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Wish us luck

weasel's moving day


Comment from jwpaine
Time: October 19, 2007, 12:02 pm

luv teh lolstoats theme

Comment from Lokki
Time: October 19, 2007, 12:16 pm

I can haz inkomprehensabl sentenz?

Comment from Gibby Haynes
Time: October 19, 2007, 12:18 pm

Hey, the weasel came back to life. Well, I’ll be a son of a monkey.
Good luck with the move. If nothing else it’ll give McGoo some more material.
Nice day for it.

Comment from jwpaine
Time: October 19, 2007, 1:34 pm

i shulda sed ‘theem’

Comment from Jessica
Time: October 19, 2007, 2:30 pm

I can’t believe you’re really moving. I’m going to miss you! Say hi to Uncle Stoaty for me!

Comment from Lokki
Time: October 19, 2007, 2:43 pm

As Agent 7 drove, without lights, down the garden lane away from the Coastal Property mansion, he shuddered at the thought of what the insanely vicious Shorodinger’s ferret would do to the mansion’s inhabitants. As his mind’s eye blinked furiously to clear itself of the splattering blood he was envisioning, his car was nearly hit by a careening bus which came roaring up the garden path towards him and towards the mansion.

The bus was painted an indistinct shade of cheap grey and had no lights on as it careened past. The sides of the bus had either been spottily patched with a different shade of paint or were vomit-stained. He might of thought the mystery bus was just another phantom in his brain except that it was making the most peculiar sound…. it sounded like at least a score of morons were singing “ninety nine bottles of beer on the wall…”. Ghosts are rarely so vocal or so drunk, he realized, so the damned thing must be real.

Agent 7 stopped his car and looked back over his shoulder to see the red brake lights flashing as the bus skidded to a stop in front of the regal mansion. He could also see the red eyes of Shrodinger’s ferret – gleaming hot as coals – reflecting the light from the Bus’ stop lamps as it scurried towards the bus looking for its first victim. Apparently the smell of warm fresh and edible flesh coming from the bus was stronger than that wafting from the mansion and the ravenous ferret had redirected its attention to the closer target.

The ferret moved rapidly now and crouched just behind the front tire of the bus; ready to attack the instant the bus door opened and a leg presented itself to the ferret’s razor-like teeth. Meanwhile, inside the bus, Lady Weasel had pushed her way through the partying workers, over Covington’s apparently dead but actually only comatosely drunk body, and was urging the driver to open the door. She would be the first passenger off. The bathroom and the bidet were waiting for her, and she could wait little longer for them. “I rarely smell fresh”, she reflected sadly. Then she laughed aloud. “I’m starting to sound like an old bidet-body!”, she thought. “Hello Grandma; I’m becoming just like you, always sniffing for something rotten!”

She pushed the bus door open and started down the steps. However – just as her foot was about to touch the ground, the bus suddenly lurched backwards! Covington had risen from his drunkeness and had run to the driver’s seat of the bus! He released the emergency brake lever, turned the steering wheel, and started honking the horn as the bus rolled instantly backwards!. “Ha!” he shouted, “Ha! And they said I couldn’t drive this boat! I’ll show ’em! Flaps UP!”

The driver blocked Covington’s game with the assistance of a convenient empty Gin Bottle. As the bottle was made for domestic consumption in England, the glas was particularly thick. It scarcely cracked, despite the tremendous cracking sound that it (or Covington’s skull) made. “Bloody mucking wanker” muttered the driver, “That’s three times now!”

Thus just as Lady Badgerbugger was about to exit the bus, she was thrown violently against the side of the bus stairs.
Fortunately, she barely spilled her drink, and her hair actually looked better now than it had for hours.

To his amazement, Agent 7 saw that the rolling bus had crushed Shrodinger’s ferret flat as a bunny with a pancake on its head. He couldn’t be sure what had happened from his vantage point, but he had seen Covenington launch himself at the bus’ controls.

Now, dying, the ferret shook with rage. In its final act of defiance it chewed a hole in the fender of the bus, locking its teeth into the metal.
Lady Weasel saw nothing of this as she sprinted out of the bus and towards the safety of the mansion. However, Agent 7 saw his target safely look the door behind her even as the rest of the staff tried to walk over Covenington to exit the bus.

Agent 7 rested his head on the steering wheel for a moment, eyes closed. Then, good soldier, he picked up his cell phone. His phone rang twice and then a man’s voice answered. “Speak”, the voice commanded. This is the Red Pony calling regarding the Grapes of Wrath, and I want to speak to King Pippen.” said Agent 7 wearily. “Is tortilla Flat?” asked the telephone. “Nothing So Monstrous”, replied Agent 7. ” In Dubious Battle, a Wayward Bus saved the Pearl from Cannery Row.”

There was a long pause on the phone. “We are in the Winter of our Discontent. Expect the Grapes of Wrath when the moon is down”. The phone clicked once and was dead.

Agent 7 rested his head on the cool steering wheel again. Cursed Covington had done it again! He had not had the nerve to tell Drakinor that part yet. He was angry enough as it was. Angry enough to pluck a chicken. Agent 7 reached out without looking up and opened the glove box. Inside, his hand found the cold metal of his Smith and Hawkins ’44. An old friend, it felt good in his hand. “Now to find peace”, he thought. He tossed the weapon aside and reached for the travel brochures of Spain, with his travel agent’s home phone number on them.

Comment from Steamboat McGoo
Time: October 19, 2007, 5:41 pm

Lord Badgerbugger paused in his labours when he espied the bus chugging over the most distant hill on the horizon. Turning to his manservant, he rumbled jovially , “Piebald! Observe! My lovely wife and the Badgerbugger estate staff are come! Bravo! Good show!” Dropping his putty knife and hurriedly climbing down from the dromedary stepladder, he hastily wiped his hands on the ever-present Pibalds ready tunic, and then, after honking his noble nose on Piebalds left sleeve, cast about for his panties. “Piebald! Hurry now – its getting dark! Mustn’t keep Lady Weasel waiting!”

Silently raising his right arm, Piebald handed the dainty pink garment to his lord and master, who quickly donned them and the remainder of the accoutrements of a person of wealth and dignity. Stepping outside and to the side of the large immaculately clean barn, Lord Burgerbugger dropped his zipper and began to wee against a convenient oak whilst quietly mumbling “….Stella! Stella!…,” in his deep, baritone mumble.

“His sun bonnet is especially fetching today,” thought Piebald, climbing into the golf cart and waiting for his master to finish bidness. Standing in the golfcart, Piebald could see – far in the distance – that the bus had stopped near the Old Guard Quarters of the old estate at the very far end of the garden lane just 4 miles – some 1.15 leagues – or something like 32 furlongs – a mere 7040 yards. There seemed to be quite a commotion for a bit, with a great deal of to’ing and fro’ing from the abandoned quarters, and the faint sounds of speech. The words “What! There’s no TP on the entire bus!” could be heard distinctly, and much muttering of a less-distinct nature – followed by the distinctive “TINK!!” of an empty gin bottle against a skull.

“Hmph!,” Piebald thought, “They’ve stopped at the Old Guard House by mistake. M’lady has no-doubt mistaken it for the main house. That often happens to newcomers in the waning light.” Squeezing firmly on the squeezy-bulb of the cart horn, the plaintive “Whaaannnkkkrr” sound was heard far and wide. Soon the bus could be seen to be moving again, albeit jerkily and in an irregular and non-mooth fashion. More distinctly, he could hear the “Ninety-nine bottles of beer…” song that was the favorite of domestic help everywhere.

Lord Badgerbugger – having finished his wee, quickly climbed aboard the transport and they were on their way to the front of the main house. Knowing his master’s tastes, Piebald flipped on the onboard TV to Badgerbuggers favorite show. From the tinny speaker was heard, ” … Gotta save … Intelligent Design! … Gotta save Pico! … Spartan dog! … French poodle! … Aieeee! … Trojan pig! … Got yer nose! … Tickle Me Elmo … * ”


(*) http://www.youtube.com/watch.php?v=HkyP40Y2Mqg&feature=Recent&page=1&t=t&f=b

Comment from EW1(SG)
Time: October 19, 2007, 8:14 pm

Luck, luv!

Comment from Steamboat McGoo
Time: October 19, 2007, 9:31 pm

In the promethian bottom days,
When we carroted to and fro
A round potato paid the way
When we’d finish, we’d just go.

Eminently plaid were her firm white feet
The painted shoe still climbward tree’d
From westward descent the sun rose east
Thus violating the pedestrian steed.

A push. A shove. A thrust, begun.
Between. In front. From where? Unsung.
Around. Intoned. Rehashed. Restrung.
A leg. A arm. A mind. A tongue.

i wanna be
a sig tau ranger.
i wanna live
a life of danger.
i got shit
for a brain.

Note from McGoo:
It was not – as historians would have us believe – dysentary and two grains of opium that sent Samuel Taylor Coleridge off on his visionary whoopee that resulted in the epic poem “Kubla Khan”.

I now firmly believe that it was simply a screaming bitch of a head cold, 2 caps of Vicks NyQuil, two Advil, and two Boulivard Wheat beers swallowed quickly from a frosty, frozen glass mug (all provided by a MILF neighbor who felt I had not been drinking anywhere near enough fluids. The sweet dear!). And damned little sleep.

I’m sharing this in much the same way a friend will call one over to see an acceptionally odd fungal growth in the bottom of a long-neglected trashcan. I wonder where the hell that muse-crap came from? The sig tau stuff rings a faint bell, but….well…duh?

You’re welcome.

Comment from jwpaine
Time: October 20, 2007, 12:40 am

um, thank you?

Comment from Steamboat McGoo
Time: October 20, 2007, 4:44 am

Yep. I knew you’d thank me, jw – no doubt for the new but unexciting way of spelling “exceptionally”. Christ I wish wordpress had a spellchecker.

I wish it had a delete function, too.

I wonder how Weasel & Badger are doin’? Well, I hope.

Lokki, I’ve given it long seconds of consideration, and I now (tentatively) believe that dropping a live ferret down ones pants is unwise. Call me a prude, but – well – there you have it.

Comment from Dawn
Time: October 20, 2007, 10:20 am

I see your Canadian buggery and raise you http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DGJTWN4A4Lg

Comment from Lokki
Time: October 20, 2007, 10:59 am

Dawn – that’s a helluva drama.

I can see how you can get addicted to that stuff. Is this a cry for help from you or a suggestion that perhap, ahem, one of US should go quietly?

I can tell you now, that JW is armed to the teeth and will have to be taken by surprise. McGoo is easy; one more Nyquil and a beer will get him to do anything. I know you’re not talking about me, ’cause I’m the only normal one, see? And it would be dangerous don’t ever call me crazy or I’ll cut your heart out and eat it!

Does the place have a nice view and do you get your choice of how you want your eggs in the morning?

Comment from Dawn
Time: October 20, 2007, 11:26 am

Lokki – I just thought it was funny. But now that you mention it……

Comment from Steamboat McGoo
Time: October 20, 2007, 11:33 am

I knew that ferret-down-the-pants remark was over the top. I guess I’ve tipped my hand.

Either that or Dawn watched the next several “eppysodes” of Hardtack Montana. God, I hope not.

Just wait for my later installments, Dawn. We’ll meet Fenulum, Lady Weasels new manservant, and we’ll ask the question, “Do the scullery maid’s legs go all the way up?”

And Agent 7 may find love and adventure in Spain amongst the bulls.

Comment from Steamboat McGoo
Time: October 20, 2007, 11:48 am

That’s “…Running amongst the bulls.”

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