Free Mark Steyn! (Relatively inexpensive Mark Steyn, anyhow)
Today begins the showtrial of Mark Steyn before a ‘human rights’ tribunal. He wrote an article critical of Islam in Maclean’s magazine, which was enough to generate a complaint under British Columbia’s Human Rights Code. Per the code, “A person must not publish, issue or display, or cause to be published, issued or displayed, any statement, publication, notice, sign, symbol, emblem or other representation that…is likely to expose a person or a group or class of persons to hatred or contempt.”
Got that? Contempt is illegal in Canada. I cannot tell you how much contempt that makes me feel.
If he’s found guilty, he can be forbidden from writing about certain topics (in this case, Islam) under pain of imprisonment. I believe Steyn is a naturalized American citizen, so good luck with that one, Canuckitards.
This demo leaflet from Covenant Zone is a good refresher, if you need it.
I don’t know how interesting the blow-by-blow is likely to be, but Andrew Coyne of Maclean’s will be live-blogging it beginning at 12:30 today. I believe that’s Eastern time. Just keep refreshing.
Other interested blogs that will surely have something to say: Free Mark Steyn, Ezra Levant, Five Feet of Fury and Small Dead Animals.
I believe it’s scheduled to go on all week, so we’ve got something to read about other than the freaking ’08 elections for a damn change.
June 2, 2008 — 10:32 am
Comments: 69
Electric weasel
As a special Friday thank-you to my dear readers I’M GOING TO FRY YOUR RETINAS.
The woman who sits next to me was on vacation this week. She expected a delivery of CD’s for a trade show to arrive Thursday. I was supposed to open it, test one, keep five for our records, and overnight the box to the London office.
Gotcha. I’m supposed to blah blah blah blah. Good thing she sent me an email.
Just as I was drifting off to sleep last night, I had a HOLY SHIT THE CD’S DIDN’T COME moment. And then I had a HOLY SHIT I’M A BEAUTIFUL FAIRY PRINCESS moment, pulled the covers over my head and drifted away.
Between you and me, the woman who sits next to me scares me shitless. She was once legendary for her sweaty, screaming tirades (“it was the hormones they had me on,” she told me later). The conflicts between me and the woman who sits next to me were so frequent and so bitter that our mutual boss referred to us as sisters. Just to piss us off. We’ve mellowed a lot over the years, but I’d still rather eat sharp, rusty things than screw with TWWSNTM.
So I’ve spent all morning tracking down that package. It was delivered Wednesday, badly addressed, and found itself with no label at all in the cubicle of the office bing-bong (“how long do you think she’d’ve sat on it if we hadn’t come looking?” my boss wondered aloud). It looked like it had been drop-kicked by an earth elemental. Everything tested out okay, though, and I got it back in the mail.
I don’t care where you work, I guarantee the guy who works in your mailroom thinks his job is fascinating. That’s a good thing, or we’d be training a new one every six months after the old one dragged himself home and smoked a Buick. But damn I could’ve lived without True Wild West Tales of the Customs Declaration Forms this morning. Just mail the thing, Sunshine…don’t chant me a Norse Edda.
It won’t make deadline, but it won’t miss by much and they have some slack.
So, happy Friday! Join me in hoisting a tall frosty…glass of…vodka and tonic in honor of TWWSNTM and Boring Mailroom Guy. Where would we be without them?
Where indeed?
May 30, 2008 — 3:27 pm
Comments: 40
My daddy didn’t buy a cow, and I won’t either
Ten years ago, I bought a six-shooter in a little shop in Alexandria, Tennessee. Buying a gun is a wingnut bonding ritual; it involves telling each other progressively wingnuttier stories for an hour or two before getting down to bidness. Thus, the buyer knows the seller is an honest man and the seller knows the buyer isn’t a BATF agent trying to trip him up and nick his license.
Anyhow, the shopkeep told me that Al Gore, Sr, ran a crooked cattle auction in nearby Carthage. People would come from all over (“desert sheiks in robes and all kind of thing”) to pay way over the odds for an angus cow that they, like as not, never even picked up. One man, asked on the way out what to do with the grievously overpriced cow he’d just bought, shrugged and said, “throw it in the grinder, I guess.” He didn’t buy a cow, he bought a sitting Senator.
I didn’t think much of the story, but last time I was home, I remembered to ask my dad if it was true. His face lit up, “you bet it’s true!” When he came to Nashville in the ’60s to take a position in Democrat Frank Clement’s government (my dad’s a Republican, duh), somebody took him aside and told him, “Son, you’d better buy a cow.”
Al Senior was a slick, sharp, old school Southern fraud. His son is a different flavor of phony altogether. I’ve never met him, but he’s a sort of a FOAF. My impression? Sharp as a bag of wet mice; a cipher; a bozo; an empty vessel, hollowed out to hold his father’s ambitions.
Politicians have issues the way the Senior Prom has a theme. Ex-military men become the military guy, unchallengable on all things military. Ex-doctors are experts not just on medical issues, they are the compassion guy. Women and minorities are women and minorities.
Legislators without a built-in hook generally pick one at random (this helpful video explains the process). Al picked the environment.
I believe he is genuinely puzzled that anyone would take him to task for flying around the world to tell people not to fly so much. So what if one of his three mansions uses twenty times the electricity of the average family? Don’t you get it? He’s the Environment Guy. Except when he’s wearing an eyepatch — then he’s a pirate!
That was my rambling preamble for grassfire.org‘s Carbon Belch Day. Thursday, June 12th, turn on your space heaters, open a window, set fire to something (or someone!), fart, drive around in circles, eat meat, mow the lawn. Take the pledge! DO NOT BUY THE GORE FAMBLY COW!
May 29, 2008 — 10:47 am
Comments: 72
2 br, 1.5 ba, 1 wzl
Somebody was scheduled to come by and look at the house tonight, but my real estate agent just called to say he canceled.
“I don’t know why,” she said, “he drove by the house yesterday morning and liked it, but he drove by again later and there was something he didn’t like.”
I’m guessing that thing was…me. In my new Wal*Mart lawn chair. With a book and a drink and a cat draped across me (no, the other one) like I’d just won the Miss Big Fat Housecat pageant and they gave me one for a sash.
Maybe it’s the change of seasons, or maybe I pushed so hard getting the house ready and looking for Damien that I have somehow exhausted my ordinarily inexhaustible reserves of gloom, anxiety and crank, but I’ve felt all float-y and peaceful this week. Like opiates, but without depleting my stash. All I want to do is sit in my chair and snooze in the sun.
Not to worry. I’ll have a shiny new hair across my ass before you can say, “fuck off and die in a fire!”
May 28, 2008 — 4:20 pm
Comments: 19
Positively the last ‘Weasel’s birthday’ post of 2008
What happens when you mix a Weasel, late hours, lots of alcohol, an upcoming birthday, a credit card and a sudden and unexpected NRA promotional email? You get the ENTIRE Charlton Heston commemmomerotive collection comin’ at you by mail, that’s what!
Check it: an autographed copy of the Courage to be Free, TWO ‘Cold Dead Hands’ t-shirts (one in blue and one in gray) and a be-logo’d and signatured commememomorative knife, in a signature tin (with a dent in it, dammit).
Yeah, I know. Commememmeorative knives suck. But until that logo wears off, I’m cleanin’ my fingernails with Charlton!
It’s the Friday before a long weekend. Knock yourselves out!
May 23, 2008 — 11:08 am
Comments: 33
Do not miss this!
they were born outside Callendar Ont,
you useless piece of shit ..
No, no. Our boy is only cracking his knuckles. Wait for it…
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
who was it that said nothing like this happens in the U.S.?
thats a laugh .
americans are brain washed into thinking they’re the shit ,
that they were the “main part” of every world war, and that they just own.
guess what bud some STUPID FUCKING AMERICANS posted Hitler as time magazines MAN OF THE YEAR IN 1939 , which btw was the start of WW2, you know the one where 55 million people died ?
oh yeah and also the one were the U.S. sat on there ass for the first half, and then jumped in at the end to get some credit .
oh wait that was also WW1,
and everything else you fat fucks do.
i dont have anything against the U.S., but i dont like naive people.
since your one of the most illiterate first world nations why dont you guys stop listening to media bullshit thats let out by the government of Bush(haha), learn how to read, pick up a history book, and learn how your COUNTRY IS NOT BETTER THAN ANY OTHER and if anything its corrupted, brainwashed, and obese.
Bee-yootiful. That’s what the real thing looks like, ladies and gentlemen.
My blog is complete.
May 22, 2008 — 2:24 pm
Comments: 72
Comfort from an unexpected quarter
No, this is not Damien. He’s still AWOL. I’ve been putting off one particular chore — visiting the pound in person — because I expected to be slapped in the face with a yowling slice of pussycat hell. Kitty Auschwitz. Okay, mostly I was bracing to fall in love with every cat in sight and be inconsolable when I couldn’t take them all home.
Instead, it was strangely comforting.
I signed in — name, address and phone number — and they pointed me to the Cat Room. It’s a small room with about 20 cages. Yesterday, there were five cats and one kitten. I was by myself in there. Yeah. It was smoochie time.
For a second, I thought I spotted Damien, but it was a little stripey female with a bit of brown on her coat and a rough, cigarette-y meow. Probably meowed herself hoarse, poor thing. She’d only been there a few days and she had a clear mark where a collar had been. It took me a while to locate the kitten. He was across from the others and coal black. I found him via his progressively angry mew, as in, “hey lady! Kitten being cute over here!”
I’m a hard-core cat watcher. I do my best not to anthropomorphize them or overestimate their intelligence, but I’d love to know exactly what goes on in those little hairy brain pans. There’s no doubt in my mind those cats knew the score. They were auditioning for me, and giving it their best shot (except the kitten, who doesn’t have to try). Not screaming and flailing, but displaying behaviors ten thousand generations of their kind employ to dissolve cat-loving slop-bags such as this writer into puddles of goo.
I know my guess is right, because they behaved very differently today. They recognized me. They were grateful for the ear skritches, but each one waited quietly and patiently for his or her turn.
Oh, yes. I went back today. The manager is a likeable, upbeat guy and very grateful when visitors spend time with the cats. Keeps them sociable and adoptable. And he’s moving them out, too; four got adopted Saturday. The Damien-like little girl was adopted while I was there. The kitten got snapped up later. New cats appeared in their places, of course. There are always more.
Okay. Yes. It’s sad that I have to leave them there. But I know I made those nice moggies feel better and, on balance, that made me happier than it made me sad.
I can’t go every day. They’re only open while I’m at work, it’s fifteen minutes each way and I only theoretically get a half-hour lunch. But I’m going back.
And next time, I’m bringing string.
UPDATE: okay, this is just weird. I was chatting with my neighbors in back, and one of them asked if that was my cat in the flyer, and when I said yes, she said, “but he’s been here all along. I know for sure I saw him Sunday, standing right there.”
From what I understand, there’s a litter of new kittens (or maybe just a gang of young cats) about, and another of my neighbors is feeding them. If he’s warm, fed and amongst friends…yeah, I guess I could see that. He always liked being around other cats, and Charlotte hates him with a flamey hate (and deservedly. He’s always trying to suckle her or steal her food).
If he’s fallen in with a mama cat who will let him nurse, he’s a very dirty boy. A very dirty boy I might not see again for a while.
May 20, 2008 — 2:40 pm
Comments: 25
Holy shit!
We can’t drive our SUVs and eat as much as we want and keep our homes on 72 degrees at all times … and then just expect that other countries are going to say OK,” Obama said.
“That’s not leadership. That’s not going to happen,” he added.
I’m gobsmacked. Floored. Stonked. Pole-axed. Out of synonyms for ‘fucking astonished.’ A candidate for President of the United States just told the American people he was going to force them to go hungry. So maybe the rest of the world will like us better.
WE CAN’T EAT AS MUCH AS WE WANT?
Shee-it.
May 19, 2008 — 10:33 am
Comments: 84
Behold, my last pack of cigarettes
You know why I smoked Benson & Hedges Deluxe Ultra Lights? Because that plain gold box is actually a nine-color printing job. If you disassemble the top flap, the printer’s marks are there, including the color swatches. (It’s that little coat of arms dealie: it has many tiny flecks of unique color. That, my pretend internet friends, is design chutzpah).
Yup. Artard.
I quit smoking eleven years ago Saturday (yes, yes…I meant to post on the tenth anniversary last year and I forgot, okay? I couldn’t quit with no cigarettes in the house — it would’ve made me crazy. Know what I mean? So I got down to this one pack and then quit.
My friends would have voted me Weasel Least Likely To Give up Her Goddamn Smokes While Still Possessing a Pulse. I started young, I smoked heavily and I loved the hell out of it. Plus, I hate The Man telling me what to do.
In the end, I was forced to quit because I was too addicted. I went batshit crazy if I had to go more than an hour without a smoke. But they kept clamping down on smoking until I was more or less perpetually batshit crazy for a cigarette.
Also, Uncle B quit and I knew he couldn’t stick it if I smoked around him. So you could say I quit for love. But please don’t say that because…ugh.
Observations, in no particular order:
- I got it on the first try and no cheating, because I told myself I only got one try (if you give yourself permission to cheat, you’ll cheat, m’kay?)
- Gum, patches…NONE of that helped. I didn’t want nicotine. I wanted to put a paper-wrapped cylinder of tobacco in my mouth and set fire to it.
- It didn’t hurt nearly as much as I expected, but it hurt for far, far longer. I probably went five years before I spent an entire day free of grief.
- Yes, grief. It felt like my best friend died.
- I got my sense of smell back.
- I discovered most things that smell, smell really bad
- I dropped twenty IQ points — bang — just like that.
Seriously, I went stupid after I quit smoking. I don’t read like I used to. I can’t program. I can’t concentrate any more. I can’t sit still. My nurse friend says all that nicotine was probably me self-medicating for ADD, but my nurse friend has panic attacks when she can’t get her Palm Pilot to sync, so…whatever.
As for the incredible rush of good health, I didn’t get one. Only, I was out hiking one day a few years back and I had just hauled my carcass straight up a trail that used to be a ski slope and I realized those deep, racking breaths I was taking felt good. Not like I was breathing a chunky stream of broken glass and Lysol.
So, there’s that.
Seriously? I could smoke a cigarette the size of a telephone pole right this minute.
— 8:06 am
Comments: 15
I…I feel a thousand eyes…watching me…
Weasel Towers. But I didn’t take these pictures, O imaginary friends who live in my computer. Google Street View has reached Weaseltopia! Seven months ago, the Google Street View Van drove down Weasel Street and hung a right on Stoat Boulevard.
How do I know when? Replacing the garage doors was the first thing I did to fix up the house, about six months ago. Just prior to that, one of the bottom panels popped out of the old door. It was too warped to pop back in, so whenever I went to work, I propped the panel up against the opening. This, because my cats came and went through the garage, but I wanted to discourage dogs doing the same. Yeah, I know it’s lame. I am fully aware of all my deeds of lameness. Anyhow, you can see the arrangement plainly in the top photo.
This thing is spooky. Gliding up and down the street, swiveling around, looking up and down. Check your town. If they’ve come to Providence, they’re really expanding.
I found out by accident. I plugged my street address into Google Maps (looking to check the probable size of Damien’s territory — meh. Still missing. Don’t want to talk about it. Acutely bummed), and up pops a thumbnail of my house. “Whuzzit?” I said blearily, “yarrr!”
This morning, the Real Estate Lady is in Weasel Manor taking pitchers. I am now officially On The Market. W00t!
She says I can’t live in the basement any more. That it would creep people out. I asked if she would mind following me around for a while and warning me about anything else I do that might creep people out. That could be very useful.
Secretly, I am plotting to defy her. Upstairs, there are no curtains or shades or carpets and very little furniture. It would be like sleeping in a junior high gymnasium. With the lights on. It’s dark and cool and quiet in the basement. I think what I’ll do is slap together a Potemkin village of a master bedroom upstairs, and continue sleeping in the basement. In a sleeping bag or something.
Creepy? I’ll show her!
May 15, 2008 — 10:54 am
Comments: 62