Give a weasel some sugar, Chris
For the benefit of those outside the rich linguistic traditions of the Deep South, to “give sugar” is to touch one’s lips to another in an expression of affection. Grandmothers and aunties must be given sugar in this manner regularly. cf “smoochies.”
It’s Columbus Day — I’m still restesing!
October 13, 2008 — 11:29 am
Comments: 51
Yep, McGoo, I was hiking
That’s not me. It’s my hiking buddy, almost across <gulp> an old abandoned railroad trestle. Yes, I did it. Both directions. It wasn’t high, but I wasn’t happy.
The leaves are just turning in New England. The temperatures are in the high sixties, it’s sunny with a light breeze. Besteses time of the year for a tramp in the woods.
So here ya go.
October 11, 2008 — 6:39 pm
Comments: 27
Blow on the dice for me, Baby…
Hard to escape the news today, even if you wear large poofy headphones tuned to white noise and glare at people who catch your eye. My heart is full of angry and sore.
Feel free to continue discussing fiction in the thread below.
October 10, 2008 — 1:58 pm
Comments: 54
Angry underwater dancing apes eating crunchy figs
Kidding? Not!
Spotted at Ace‘s, where there’s probably still time to contribute some poetry to the thread. Or whatever that shit is.
Hey, I found an old diary while I was packing my stuff. Oof! I know about terrible, humiliating writing bubbling up from adolescence. But dude was in college when he wrote this. And he let them publish it.
Senator, there is a difference between imagery and gibberish. Trust me, I speak fluent gibberish. I was in all the advanced placement gibberish classes. Later, I was offered a fellowship in weed, so I’m pret-ty sure I know where you’re coming from with this one.
Update: typical Weasel, I left off the punchline. Jack Cashill in American Thinker points out that Obama went straight from Underwater Apes Crunching Figs to Dreams from my Father (by all accounts, a book of some literary merit) with nothing between. He makes a persuasive case that Dreams was ghost written — very possibly by William Ayers. I think the former is pretty likely, and the latter is too delicious not to repeat irresponsibly.
October 9, 2008 — 12:35 pm
Comments: 104
Say it — with socks!
When was the last time I cleaned my sock drawer? I’m going to say…1985. I found three pairs of big poofy velcro’d shoulder pads way in the back. (Gosh I loved shoulder pads. Football shoulders made my waist look tiny. Big hair, however, made my brain look tiny).
These preposterous cheap lacy panties? My mom gave them to me shortly after I took up with Uncle B. “These are for him,” she said. Eyebrow waggle.
And I’m, like, “that’s a really nice thought, Mother, but I’m pretty sure they’re too small for him.”
And she rolls her eyes and goes, “oh, they’re not for him to wear.” Living out in the boonies all those years, Mom kind of went native and lost her funnybone.
You know what else I realized? Uncle B has a history of pledging his devotion with novelty socks. Which I guess is more romantic than the stuffed bear that plays Rule Brittania and farts when you press his belly.
So now I’m like the Caesar of underthings. I decide who lives and who dies. I took all the socks and panties and I’m washing my way through them. One by one, I wear each pair and evaluate it for size, condition and general elasticity. The ones that pass muster are coming to England.
The ones that don’t? “Guards, seize her!” I say, flipping the offending garment into the bin, “this panty displeases Weasel!”
October 8, 2008 — 12:38 pm
Comments: 69
Fifty-three percent less shiny than advertised
For a while there, I was kind of leaning Obama. Oh, I wouldn’t have voted for him, but I might not have voted against him, either. My reasoning was: they love their guy, I hate our guy, we can’t win them all and they can’t all be the most important election in history…so why not Obama?
I didn’t think it would be much of a contest, anyway. Put Mister Tall, Dark and Elegant on a stage next to that crusty little booger McCain, and I was pretty sure that would be the end of that.
But then Obama began making the nuttiest mistakes. A European tour? What the hell?
Joe Biden?!? Seriously — Joe Biden?!? Joe Biden is a creature composed entirely of mouth and stupid. Barney Frank would be a better choice — at least if you could make him put his teeth in.
And then that Greek temple thing. Jesus! Arrogant isn’t the word. Cartoony is the word. That’s exactly the sort of place I would have loved to see the President of the United States give a speech…when I was eight. Saturday morning, somewhere between the Herculoids and the Banana Splits.
But the worst was still to come: turns out, dude can’t take a jibe. His skeen is too theen. I don’t know how much of that extra sensitivity is the candidate and how much is his entourage, but we can’t have it. We can’t have a president we’re not allowed to make fun of.
It’s positively unAmerican.
October 7, 2008 — 10:48 am
Comments: 83
Who knows what lardassery lurks in the heart of the bailout?
Click to belargen. No, there is no color, but you have to see the large version to appreciate all the tiny shoulder hairs illuminated by backlight that I painstakingly drew before I realized they wouldn’t show up at regular posting size. I almost published an earlier version, which included a glimpse of Congress’ little icecream-covered winkie. I figured it was too dark to see and it would be my little joke. Then I saw the graphic on an LCD panel, and there it was — winking at me! I’ve got to get rid of that old CRT I use at home.
So, how about that bailout, huh? The soundbite of Nancy Pelosi describing Barney Frank as the “maestro” of the new, improved (now with extra EXTRA pork!) bailout plan made my skull implode, and then fold in on itself and vanish in a flash of supernatural fire, like the house at the end of Poltergeist.
So I did the only thing I know to do when confronted by my own powerlessness in the face of a terrible injustice: I drew a picture of the people who made me mad as a big ugly naked fat guy with a tiny winky and hairy shoulders. Take that you stupid, stinky doody-heads!
Yeah. Everything I really need to know I learned in kindergarten, too.
October 6, 2008 — 10:10 am
Comments: 48
It will be interesting to see where this goes
Went to see An American Carol this afternoon. That, for the benefit of people 500 years from now who somehow encounter a stray data backup from sweasel.com accidentally beamed into space, is an explicitly conservative comedy from the man who made Airplane!, the Naked Gun series and the Scary Movie series.
I don’t actually like Zucker-style comedies (okay, I liked Airplane! But, really, I think liking that one is some kind of federal law, if only because June Cleaver speaks jive). I went today because I wanted this thing to get way better first-weekend box office than Bill Maher’s Jesus-thumping douche-fest (dude, I’m an atheist, and your ignorance embarrasses me).
It was a solid Zucker movie. It was not at all mean-spirited (the Michael Moore character comes off as a likeable boob, as do two out of three terrorists), the tear-jerking corny bits were few, effective and superceded by low slapstick in nanoseconds. Leslie Neilson is lookin’ damn good for a hundred and twenty.
It lacked a certain je ne sais quoi to be a great film. But then, I really disliked Team America the first time I saw it. Then it became my favoritest film evarrrrrr. An American Carol should do at least as well as any other Zucker film. So go see it, if only to help those guys who put their toosticles on the line stay in work.
Weasel gives it two….waaaaait a second! Weasels don’t have thumbs!
October 4, 2008 — 6:45 pm
Comments: 35
How to get a Weasel Import License, Part the First
Ugh. It was mere minutes before the visa application process turned me into Screaming Attack Weasel.
Some visas must be applied for online (then you print it out and mail it in, so god knows what that’s about). You know who doesn’t do online very skillfully?
Government.
Like, the forms would ask a long-ass question and give a 100-character allowance for the answer. Then strip out all punctuation except for commas and periods, making a weasel’s crisp prose read like something a baglady would mumble to herself in her sleep.
But the show-stopper came when I reached Uncle B’s details. UK citizen, born in London, currently living in the UK. Got it, got it. Next page: on what date did he enter the UK? Pretty much on his birthday, you stupid piece of shit. It asks me to prove it and when I hit the little question mark help dealie, it suggests I attach the first page of his passport.
Yeah, I’ll do that. Using magic electron staples that stick to the internet. Jesus.
Fortunately, you don’t have to fill it out in one sitting, because I so had to walk away right about then. If you don’t get it just right on the first try, it can weaken your chances in the future.
We would be willing to pay for professional help, but that’s like writing “chum” on your ass and jumping into the shark tank. When you want to immigrate someplace good, people slither out of the woodwork to tell you they can get you there, they swears…for a small fee.
October 3, 2008 — 2:25 pm
Comments: 76
Goodbye, Mister Clean
In an effort to help McGoo scrub Barney Frank off his eyeballs before his manly bits run away from home, I give you — House Peters, Jr. Peters died in the night. He was 92.
He starred in a fair bit of movie and TV between 1930-something and 1960-something, but he will be forever remembered as the original Mr. Clean.
Was he the one that came whooshing out of the bottle when you opened it, like a big, bald genie? Must be; how else would you explain a dude with an earring in 1958? Or am I confusing him with the White Tornado…?
The world of unconvincing early advertising mascots reels from another blow. First Mrs Olson, then the Maytag repairman, then Madge, then Mr Whipple. Now this. I may never buy stupid household shit for no good reason again.
October 2, 2008 — 3:01 pm
Comments: 36