods off! The sods off! Are ye deaf?” Lifting his head from his work for the first time, Mush’ (as he was called by people who addressed him) observed, “And put back that umbrage. I’ll need it when I reseed the foyer.”

Placing his head back into the freshly tilled soil, Mushbeezer returned to his task, mumbling, “Job would be way easier if I didn’t have my head shoved down into the dirt.” But after further reflection, he continued, ” Better’n having it up my ass, though. That dinna work at all, at all.”

Meanwhile, shrugging his diminutive shoulders histrionically, Covington stepped gingerly aside (rather than trundling) a few paces and then proceeded to ignore Mush’s presence like everyone else. Turning to the east and looking to the horizon, Covington could well-imagine the far-away Coast Property that his master and employer had recently procurred.

Thinking to himself rather than to someone else entirely different, Covington mused, “Ei be wonderin’ if that lusty bitch still potters a’boot at the Inn O’ The Crotchless Panty? Eeee…wot was ‘er name….? Sweet Mother McGoo but she could pop yer cork quicker’n ye can utter ‘Cthulhu mythos’! Aiy! She’d be the death o’ me if I got that regular! But…wot a way t’go. Now wot was ‘er bleedin’ name?”

Scratching a recent hen-peck on his lower groin and brushing away more stray feathers, Covington continued musing – probably unaware of the risk of infection such scratching can invite, and certainly unaware of the furtive figure hiding furtively behind the topiary nearby – which provided ample hiding locations for plenty of figures, furtive or otherwise – , watching him intently, keeping both eyes on him, and looking nowhere else.

Behind Covington (and unbeknownst to him), from the drawing room window on the main floor, what appeared to be a large load of mixed dirty laundry was being hurled haphazardly – but with great vigor – out the open window onto the manicured lawn. No curses could be heard, but could well be imagined if anyone were observing this odd occurance – which no one was except Mushbeezer’s head, which could get but a glimpse with its left eye.

Then a thurible – now-empty and cold, but still smelling of mango – came bulleting out as if shot from a gun barrel and landed with a tinny, tinkling sound next to Mushbeezers head. “Yecchh”, gasped Mushbeezers nose, nearby.

Then the body parts – propelled through the window as if some mighty arm had thrown them vigorously – plopped onto the scattered laundry, all but assuring that most of the whites would be permanently stained. Had the parts been reassembled, they would bear a remarkable resemblence to one Putz of Badgerbugger – late retainer of the noble and beloved lord. His smarmy look and smirking mouth were gone forever. Instead, only a look of mild indignation at the unfairness of it all enhanced his contenance.

You’re a GIRL??!!?

Yeah, she is, Wabbit! Isn’t that neater’n hell?

(Hi! btw)

*** This – and an “arrival” post should get all sequences more-or-less on the same page ***

Lady Weasel stood staring at the domestic help milling about outside the front entryway – wondering (and not for the first time) how they could possibly be as mindlessly idiotic as they appeared. “Their brains can’t possibly generate even enough neural activity to keep their hearts beating! What do they run on – Stupid? Is it some unknown energy from space?” she fretted, shaking her head and stooping to retrieve a golden NY subway token the scullery maid had dropped. Wishing she knew the maid’s name, Lady Weasel handed it back to the blushing (and slightly limping) maid and then quickly turned away to avoid conversation with the apparant mental defective.

“Hmmm. Limping?” , Lady Weasel mused distractedly, “That limp reminds me of Covington for some reason. Odd.”

Dismissing the random thought, she brought her thoughts back to the business at hand. She knew from long experience that no matter how simple a task, no matter how much effort was expended in clarifying and simplifying a set of instructions, half the time the staff would completely fuck it up. “Well! Once again, into the breach!” she sighed determinedly and – raising her voice to all in attendence – spoke loudly and clearly – enunciating each syllable carefully:

“You’re attention, please.” She waited.

No reaction.

“Please!”

Nothing.

“Hey! Dipsticks! Eyes forward!” That got ’em. Even the gardner lifted his head from his work and pulled his nose
from someone else’s business with a small cork-like pop. The silence was then complete except for the tinkling
sound of a dropped thurible, which sat on the paving, rocking in the slight breeze, making the tinkling sound referred to previously.

“Is everyone here?”

Nodding.

“Is anyone missing?”

“Ja, m’lady,” piped up the german cook – Yarbles Swinestenchen – in his deeply resonant tenor voice, “Ze acolyte Putz – he ist kaputen! Und all dot vas finded was die thurible und die mounds of ze svinemeaten. Ist sourbratten I machen ok?”

Stepping close, and resting an affectionate hand on his broad shoulder, she husked, “Um…da…da…sehr gut, Yarbles. Uh…sehr gut. Wunderbar.” Having responded in her halting and completely inadequate french, and wondering (and not for the first time) what had just been discussed, Lady Weasel perceived faint sound coming from the cooks
spotless white apron.

Espying a set of earbuds dangling from the pocket, she bent even closer, listening intently to the earthy tribal beat
emenating from the iPod: “Ja! Ja! Das ist gut! Wanken die Winky!….. Stella! Stella!….. Wanken die Winky!…* ”

“Hmph! Listen to the classics on your own time, kraut!” she spat dismissively, tapping her foot to the strangely erotic
beat for a moment and then drawing back to address everyone:

“Everyone – please listen. Today is the day! We are moving to the Coast Property today. EVERYONE is going! (remember: keep it simple, she reminded herself – and not for the first time). Yes! Everyone! This means everyone! If you can hear me, you’re going! OK?”

Silence.

“Now I want you all to get on the bus behind you. Pay no attention to the pipe in the floor that looks like an exhaust pipe! Soon you’ll all be relocated to the camps specially built…er, I mean….um…soon you’ll arrive at the Coast Property.”

Silence. Motionless silence.

Clenching her fists, tongue held between tense lips, m’lady waited, thinking, “They’ll move soon – I’m sure of it.”

Lady Weasel fragmented and ever-hopeful smile held as – suddenly – the entire domestic staff turned as one and ran
pell-mell for the waiting transport. “Yes!” Lady Weasel cried out, “Yes!”

…And then her smile crumbled into a pitiful ruin of crushed hope (and not for the first time), as fully half the staff passed the bus completely and jumped into the dumpster being loaded onto the local waste management truck.

“Covington!”

“Yes, M’lady!”

“Bring scotch!”

“Aye, m’lady. Is it one of yer migraines, ma’am?

“Fuck off!”

“Aye, m’lady. That time o’ the moon, is it?”

The blow Covington subsequently received knocked him completely out of his britches and left a full twenty-yard
skidmark and a scattering of feathers on the freshly manicured lawn.

* http://www.tygorz.com/27/04/2007/supercool-winkytool/
***

I think he (the man in the video) needs to work on something besides his biceps if his entire abdomen shakes when he snaps.