sweasel.com

Lady Weasel, lay back in her warm bath, her head on the bath pillow, the scent of her chamomile tea wafting towards her from the Wedgeworth cup in the holder at the edge of the tub.

Suddenly she heard two shockingly loud BOOMs from seemingly right outside the window of her bath. Gasping, she sat straight up, the bubbles from the French Happy Frog Brand ™ bubblebath fortunately clinging to her bosoms and concealing them from the pruriently interested view of our now disappointed readers.

Looking out the window, she saw Lord Badgerbugger high in the old oak that graced the western garden. She next saw that a small hunter’s perch had been attached high in the tree at just the right level to peer into her private sanctuary – her secret haven – her bath. She was shocked by the realization that washed through her – chilled her to the bone – even in steaming hot water of the tub. Lord Badgerbugger had been spying on her in her bath. He had been doing it often enough that he had built a seat in the old oak so that he would be more comfortable in his lechery. And today, in the excitement of his, ahem, discharge he had accidentally discharged his shotgun as well –twice! She knew only all too well about that. It had happened before – but she suddenly realized – only as far as she knew -in the privacy of their bedroom.

A tear ran down her cheek, and then another, and then a flood. Her lovely features were suddenly distorted and red; her beauty ruined in an instant by her sorrow. Lord Badgerbugger a pervert!. Well, she’d known that he had his ways and that not all of them were exactly normal but this she had not expected.

Her life was ruined. Her happy marriage over. She wanted to flee, somewhere, anywhere! A place where Lord Badgerbugger would never, ever think to find her! What was that place with the terrible beans which he hated so much? The place where the Baseball team (not even a proper Cricket team, he’d sneered) were more known for their propensity to red foot coverings than for their skills? Baaston! Yes, she would flee the beast there. She would paark her ca in Baaston yad. She stood up in the bath, leaving our readers with a vision of tear stained loveliness hidden only by the product of our sponsors for this segment Happy Frog Brand ™ bubble bath. The bubble bath that pops and hops and leaves your skin smooth as any frogs.
Yes! Life in England was over –forever for her! She would never see the beautiful Coastal Property again.

Get me! I’m posting from Heathrow!

UNCLE B!! Yo! If you get the innernets before we speak, I made it. Driver was good (fast, but good). Here in very good time. Everything is routed around differently at Terminal 3. Well. It’s always different. Security is VERY slow; they’re clearly giving it extra scrutiny today. Lots of drama and frayed tempers, which I guess is the point of the exercise.

I’d send email or a top-level post or something, but I don’t like to do password thingies in public terminals. This connection is crap. Anyhow. You know. Smoochies and stuff.

See y’all out the other end…

Lokki’s Muse stormed into his office. “ I’m leaving too, she told him, eyes flashing lightening bolts at him so intensely that he could smell the paneling on the wall behind him burning away.

Lokki gaped at her, like a moron. “Huh?” he said, suddenly at a loss for words. “Why?”.

“You’ve killed another thread”she said. “And all my friends are saying that I helped you do it.

Well, I didn’t! All I did was laugh at a few of your stupid jokes and tell you to keep writing”

“Wha?” said Lokki, his tongue seemingly as inoperable as his brain.

“Let me make it simple for you, moron”said the muse, tossing her golden hair, and then closing her gray eyes tightly. She spoke as if she were talking to a child and had finally exhausted all her patience. “You’re blog-hogging and no one else is saying anything”.

“Well, er, ah” tried Lokki.

“Shut up” she explained, and vanished.

Lokki was left speechless, with nothing more to say.

*****
Scratching his ample, fish-like, pasty belly, Steamboat McGoo sipped his morning scotch and belched meditatively as he surfed the web, squinting at the b&w 13 inch monitor that
was all he cared to spend money on. Pausing briefly to remote-surf the tv (another b&w 13) through the uncountable cable channels he received by piggybacking for free on an unsuspecting neighbors cable box, he noted that Opra isn’t on yet.

Turning back to his net surfing, he notes Lokkis remarks on Weasel’s site and rouses himself:

“Hey! Ho’! Git in here!”

From the kitchen his domestic Muse scrambles immediately, trembling, wary of his ire.

“Lokki’s in trouble. I need one thousand words pronto – and git me another fifth of Old Shoe Leather. This one’s about empty! Now move, bitch!”

Nodding wordlessly, she grabs another bottle from the open case near the living room door. Then…she pauses.

She looks at the bottle, and then looks at the back of McGoo’s balding head peeking over the old, tattered comfy chair in front of his pathetic PC setup. She looks at the bottle again.

Suddenly, hefting the bottle like a …bottle … she swings it at his head with all the force in her arms.

Ti-bonk! Went the bottle, sounding much like an empty British gin bottle – or the support beams in an old country estate. Or a mix of the two.

“Oof!”, went Steamboat, crumpling to the floor, sounding much like…a Steamboat crumpling to the floor with an oof-like sound.

Picking up his cell phone and dialing Lokki-Muse’s number, she waits until it is answered and reports, “OK. He’s bonked. Now, where do you want to go shopping?”

*****

I wish I still had a muse. I think I saw it once, but I panicked (it was a donkey with boombox) and kicked it to death and buried it in the woods. That’s why I can’t write for shit.
The English are perverts though. Frank Zappa alleged it in ‘200 Motels’ and who are we to question him? No-one, that’s who.
Uh, anyway, call me old-fashioned, but I’m glad security is tight at the airports. Very glad.

“I wish I still had a muse.” -Gibby-

“Want one?” (McGoo rubs head and applies icepack.)

I agree with Gibby. I hope our Weasel is well-protected whilst traveling.

Weas’: Watch out for feather boas. That swarthy guy behind you looks suspicious.

** And may the airport proctology police pass you by! **

Maybe this muse would do:
http://opioids.com/opium/history/opium.gif
Seems to work wonders with others. Though I don’t doubt that there has to be a talent there in the first place.

“No thanks.” Heh.

I took a cab to New Bedford to seek out Elijah, the ol’ drunk, just to – you know – make sure Weasel’s plane will be ok.

Following my nose I quickly found him, hiding underneath a 6-ton rotting mound of Gefilte fish and old onions – where he’d built a nest. His odor was unmistakable.

Slapping the shit out of him and waving Old Shoe Leather under his schnozola until he regained consciousness, I ask innocently, “So, ah, what’s new, dude?”

He cried, “Weasel! A day will come when you see a Coastal Property where there was no Coastal Property – and on that day a crow’s nest will go to it’s grave! And the chimney
will smoke! And the badger’s will fail to come! And there will be peanuts for all the birds! But one – one, I say! – only one googled “peanut lady fuck”!

“No! That was last week, ya old fart! Today! I need news for today!” I screamed at him, shaking with rage.

“Oh. Hang on.” Bending over and breaking wind, he paused a moment, and then spouted,

“Weasel, a day will come where two Muses walk out on their respective…oof!”

Removing my fist from deep within his belly, I grabbed him by the facecheeks, puckering them mightily, and spat, “No. That. Was. Earlier. I want. Later.”

“Well, why din’ja shay so? Ahem…….!”

“Weasel, a day will come like every other day, and no planes will hit the ground unexpectedly or in the wrong place. And the Democrats will continue to entertain whilst accomplishing nothing of note. And the War in Iraq will continue to go Our Way. And the French will continue to be nicer than before. And OJ will begin to Get His. And all – all! – all Weasel’s minions will be heartily glad she’s back!”

I need a minion costume, but this is the best I can find.

Any idears?

Weasel back home now
Cats pile on supine lady.
She’s plumb tuckered out

Minions clamor
Wanting photos and details
Weasel needs weekend?

Badger hears silence
Big estate way too big now
For winter alone.

Badger is patient
Springtime is not far away
Bonks his head, pacing.

Pup’ –

I been thinkin’ all day, but – well – no suggestions. Well, no non-vulgar ones, anyway.

Not far wrong, McGoo…. the house is very quiet.

Then again, at least I can get my train set out on the living room floor…

‘Train set’ is a euphemism, right?
Yeah, I like playing with my train set too. It usually concludes with a feeling of fatigue and overwhelming sense of shame, especially if I’m interrupted whilst playing with my train set.
But that doesn’t stop me wanting to play with my trainset again. Indeed, I suppose you could call me somewhat of an enthusiast. I make it my mission in life to introduce everyone, from all walks of life, to the the joys of playing with trainsets.

Playing with trainsets.
So misunderstood today.
Won’t really go blind.

Lokki slowly and painfully woke. He was, he realized, lying on the floor of his office, wearing the dirty and disheveled suit that he’d come to work in the day before. Opening his eyes, he recognized the remnants of a broken and emptied Old Shoe Leather ® bottle lying immediately front of his nose. His head ached terribly and his mouth tasted of ashes. Something close by smelled bad; very, very bad.

He knew he was alone, and worse than that, on his own in the world. No one loved him. No one would help him write. No one would feed him, and very certainly, no one would lend him any more money. The bitch at the liquor store had refused him any more credit and, when offered his genuine RLEX watch for a bottle of Old Shoe Leather ® , she’d had the nerve to suggest it was a fake and reject it. He knew that his hands would start to tremble again soon. He was not good at being alone.

At first when his muse had left him, he’d enjoyed the freedom her departure had given him. He’d broken out the booze, and made a liverwurst and onion sandwich. He’d dug out the old Aerosmith records and cranked them up. After the sun had gone fully down, he’d even gotten out the train set- carefully closing the blinds and locking all the doors as a precaution against surprise police interruptions.

Even now, the memory of that pleasure made him smile through his sadness. ”Whoo, Whoooo! he’d tried softly, but the attempt had sounded as sad as the whistle on Old Number 638 the day after Casey Jones had died. Whoo, Whoo, indeed. “Was there any point in living?”, he thought. He pondered his options. Third floor office meant that jumping was iffy. Steamboat and he had shot up all the ammunition the night before, so that was out. Same problem with all the pills in the medicine cabinet – even the ExLax was gone. Hanging had it’s problems because of the racist implications in making a noose. There was only one possibility left him.

He would die at his post, a model of dedication despite exhaustion and starvation, like Robert Scott, the noble British Antarctic Explorer whose emaciated body was finally found frozen rigid 100 years later. Well, Lokki would be found at his post, like Scott. He picked himself up, painful limb by painful limb off the floor. Searching, he was amazed to see his broken keyboard, although half the keys were gone, was still attached to his computer. He poked at it tentatively . Crazy symbols appeared on his cracked screen.

“Forsaken by my Muse and bedamned! (and dry as Baptist Preacher on Sunday morning)”, he thought, but he couldn’t leave Lady Weasel forever in misunderstanding of her only true love, Lord Badgerbugger…. He truely loved her, and she, him. With shaking hands, through tears, he began to write:

As his finger touched the remnants of the “A” key – Pupster burst through the door, carrying two drycleaner’s bags and an open bottle of Raw Shoe Leather – a poor man’s white label scotch. “Knock that Shit OFF, Boogernose!, he shouted.

Have a swig of this and put on your Minion costume and come with me to the Halloween Party. Trick or Treat! There’s be girls there, nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Gabby is going to meet us there dressed as a Train Engineer and Steamboat is coming as a -get this- Steam Boat – and Dawn and PorknBean are coming as?

Can I come? I’m already dressed as June Cleaver.

Somebody stop Gabby, that bastard stole my costume.

Sorry Gibby –

Some times I get my Gibby Haynes confused with my Gabby Hayes

http://www.gabbyhayes.org/

I’m coming as she:
http://www.kochanowicz.com/AmishCouple.JPG