sweasel.com

Wow. First post on this newest thread of Weasel’s. Not sure I’m worthy. And I’m sure if I go on, I’ll post something really stupid. So I’ll stop now.

Wussy! Quisling! Fairy!

(I wish I could do that neat li’l combined “ae” or “ea” symbol thingy to make the word “Fairy” look high-class euro or sumpin.) (Bet Lokki could do it) (I envy Lokki) (He speaks jappo).

Let me reassure you P-Bernie: no matter what you post, it’ll look stupid to you later. Really, really stupid. I mean, it’ll be BAD. And probably to everyone else, too, but they’ll be too nice to say anything.

But if you don’t spit it out, it’ll fester and you’ll need to have it looked after. And that could mean embarrassing probes by concerned hospital staff – sticking digits and instruments into private places and into what are usually considered anatomical “exits”. Now do you really want that?

C’mon – show ya got a pair – descended or otherwise!!

Sigh – Housekeeping and administrative matters:
1. Thanks for the tip about tricking Akismet, Steamboat. I’d read the results of your empirical experiment, but hadn’t absorbed them.
2. Thanks for the concern about Mrs. Lokki, Dawn. It was indeed a colonoscopy (her first)- one of those procedures best referred to in euphanistic terms. The silver bullet is one of those misdirections. Perhaps Steamboat was unaware of it since it’s apparently obsolete. My doctor assured me, when I last had that proceure that the Silver Bullet is no longer in use – “Now it’s the Black Stallion.

At 104 pounds, however, Mrs. Lokki got the child-sized one “My Pony” I think it’s called.

Princess Bernie –

If I had to be worthy, I couldn’t post here. If I had to have anything to say, then I couldn’t post here either (reference – my last post).

Besides Weasel is away, and While the weasel’s away, the minions can PLAY ! so post anything!

Hey! Anybody wanna see pictures of my socks???

No.

Færy.

I’d like to see pictures of your socks Lokki. Shit, why not. Unless of course they’re wank socks, in which case, I don’t. What’re wank socks, you ask? Eh, probably best you don’t know if you don’t already.

I suppose this is what’s known as amusing ourselves. McGoo, Lokki et al are being productive and writing literature, whereas I’m doing the blog-comments equivalent of shitting behind the sofa and scrawling obscenities on the wallpaper.

That’s the symbol, G-H. Thanks. Isn’t it cool-looking? I shall now copy it shamelessly rather than look up the codes for it. See? æ It copies fine!

BTW – Lokki – I hope/assume Mrs. Lokki’s – er, pony ride? – geez, (winces) that sounds vulgar and presumptious – came up negative. Always good to have a nice, solid negative on those.

I thought this was the place to post if one had a great deal of dubious prose in ones’ head that needed purging. I’m sure the sign outside said, “Purgings & colonics – walk-ins welcome!”

You see, Princess? No cultural standards to worry about ’round here. JW is no doubt out in the kitchen burning the wallpaper off making bacon or something.
Lokki’s Lucky Socks

I’m in one of my manic modes today. (Medication holiday, ya know)

When I’m depressed, I’m known as the Man in the Black Socks

Link didn’t work? Now I’m depressed

Ahem, I SAID,

“When I’m depressed, I’m known as The Man in the Black Socks.

OK, I’ll get a pair – socks, whatever – and post.

Ya know, Daniel Boone traveled a lot to strange, new and exotic places, too, just like our dear Weasel. But he didn’t have cardboard boxes. I was reading some stuff this morning about this brave pioneer. Seems he went pretty much everywhere during his life and blazed a trail through the Cumberland Gap that allowed 200,000 adventurous folks to follow to the west.

His official grave is here in Kentucky, just a few miles from where I sit posting these words. But, alas, there is controversy. Some say that it’s not the real guy buried there.

OK, I feel so much better. (And I’m glad I’m avoiding unnecessary probing.)

Lokki your links went to crap. Kimberley Chapman says no hotlinking. Does Mr. Black Socks wear a raincoat or is he a Japanese tourist kind of guy?

Lokki, my heart is aflutter. Looks like a Tango, to me.

well thanks for fixing that mental image for me Lokki.

I found a Ben’s bell this weekend.

Everything I post is banal. Sweasel should change the disclaimer.

It’s freaking awesome when you kill a thread. Makes you feel like a real winner.

Colour me jealous. What’s a Ben’s bell? I’m a foreigner – sorry.

P-Bernie,

Ol’ Boonie has one or two homes around here (St. Charles, MO) but my favorite Boone ‘relic” here is …

wait for it …

Boones Lick Road.

I will allow others to ponder this oddity for a while – unless some smartass pipes up with the explanation before I divulge it.

Oh! See, P-Bernie? Didn’t hurt a bit, did it?

Hi Dawn –

Since Ms. Kimberly is such a stupid sock snob snot, I’ll repost a strikingly similar sock snapshot from a different location:

Lokki’s Lucky Sock Lookalikes Link

As for The Man in the Black Socks picture: Dawn! I’m shocked at you. I didn’t think you’d get that joke. My link isn’t to a picture of that Man in the Black Socks. This one is SFW.

Oh, and I may be an alien, but I’m not a foreigner and I have no idea what a Ben’s Ball might be, but I’m a little afraid to ask. Does it wear black socks too?

Next, to our Princess – Daniel Boone was a big hero of mine when I was a kid. I even had a hat like his. Of course, in those days, we didn’t wear our hats backwards.

Steamboat (I may call you Steamboat, mayn’t I) I have no idea what the Boones licked. Was it one of those cane toads that gets you high?

Kit Carson was from Boone’s Lick. The book I picked up at the airport was about him, serendipitously enough.

Cumberland Gap. Mighty fine place. Got no water for to wash my face.

Woo! I’m a tuckered stoat. I think we got it all packed up, though. I had the honor of packing the kitchen. I found the Museum of Booze. In fact, we found booze squirreled away all over the house. Man, have we got drinking to do.

The movers arrive at 8. Which is 3 East Coast time. I don’t think Uncle B has seen eight in the morning in decades. I think I shall poke him with a stick from beneath the bed.

Are we serendipping again? Oh-oh. Watch out, P-bernie. Strange things happen when things go serendipity-like.

Give Badge’ a break, lady! He no-doubt spent long minutes working prior to your arrival. I know I would.

Kit Carson? Cool. Boone musta named everything Lick. Hmmm. There’s a whole conversation there. Not really, though.

Weasel Bless you! You do exist even in Merry Old! Say Gov canya pull a mate outta the filter, wot? For old times sake, eh?

(Yeh Steamboat told the trick on how to avoid the filter – twice – but do you think your wayward lad would listen to the likes of him, just because he’s right?

That’s a luv!

Oy! Maybe the trick doesn’t work all the time? Someone could run some more-thorough tests. I’m…um, ah…dealing with a debilitating hangnail at the moment. Or sumpin. Yeah. That’s right.

(It would never cross my mind that anyone would – y’know – get put in The Filter on purpose.)

oh hey Gibby

http://www.bensbells.org

*****Because its a dirty job but someone has to do it.*****

The bus laboriously chugged up one gentle country hillside after another , only to find that each invariably went back downward on the other side. Inevitably, there were valleys between the hills – valleys filled with shadows, except when the sun was higher in the sky – which it was, mostly, in the daytime, but never at night. It began to rain.

Lady Weasel, looked thoroughly frazzled. Her hair – once coiffed and flawlessly shimmering in the morning sunlight
– now lay dull and knotted, nested with tangles (and not a few signs of tearing) on her head where it usually resided.
Her clothing was damp and wrinkled as a consequence of the arduous, stress-filled never-ending journey that had yet to end. And her piles were acting up something fierce – and she didn’t even have any piles.

She winced once more, as the staff crooned “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall….” for the three-thousand one-hundred twenty-eighth time, and, shaking her head tiredly, unbelievingly, thought once again, “My god! They
really can’t even count! They can’t count down from one-hundred!”

Looking at the seat behind her, she noted that Covington had yet to regain consciousness after the ill-considered and intemperate blow he had received from – she ducked her head shamefacedly – her own delicate fist. “Well, at least he now knows we Weasel women can hurl quite a right cross. Good thing I didn’t follow through with my left hook. It’s a real haymaker.”

Her glance was drawn, seemingly against her will, down his supine and shapelessly pudgy body towards the pair of too-small blue leotards the staff had provided for him while his britches were being mended. But it was not the colour of his rainment that drew her interest. The tight fabric outlined in stark relief what appeared to be his bulging
manhood, but was in reality a sizeble bratwurst they had discovered there earlier and left intact – feeling that “don’t ask, don’t tell” was the best policy.

She marveled (not for the first time) that the leotards already showed signs of being infested with chicken feathers – Rhode Island Red, if she was not mistaken. Or, perhaps, Polands.

“How did they get in there?” She mused, distractedly, trying to take her mind off the endless crooning of the staff. “He can’t possibly have – er, had….congress – with any poultry! I decked him true! He been bye-bye for hours!”

Turning and facing the front again, Lady Weasel sighed, hoping that the journey would end soon. She really needed to pee.

*****
” ‘Er! ‘Ow aboots soom music?”, slurred Covington, apparently regaining consciousness. The rest of the staff,
hearing his voice and listening to it with their various ears, paused in their singing – if singing it could be called. “Hey! Fecal! ‘Ow’s aboot some wireless!”, Covington called out to the driver. Fecal offhandedly punched the radio buttons and dials and twisted them randomly until a scratchy station was heard. Lady Weasel sighed again (in relief, this time) at the change in background noise – if noise it could have been called. Smiling at the bright and cheery mandolin tune, she listened:

“Everyone has fantasies – dreams they want to chase.
Mine are in a magical forest, where the following takes place.”

All aboard the bus were smiling now, as the perky tune continued:

“Fields of rainbows, lollypop trees, and no one near’s forlorn.
I can fullfull my deepest desires, and ……..* ”

“NO!”, Lady Weasel screamed, fisting the radio with a quick left hook, utterly destroying it. Hay puffed from the radio compartment, settling onto the Fecal’s feet. Turning to face the back of the bus, she waved her arms excitedly and cried out, “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall….”

*****

Back at the now-deserted Badgerbugger Estate, not a creature was stirring. Not even a mouse.

A shadow moved, and separated from the gloomy dark surrounding the shadows of the topiary. A furtive figure
detached itself from the shadows (excepting its own, of course) and stealthily – but still kind of furtively – approached the dropped thurible laying on the lawn.

Straightening its stance and holding the small golden object skyward towards the looming and ominous thunderclouds, the no-longer furtive figure cried, “I will avenge thee!”

It was at this moment that a lightning bolt struck the thurible full-on, and, being in a frisky mood, proceeded to
vaporize the previously furtive figure into a greasy and slightly foetid mound of powder. The thurible was never seen again.
*****

(*) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=agyTFHAZxFo

Wow, Lokki. That was a hard quarantine. Usually, you get put in the ‘take a look at this’ cell. Today, you got put in the ‘spam for sure’ cell. And only one little orthodox link.

Akismet hates you. That’s all.

Lokki,

Those are really, really,….socks. Yep. (squinting in the glare)…and they’re all different-colored, too.

Boone’s Lick (around here, anyway) is allegedly named so because Dan’l B tended to locate salt licks strategically (or all over the place, seems to me) to attract game – deer, I guess. Y’know – so he could shoot ’em. And eat ’em.

Um…I’m surprised those socks didn’t bust The Filter. Photons, you know. Photons.

Either I forgot to hit post or…
I think I got quaranteed for saying Lokki made me laugh out loud?

The implications for poor Lokki if this is true. The man is out to get him.

quaranteed is not really a word, is it? What I meant to say was

quarantined

Since Lokki is almost guaranteed to be quarantined at any given instant, I think its a good, useful contraction-thingy, Dawn.

Princess Bernie: It’s not the unnecessary probing that you should be wary of, it’s the unwelcome probing.

Dawn:

The true significance of Ben’s Bells is realized not when one finds a Ben’s Bell, but when one stakes out a likely spot, catches some “community member” hanging a Ben’s bell there, and then disembowels said “community member” for being such a sappy hopeless schmuck. Future generations of human beings, their IQs thusly raised via this impromptu gene-cleansing, will thank you for your kindness.

And now, to kick-start a moribund thread, a poem for the hopeless romantic in all of us:

If I should meet the man and wife
Who’ve lived and loved for all their life–
I’ll knock her up,
I’ll knock him down,
I’ll piss into their coffee grounds.

**McGoo never sleeps! Have at you!***

And Why?, you ask, commit this act
Against said couple’s marriage pact
A dab of stress
To ‘fresh their vow
Makes married life the cat’s meow!

(And also – percolator’s grunge)
(Is best removed with acid plunge)
(It might well stink)
(It might well steam)
(But – Oh! – How brightly it’ll gleam!)

Ya didn’t think – oh, surely not?
I’d long-constrain the vulgar rot
That spews compleat
from ‘neath my bean
My muse is best viewed as – obscene.

I have a play.
It’s just one act.
I call it “Crap”
Pulled from my crack.

I was Filtered – for no reason! How rude!

Well, ya gotta get up pretty early in the morning to do that to McGoo and get away with it! I will simply resort to my backup and skillful disguise:

And Why?, you ask, commit this act
Against said couple’s marriage pact
A dab of stress
To ‘fresh their vow
Makes married life the cat’s meow!

(And also – percolator’s grunge)
(Is best removed with acid plunge)
(It might well stink)
(It might well steam)
(But – Oh! – How brightly it’ll gleam!)

Ya didn’t think – oh, surely not?
I’d long-constrain the vulgar rot
That spews compleat
from ‘neath my bean
My muse is best viewed as – obscene.

I have a play.
It’s just one act.
I call it “Crap”
Pulled from my crack.

Madame Weasel,

If you would be so kind as to delete my recently – imprisoned missive? I have already successfully inflicted it upon the masses (the li’l darlings) through alternative channels – and I abhore redundency. Besided, it will no-doubt be…soiled.

I am – as always – your humble and loyal scribe,

-McGoo-

Oops. Guess I forgot to wipe. Eeww.

Schmuck-hunting man
No bells or whistles for him.
Only a flensing knife.

The skin of a schmuck
Surely makes the best of condoms,
Wallets and purses.

Aaah, crud. A miscount. Rats.

I shall now adjourn to Denny’s to break my fast and amuse myself fucking with any emo’s loitering about.

Emos. Ya can’t just fuck with one. Now where’s my squirtgun and balloon noisemaker?

Early morning – it’s the best time of the day.

It’s good to be alive!

No emos. Rats.

Just two goth pigmongers – Pharmaceutically enhanced, I suspect.

What’s the difference? Did you say, ‘Cheer up – might never happen’ to them?
Have you noticed that around 50% of the female goth/emo/spoiled middle-class brat population are fucking foxy? What a waste.

Good question, Gibby. Without going into a long monologue on the subtleties of Emo/Goth taxomony (which I’m quite willing to do), the emo seems to suffer from chronic depression while the goth can simply be a carrier of depression (much like a Typhoid Mary) to others while not being depressed him/herself. Goths also need not be depressive at all – they simply have an attitude.

The distinction may seem trivial, but its important to note when fucking with them.

Foxy? Damned tootin’! Yer talkin’ to a professional dirty old man here. Black belt in lust-fu. Class of ’92. But I consider that Denny’s trip a wasted (waisted? hee!) trip. Half the goth babes that are usually in there are sweet, sweet jailbait.

These were Double Whoppers with sweatsauce.

We appear to be Weasel-less? No new post? I’m mildly chagrined…has her future-history gone awry?

Taxomony? Swell…

Why is it that no matter how carefully I proofread, the typos elude me until I hit post, at which time the spotlights are seemingly turned on full wattage and pointed to each and every one? Is this a peversity of the universe in general, or am I being picked on specifically?

Oh, well. Back to to…what I was doin’. What was I doin’?

McGoo – your truely excellent poetic work has earned you an extra shot of vodka to go with your eggs at Denny’s. Hell, buy one for your muse (who has obviously realized her mistake and returned to you) too, and send me the bill.

JW – Glad to see that you woke this morning full of piss and vinegar. It’s a wonderful morning for homewrecking!

Dawn – We are touched and deeply moved that someone thought enough of you to award such a lovely token recognizing your value as a good neighbor and wonderful human being. For a small cash amount, mailed weekly, we might be able to reach an agreement whereby your Bens-Ball awarding friends and neighbors would continue to think well of you through blissful ignorance. Just a thought. You could start by paying for McGoo and his mistress’ muse’s morning vodkas. Details and negatives to follow. Look in your mailbox for a plain brown envelope with no return address.

Princess B – Is your heart still aflutter from the tango? If so, watch out for Gibby probably does, in fact, know how to tango (or will at least tell you he does long enough to get you to his apartment to see his tango etchings).

Tattooed Intellectual – You have been so strangely quiet that I am beginning to believe that something genetically modified has gotten you. I suspect a strawberry which was supposed to have a flounder gene in to (to protect it from frost damage) really got a shark gene and it has eaten YOU instead

Aw – heck. Thanks, Lokki!

Yep. The Muse is pootin’ out fairly regular again. Valu-rite with the Moons Over My Hammy helps a lot. I’m pleased, althought my laundry is suffering.

I do seem to have forgotten how to count syllables, though. Outa practice, I guess. Or we could call it a new poem format – the Achoo – modeled roughly on the germanic Gesundheit form.

Where is Weasel’s Hari Seldon today?

Dawn – I didn’t know what one of those ball-thingys were until later. Hey – I’m slow. So shoot me. Then I stayed away from the subject because my mouth tends get a way from me. I know that’s hard to believe, but its true.

I can think of no one who more richly deserves one, and the thought that went with it. Bless you and yours.

I dated a great great great nephew of Kit Carson. He was my rebound relationship after my divorce. He didn’t break my heart, but he did bruise it. Nevertheless, he’ll always have a special place in my heart.

And speaking of licks, there’s a great state park here in Kentucky – Big Bone Lick State Park. They sell a LOT of t-shirts in their gift shop. Wonder why…

Well, that park obviously wasn’t named after a salt lick.

My ancestors (Mom’s side) came from Kentucky, BTW.

Um, that is, they came from Kentucky after they had arrived there from somewhere else. But you knew that. Sorry. Residual purple. The shit gets all over everything.

There are still a lot of – ahem – “McGoos” in the Beaver Dam area. Beautiful state, I must say.