Pieces of Pickle

I'm lying here under an electronic octopus--one with iPods and headphones and other ganglia writhing about upon the bedclothes.

I am not afraid. I........AM..........PICKLEWEASEL! (not to be confused with that weak sister, Beowulf).

No, I am a brave venturer.

I sally forth to exchange oddly dis-satisfying pokes (yea, even Superpokes) on Facebook, invite various celebrities to be my buddies on MySpace, fiddle around with a desultory game of Solitaire, post a few intelligent business-type remarks on a message boards or two, delete 78 emails that promise me, with fascinatingly colorful descriptions, a larger...um...penis (well, THEY called it a: 1). "trouser mouse"; "pocket python"; "little love soldier"; etc).

Yes, it's been a big day for old Pickle Weasel.

The Bride of Pickle Weasel stayed up in the mountains with several weaselly relatives. Weasel hisself demurred to go--way to much estrogen floating around that cabin.

So, Pickle Weasel stayed home and watched the weasellings.

Hmmmm....so far this post appears to be living up to the stated purpose and theme of the Blog.

So, anyway, I've had a long and relatively tranquil weekend.

Mrs. Weasel has returned, but (lamentably) the shipment of all-natural supplements designed to make her so ecstatic has not arrived, so it appears that sad little shreds of remaining weekend will also be tranquil.

Aaaaerrrrg......! Boys...the octopus has got me. The iPod is synching my brains out, the earphones are pounding away like little jackhammers and.....all.......is........los....t.