The Pickle Weasel and the Sea

(As you can see from the gleaming muscles of my back, I am a very strong man.)

The sea was blue that day. Pickle Weasel arose at the crack of 10:37.

The old groundskeeper was already raking up the dog leavings on the beach and picking up tourist spoor for sale to the less fortunate.

Pickle Weasel walked up and fired up his Spanish. "Ola, Senor! Como esta?"

The old man glanced up briefly, then went back immediately to raking up soupy-looking dog turds. His voice sounded like a piece of pumice being rubbed on a slate floor, "Muy bien, Gringo, y tu?"

Pickle Weasel grinned madly for joy at understanding this complicated phrase, "Muy bien, mi Amigo, muchas muchas gracias!"

The old man scowled a little at this frantic assumption of friendship and poked his rake impatiently at a half-dead rock crab that was trying to eat a lump of dog crap.

Pickle Weasel, being the sensitive tourist that he was, averted his eyes, stretched and scratched his belly.

The old man, in a very obvious attempt to get the ugly American to shove off, silently pointed to a brightly colored plastic boat pulled up above the surf line.

Pickle Weasel made an eager facial expression and asked, "Por mi?"

The old man nodded solemnly--although Pickle Weasel noticed that his eyes became suddenly shifty and sly.

Pickle Weasel, with his curious mixture of boldness and lack of intelligence suddenly climaxing, laughed gaily and jogged over to the boat for a look.

It looked good. It was slender and brightly colored and had little molded areas to accommodate a tourists buttocks.

Pickle Weasel grabbed the short, frayed rope (yes, gentle reader, this is an example of foreshadowing) and dragged the surprisingly light craft down to the edge of the water.

It all seemed so simple in the beneficent morning sunshine. The water was blue and shiny. The waves were small and friendly.

Pickle Weasel pushed the little kayak into the first line of surf and hopped aboard. He wriggled around until his buttocks settled into their appropriate indentations and grasped the paddle optimistically.

The first thing that happened was no surprise. The receding surf pulled the boat forward into the second line of larger waves. P.W. paddled furiously to keep the nose straight forward (he had once read that this was the proper thing to do and he had also watched The Castaway a couple of times). He was still in the shallows and the rush of water created a powerful eddy effect that bounced him sideways in very unpredictable ways.

Just then a much larger wave swelled up from beneath and tossed the surprised PW into the air. He was caught there, for a shining moment, with the pretty turquoise boat above him, his paddle soaring out into the waves and a rush of sea foam sliding away beneath him. For a split second he caught sight of the old man leaning over his poop-smeared rake and cackling madly. Then the world turned into a jumble of salty sand in his mouth, the kayak smacking his head and a lot of choking water tumbling him over and over onto the beach.

As mentioned previously, the Pickle Weasel is bold, enthusiastic and not very intelligent. He repeated the process over and over again until he learned a very basic secret--the Sea will always win. He also learned that it is a far, far better thing to sit on the beach with a cold Pacifico in your hand and watch other foolish tourists turn themselves into sun-burned, beach-scraped idiots.

He also remembered a recent bout with the notorious raicilla and realized that he had much to learn about this mysterious, wonderful place.

The adventures of Pickle Weasel will continue...

Respectfully Submitted,

um

Jacob "Pickle Weasel" Nordby

Editing; A Writer's Friend or Foe?

It all depends, of course, on whose writing we're talking about.

If it's your own, then your words is like your childrens.

"It appears that you have two sons and a daughter. We editors have taken notice. Is it really necessary to have both sons? It's redundant."

"But...but I love my sons! Both of them! Even the ugly one!"

"Well, if you ever want to sell your family, you're going to need to cut down on the excess. I mean, come on... TWO boys? Nobody's going to want to see one of them and then turn around and see a repeat. They'll get bored! They'll go watch TV and scratch themselves instead. No, I'm terribly sorry, but one of them has to go."

"Okay, but I'm going to keep him in a folder for later."

That's the way it feels, anyway. I've been diligently trying to force myself to write a page a day in the Scruffy Love book, and so far so good. It seems, however, that I have fallen into the Stephen King trap: describing mundane things in order to "immerse" the reader.

Ricky the Bastard took a deep breath. First, he dilated his nostrils slightly, then with a contraction of his diaphragm, forced an imbalance in air pressure between his lungs and the surrounding atmosphere. This caused air to rush into his respiratory system, where the alveoli in his lungs grabbed greedily at all the oxygens in this air that had recently taken up residence...

It gets boring after awhile, my father has pointed out. I read my work to him, you see, because I'm proud of the fact that I actually accomplished something.

"So? Whaddya think?"

"I never really loved you."

"I mean the story."

"That's what I'm talking about. It was so bad, I've recanted my regard for you."

"What should I change?"

"Take it all out and replace it with something better."

Editors have to be harsh.

Scruffy Love; In Pictures

I'm sorry to have to break this to you, time-wasters, but Scruffy Love posts shall from now on be reduced to pictures with perhaps some captions below.

Why, you might ask?

Because I only have a limited amount of creative potential, and I'm going to be putting most of it into writing a feature-length Scruffy Love novel! Pray for me!

I'm not entirely sure how many words "feature length" entails, but I figure I can throw in some recipes at the end, or maybe the owner's manual for my cordless mouse or something to fatten it up a bit. So far, I'm up to five whole pages! Expect that number to virtually double in the coming months. Holy crap.

My Wombat Adventure, Part 2

Missed Part 1?

Late that night, after I had tucked the baby wombat into its makeshift bed, I was awakened from my slumber by the insistent ringing of the telephone. Still groggy, I grabbed the bedside reading lamp and held it to my ear for several moments, before realizing my mistake.

“Hello?” I rasped, once I had replaced the lamp and snatched the phone from its cradle. My query was met by heavy breathing and then a scary voice whispered,

“Ya wanna buy a duck?”

I paused and thought a moment. Had he said duck? “Listen,” I said. “I realize you telemarketers have to make a living, but this is ridiculous. It’s three o’clock in the morning!”

The caller giggled and sang, “I knoooooooow! So how ‘bout it?”
“No, thank you,” I said. “I have all the ducks I need.”
“How ‘bout wombats?”

In the background, a scary piece of orchestral music began playing. And I shuddered. How had the caller known I had a wombat? Was it just a coincidence? No, that couldn’t be! Why would a telemarketer call me at three in the morning to ask if I owned a wombat? Ducks, yes. Wombats…no. It was too far-fetched.

“I have no need for another wombat,” I said. Immediately after the words left my mouth, I realized my mistake.

“Another?” the caller asked slyly. “Meaning you already own a wombat?”

“I…” Before I could respond, a dial tone sounded. The caller had hung up on me.

The scary music intensified and the shadows in my room seemed to deepen. My bedroom window was open just a bit and I heard the crunch of gravel from the driveway below. I crept from my bed and stealthed my way to the window, but by the time I got there, the driveway and yard were empty. As quickly as I could, I walked to my bedroom door and opened it.

The hallway was darker still, the blackness causing the normally innocent items of grandfather clock and wall mirror to take on ominous personas. I tried to remain calm, but just then I heard someone rattling the knob to the side door. Although thinking quickly, I couldn’t recall if I had locked that door before going to bed.

The squeaking of hinges answered my question. Chills ran up my spine, over the shoulders, and began strumming my clavicles. They were nervous, too. I didn’t blame them.

Remembering the gun in my dresser, I ran back into the bedroom and withdrew the weapon from its hiding place. I checked the load…empty! Hearing the sound of feet on the stairs, I knew I had but a few minutes. Running into the bathroom, I loaded the pistol and took up a defensive position behind the shower curtain.

To Be Continued...

Pickle Weasel Goes to Mexico and Discovers Raicilla

Handsome? Yes, of course...but is he good?

For the first time in our married lives (13 yrs), my wife and I left the country together.
As you can see from the reddish hue of my forehead, we went somewhere tropical. It was heaven, it was paradise, it was the small third-world village of Yelapa.
"So, why," you ask, "does this qualify for remark on the Blog of Stupid?"
Well, my stupid friend, I was just getting ready to tell you and then you rudely interrupted.
Have you ever heard of Raicilla? No? Well, permit a small copy/paste to enlighten you and then we'll proceed...

Raicilla, pronounced "rye-see-ya", is the local moon shine. It is distilled in crude, primitive stills from a fermented mash made from the roots ( raicilla means "little root" ) of the maguey plant. It is a strong violent liquor of greatly varying quality, and usually more than 100 proof. Since it is produced without government license, and sold without government tax, it is illegal in the same sense that moonshine is illegal in the United States. Its production is one of the traditional local arts, and it is found only in this area.

Since it is higher in alcoholic content than most commercially available liquors even a small amount can produce a sudden, strong, and unpredictable drunkeness. There are many reports of violent gastric reactions, and temporary motor paralysis. It has a strong, and persistent reputation for producing an aphrodisiac effect in women, but causing temporary impotency in men. This can lead to a social situation of confused, and conflicting desires. It gives a rough hangover.

Since raicilla is cheap, strong, and readily available, it is most widely and frequently used drinks among the local borrachos (drunks). The raicilla-borracho can still sit and talk ( lucidly, he thinks ) long after he has lost the ability to walk. He does not know this until after he stands up.

For those who drink alcohol at all, a taste of raicilla is an almost essential part of the full local experience. When you drink it for the first time, you should be in secure surroundings among people you know and trust and use cautious moderation.

So, I ask you, my friend, what sort of venturing man would I be to refuse a sample of local culture? And I answer, "Not a man at all, but perhaps a mouse."
I am a man and I did sample the local stuff. I believe Raicilla should be translated "stupid juice". Verily it will make a man believe that he is a god. It will make him believe that he SHOULD maim the local priest and make vigorous love to an iguana. I share this with you in hopes that you will take heed. Mexican jails are less fun than you would imagine.
Respectfully,

Jacob "Pickle Weasel" Nordby