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Today’s smart young weasel is on the move!


Dammit, nobody told me liquor stores will just give you cardboard boxes if you ask them. It’s taken me ten years to drink enough cheap booze to move house.

Yes, that’s right — after ten years of desperate scheming, Weasel is finally moving to England, land of socialized medicine, Benny Hill and Mr Brain’s Pork Faggots.

A dozen years ago, I and my Beloved (who is a Brit, but an otherwise unobjectionable person) worked out that we could combine our two unimpressive piles of crap into one huge, spectacular mountain of crap.

We never dreamed that happy day would be this long in coming, but everything is complicated when you’re older. You have to embezzle funds slowly or some nosey git in Accounting is bound to notice something. Plus, there are taxes to dodge and elderly parents to smother. Honestly, you have no idea.

I hadn’t mentioned it because we’ve come close before, only to have the deal fall through. Buying real estate in Britain is tricksy business. But I’ve decided if we don’t get this house, I’m going to fly over, rampage through the estate agent’s office with a tomahawk, burn the house to the ground and spend the rest of my life incarcerated, preferably in Broadmoor, where so many of my heroes have lived.

So, see, I’ll be moving to England in any case.

Join me, won’t you? It’ll be fun. In a “watching a train wreck” sort of way. This will be a fantastically complicated process, with the buying and selling and renting of properties, with visa applications and quarantines and immigration authorities, with packing, giving, throwing and otherwise getting rid of a lifetime’s accumulations (anybody need a quart of nitric acid?). Everything must be done in a specific order with military precision or tragedy ensues.

And I’m sure to need more boxes…

August 6, 2007 — 5:36 pm
Comments: 34