Another post without a real title because it’s just some stuff with no common theme to pull it all together

Friday greetings and salutations to all!  (Except you. Yeah, you. No, don’t look behind you, you’re the one I’m pointing at.)

Here’s the first thing on my mind today: the expression, “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.” Maybe I’m just a mean, vengeful bitch, but there’s nothing so bad that I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. In fact, the badder, the better. Being thrown into a volcano? Yes, I would wish that on them. Getting ripped to shreds by a pack of rabid wolves? You betcha. Being flayed and then boiled in oil? Hellz yeah. What if they were chained down, forced to watch an endless loop of Justin Bieber concert footage and given an electric shock each time they tried to close their eyes? I’m cackling gleefully just thinking about it. How about if they had to drink a poison that would kill them slowly and painfully while a throng of teenage girls stood by and viciously mocked them? Get out the popcorn because I’m watching that show.

There’s nothing too bad for my worst enemy, believe me. Even if my worst enemy were subjected to the most nasty, evil, twisted psychological and physical torment that could possibly be dished out, it STILL wouldn’t be bad enough.

This might be too good for my worst enemy.

I mean, I’m not talking about my frenemy, my sorta enemy, or my I-don’t-quite-hate-them-enough-to-wish-them-dead enemy. I’m talking about MY WORST ENEMY. If someone has done something vile enough to become my worst enemy, why wouldn’t I wish utter horror on them? Is it just me? It’s just me, isn’t it.

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I have some seriously good ideas for retail stores. Check it out:

• In Philadelphia, I’d open a bookstore called Written House. (If you know Philly, you know why this is awesome. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the City of Brotherly Love, here.)
• In Quantico, VA, I’d open a sandwich shop across the street from the FBI headquarters and I’d call it Unsub.
• In Germany, I’d open a chain of restaurants in all the airports, and I’d call it Luftwaffle.

I can hear you all groaning from here, by the way.

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I frequently have dreams in which I’m still in school and I find out that my final exam is that morning and I haven’t been to class all semester. I know a lot of people who have similar dreams. It seems to me that this kind of anxiety dream must be a fairly modern phenomenon, because up until the 20th century a lot of people didn’t even finish high school.

So what anxiety dreams did people have in previous centuries? Maybe they weren’t school related. Did they wake up in a cold sweat thinking, “OHMYGODIFORGOTTOFEEDTHECHICKENS”? Did they dream that it was almost dark and they didn’t have any candles? Maybe they had more dire dreams, about contracting plague or smallpox? What kinds of stuff would have freaked them out? I wonder about things like this.

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Is there anyone on earth more punchable than John Mayer? Actually, never mind, I just answered my own question. Bieber. I can’t say he’s more punchable, but he’s certainly as punchable.

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Tomorrow is National Lobster Day here in the US. I’m going to celebrate the day by having a lobster for dinner. He’s a finicky eater, though, so I hope he likes what I’m serving.

It’s time I outed myself

We’ve been friends for a while now, right? And friends shouldn’t keep secrets from friends. At least, not this sort of secret. I should trust that I can be honest and open with you and that you’ll accept me.

It’s not easy to admit certain things, even when there’s no denying them. I’ve danced around the issue, I’ve deflected, I’ve misdirected. But in the end, the only person it hurts is me.

Sigh. This is so difficult, and I’m very uncomfortable. So please bear with me.

As many of you know, I’ve written a lot about being a New Yorker.

Well, the truth is, I don’t live in New York. In fact, I haven’t lived there for a while. For the past seven years, I’ve lived across the Hudson River. In…New Jersey.

There. I said it. I live in New Jersey.

A few bloggers already knew my shameful secret and kindly kept mum about it. Although I was mocked by one of them, who shall be nameless (but I’m looking at you, Mike Allegra), for not fessing up and embracing my residence in the Garden State.

But seriously, I can’t. I can’t embrace my residence here. I don’t care that Manhattan is literally a mile across the river from my apartment. I don’t care that it’s only a half-hour trip into the city. I don’t care that I still get to enjoy all that NYC has to offer. It pains me to live so close and yet so far away.

It’s a testament to Mr. Weebles that I uprooted myself from my beloved Manhattan, where I had a tiny, rent-stabilized apartment in Soho, and moved across the Hudson to be with him.

When I told my friends that I was moving to New Jersey, they all said, “Seriously? YOU???” I was fond of saying that 9/11 hadn’t made me want to move, and fuck you, Al Qaeda, the only way I’d leave NY was in a body bag. But ultimately the deciding factor was money; decent-sized, conveniently located apartments were a LOT cheaper in NJ than in NY. So I sold my soul and relocated to the mainland. The day I moved out of my apartment, I felt as if I were saying goodbye to my soulmate. Fortunately, Mr. Weebles understands my plight. He once told someone, “Every morning that she wakes up in New Jersey, a little part of her dies.” He’s not wrong.

A few years ago we were on vacation and someone asked us where we were from. Mr. Weebles said, “We’re from New Jersey” and I almost had a shit hemorrhage. I might live there, but I’m not from there. See, here’s a map of where I’ve lived:

It’s not that I have a hatred of New Jersey. I don’t. But I was born and raised in NYC and when I was growing up, Jersey was “over there.” The only reason anyone went there was for concerts or football games at the Meadowlands. Otherwise, it was flyover country. Or drive-through country. I had greater knowledge of world geography than of Jersey geography. You could tell me, “I’m from Vladivostok” and I’d know where it was. But if you said, “I’m from Morris Plains,” I’d stare at you blankly. Where the hell is that?

I can’t shake that mindset. I can’t help it. It’s not my fault; New York has always been about attitude as well as geography. Saul Steinberg wasn’t kidding when he created this map:

So for those of you tuning in from New Jersey, don’t take offense, and don’t start with me. Because I know where you live. Or, you know, I could easily find out if I looked on a map.

NYC isn’t what it used to be. It’s not as vibrant or as gritty as it once was and it suffers from extreme gentrification—I lamented over this last year. But I love the noise and the energy and the pace and the diversity and the subways and the dirt. I love the tap water. I love that so many places are open 24 hours—the city truly never sleeps. And as much as I loathe crowds, I need to be around them. When I set foot on NY soil after my commute, I feel better. I’m happiest in my native habitat. It makes sense to me.

So now you know my deep dark secret. And if you make fun of me for it, I’ll fucking cut you.

Winging it

I started this blog in February 2012. I didn’t have any real vision for this thing, I just wanted to start writing again. As time went on I tried out a few different approaches but none of them took. So I decided to wing it. It’s worked out pretty well. I tend to wing it with most things in life, come to think of it, so why not here?

See, I don’t have a “hook” or a consistent theme like a lot of other bloggers have. I don’t have kids. I haven’t experienced many serious life challenges or traumas (and I know I’m very lucky). I’m not an artist or poet or fiction writer. So it’s just me winging it and writing about whatever. I’m not complaining, mind you; Fear No Weebles has become an eclectic, eccentric mix of Fuck You posts, Hot Dead People, ranting, activism, history, satire, paranormal stuff, and other random shit. I dig it.

As you can see, I also gave the blog a makeover. I wanted a darker, haunted house-ish sort of vibe. I considered a brighter, happier vibe with a cute theme but then I remembered that I’m not Mary Fucking Sunshine.

This is what I think of Little Miss Sunshine.

 
So here we are. As usual, my thanks to this guy for his help in getting my blog sorted out, and as always, my heartfelt thanks to all of you for visiting time and time again.

Coming Soon:  A Hot Dead Extravaganza!

Television is good for you

I love television.  I’m not ashamed to admit it.  From my earliest childhood, with  Sesame Street, Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, Captain Kangaroo, The Electric Company (the original, not that bullshit remake), Zoom (the original, not that bullshit remake), and a zillion cartoons, that big box has been a huge part of my life.

A lot of buzzkills argue that too much television is unhealthy.  My reply to them is, “Suck it.”  I learned to count to 20 in Spanish thanks to Sesame Street.  Schoolhouse Rock taught me about the parts of speech, and I can still sing the preamble to the Constitution.  And raise your hand if, like me, you learned to twirl your arms from watching Bernadette on Zoom.  Now tell me that trick hasn’t held you in good stead all these years.

I have learned much from TV shows over the years.  I’ve also drawn very important conclusions from my recent TV watching habits.  I’d like to share a few of them with you.

• Life insurance companies should automatically report to the police anyone who takes out extra policies on their spouses.   Per 48 Hours Mystery, Dateline, and everything else that runs on the ID Channel, this should be a no-brainer.  If you take out an expensive policy, you may as well be wearing a sandwich board that says, “I’m about to commit murder!!”  So just go ahead and report these folks to the police and save them some legwork.  (Note to Mr. Weebles:  That million-dollar policy I just took out on you is in NO WAY related to this.)
• Similarly, people with Crazy Eyes should be summarily reported to the police. Check out the perps featured on the ID Channel.  They ALL have Crazy Eyes.  I don’t care what profilers and psychologists say—ocular creepiness is the most reliable indicator of criminal intent.

These are Crazy Eyes.

These are not Crazy Eyes.

• No matter what day or time it is, some version of Law & Order is always on.  ALWAYS.  I find this oddly comforting.
• Any man who tried to call me “Baby girl” would get the asskicking of a lifetime.  Except for Derek Morgan on Criminal Minds.
• There are a LOT of aliens, chupacabras, sasquatches, and other mysterious creatures around us.  Be careful out there.
• Most ghost hunters are obnoxious dickwads.  They walk around allegedly haunted places trying to taunt the spirits by yelling, “Show yourself!!”  If I were a ghost, I’d scare these idiots so badly that they’d need diapers for the rest of their lives.  Just because you’re talking to dead people doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have good manners.

Surely, my friends, you have also gleaned crucial learnings from your TV viewing.  Please share.

I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore

I’m infuriated by how things are at the moment.  Politicians who support legislation that suppresses women’s rights.  Corporate officers who maintain their own profits—and those of their shareholders—by cutting jobs left and right and manipulating the financial system at our expense.  Religious zealots who would drag us all into a new Dark Age if they had their way.  The destruction of the environment across the globe.  Violence against women, children, and animals.  I could go on and on and on.

Social and political problems are nothing new.  But I’m so fed up with how the Powers That Be are failing to address them despite the wishes of the general public.  Look at how the Senate rejected the bill that would require background checks prior to gun purchases.  Public support for gun control is at a record high, yet these fuckwads still voted against this measure.  Women make up 50% of the workforce, yet the Equal Rights Amendment remains unratified, the glass ceiling is still firmly in place, and misogynist douchebags are as vocal as ever.  Despite the number of Americans who expressed their disgust during the recent fiscal cliff talks, Republicans and Democrats couldn’t work together to find solutions to our economic difficulties because they were too busy having a dick-measuring contest.

Carl von Clausewitz, the famous military strategist, said, “War is a continuation of policy by other means.”  I believe its inverse is also true: policy is a continuation of war by other means.

I realize that I’m overdramatizing and oversimplifying much of this.  But you get the idea, hopefully.

We can protest, sign petitions, write letters, boycott, and try to vote shady politicians out of office.  But there’s not much hope of success; corporations enjoy “personhood,” politicians are beholden to lobbyists more than to constituents, and companies don’t care about consumers until their bottom lines are adversely affected.

Typically, petitions are effective only when small, specific goals are involved.  A petition to keep one animal from being euthanized, for instance, can be successful; a petition to abolish wholesale animal killing won’t be.  Although I like how in the UK they have e-petitions, where petitions that get more than 100,000 signatures are considered for debate in the House of Commons.  There’s no guarantee that a petition with 100,000 names will be chosen, but it’s an interesting way for British citizens to get their voices heard. [Note: Since writing this, I've learned that the US has a similar thing in place---I suppose I didn't know this because our politicians seem hellbent on remaining deaf to us  Color me shocked.]

Protests can help to shine the spotlight on problems, but in themselves they don’t change anything.  Occupy Wall Street was—and still is—a vital voice for the 99% of us who are getting shafted by the 1%.  But nothing in corporate America has really improved.  Corporate leaders and shareholders are still making money hand over fist while houses are still in foreclosure and the job market continues to languish.  And to date, not one brokerage CEO has been sent to jail for his part in destroying the financial market.

Writing letters to your representative or senator?  One constituent voicing displeasure with a certain policy isn’t going to make much of a difference, unfortunately.  Same with boycotting certain retailers or other companies.  What’s one less consumer to a franchise or a multi-national corporation?  Nothing, really.

Voting idiots out of office can be effective, but government is like a hydra—a multi-headed clusterfuck.  You cut one idiot out, there will surely be two more to take his or her place.

Negative publicity (or what I like to call “public shaming”) can sometimes serve as an impetus for change.  Just a few weeks ago, Disney was slammed for its “I Need a Hero” t-shirts for girls.  News of these shirts spread like wildfire, sparking multiple online petitions and news stories.  Shortly afterwards, Disney removed those shirts from their website.  It’s hard to know whether they would have lost a lot of revenue if they hadn’t—I suspect they wouldn’t have—but it was refreshing to see that corporations can respond to public sentiment and do the right thing.  There are other examples of the power of the consumer backlash, like the New Coke debacle and the Tropicana branding fiasco.  But they largely involved products, not policies.

It often takes years, even generations, for sea changes in attitudes and practices to occur.  At times it takes acts of civil disobedience (e.g., Rosa Parks, the Woolworth’s sit-ins) or rioting (e.g., the Stonewall Riots) to get the ball rolling.  But those daring, drastic acts aren’t ones that most of us have the cojones for.

Power and money are the two things most likely to influence people and organizations to change.  As long as their current practices are lucrative and/or keep them in power, they won’t have any reason to change the status quo.

In one of my favorite acts of civil disobedience, loss of both power and money led to a policy change.  In 1989, Margaret Thatcher instituted the Poll Tax, which set off a series of riots in London, and more importantly, it inspired a massive non-payment campaign.  An estimated 20-30% of the British public refused to pay the tax, and it was abolished by Thatcher’s successor, John Major.  Such protests can succeed because of the sheer number of people involved; what were they going to do, throw all of those people in jail?

So what can we do?  We can write blog posts and use Twitter and Facebook to broadcast information about the injustices we see around us.  And I’m not talking about the impassioned-but-utterly-futile “Share this status if you think child abuse is wrong!” posts on Facebook.  Social media can be immensely helpful in spreading negative publicity, raising awareness, and promoting thought-provoking dialog.  But individually, we can do only so much.  (But if a blog post alone could generate change, then this post would have worked wonders.)

I don’t want to be powerless anymore.  I’m tired of sitting here sputtering with impotent rage.  I want to ACT.  The old saying goes, “Think global, act local.”  Today, with people, countries, and economies being so inter-dependent, we can think globally and act locally AND globally.  I want to make a genuine, tangible difference.  I bet a lot of you do as well.  Now we just have to figure out how to go about it.

The Return of the Weebles

That’s right, people.  I’m back.

I do apologize for my prolonged absence.  SO many things have happened over the past month.  Some highlights:

• I went to my doctor for a checkup, and my blood test results confirmed what I have long suspected: I’m about as venomous as a black mamba.  Over several weeks I donated multiple pints of blood poison for scientists to use in developing new medicines and antidotes.  What can I say, I’m a giver.
• After another nasty bout of insomnia, I finally gave in and took some Ambien.  But in my drug-induced sleep haze, I evidently boarded an Aer Lingus flight to Dublin and somehow ended up as a masseuse for a local rugby club.  Imagine my surprise when I woke up with a bunch of naked flankers on the tables in front of me.  But these poor guys have a lot of kinks to work out—I couldn’t just leave them there.
• I won first place in a bunny-sorting contest.  The challenge was to sort 100 black, black & white, white, cream, and grey bunnies into separate circles by color.  It wasn’t easy because the circles were just drawn in chalk on the floor so the bunnies kept hopping out of place.  My time was 3 hours and 21 minutes—just shy of the world record of 3 hours, 18 minutes.

And now I have returned.  You’ll hear more from me on Monday…I’ve got plenty of venom for my next post.  Use your weekend to rest up.

Also, if you haven’t already checked out The Outlier Collective, hosted by yours truly and this guy, then you need to go over there right now.

Also also, be aware that next Wednesday will be the last day of life as you know it—because next Thursday, the great Meizac and I are meeting in real life, and she’ll be staying at the House of Weebles.  Expect new planetary alignments and other world-changing events to occur.

Sing along with Madame Weebles

Like many of you, I sing along when I’m listening to music.  It’s not pretty, but I do it anyway.

There are a lot of singers I can’t keep up with—their voices are either too high or too low for me.  Usually I get around it by going down or up an octave.  Or if I’m feeling fancy, I’ll harmonize.  But sometimes I feel stupidly ambitious and try to hit the actual notes.  The other day I tried to match Pat Benatar.  That was a mistake.  I sounded like I had my ovaries caught in a vise.

I don’t fare any better when I try to match someone with a really deep voice—Elvis Costello at his deepest, for instance.  I sound possessed, and it makes my vocal chords itch.

But there are some singers with vocal ranges that I can almost always match perfectly.  I call them Goldilocks Singers:  Not too high, not too low.  Juuuuust right.  For a chick, I have a relatively low-pitched voice; I’d most likely be a contralto if I were a legitimate singer (I have no problem singing comfortably well below middle C).  And for whatever reason, I find that I sing along best with Michael Hutchence from INXS (RIP, sir).  Most of my Goldilocks Singers are men but there are women on the list as well.  Sadly, the vast majority of my favorites aren’t Goldilocks (Geddy, honey, I’m so sorry but you often sing too high for me).

Here’s a partial list of my Goldilocks Singers:

Michael Hutchence
Billie Joe Armstrong, Green Day
Peter Murphy (except when he hits those basement-level notes)
Elvis Costello (ditto)
Billy Joel
Richard Butler, Psychedelic Furs
Dave Gahan, Depeche Mode
Pink
Shirley Manson, Garbage
Fiona Apple
Chrissie Hynde
Stevie Nicks

Okay, I’ve showed you mine.  Now you show me yours.

Here’s your diploma ‘cuz you’ve been SCHOOLED

I considered making the title of this post “Ohhhhhh SNAP!” or “Awwwww DIP!!!” but this title felt a little more mature.

Some of you may recall this post, in which I talked about coming up with a great, pithy line but the troglodytes at my workplace didn’t get it.  It was less than satisfying.

Today’s discourse is on snotty comebacks.  Usually I think of them about 20 minutes after the fact and I kick myself for not coming up with them sooner.  Every once in a while, though, the gods smile upon me and I think of the right thing to say at just the right time.

For example, when I was in high school (yeah, I was snotty back then too), some friends and I were talking to this guy who was sort of obnoxious.  One of my friends wasn’t in the mood for his antics and she told him he was a jackass.  He turned to me and said, “What’s her problem?  You guys have never called me anything like that before.”  And I replied, “Not to your face, anyway.”  BURN!

Then there was the time I was having dinner in a nice restaurant with a friend.  A couple with a screaming child (he was maybe 2 years old) was two tables away.  The parents paid no attention and made no effort to comfort their little boy, and the wails became higher and more ear-splitting as the evening went on.  To be fair, it wasn’t the kid’s fault—he never should have been subjected to a 2+ hour meal at a place like that.  And it wasn’t his fault that his parents were inattentive fucks.  When the family finally left, they passed our table.  My friend loudly proclaimed, “Thank God they’re finally leaving.”  The mother, presumably thinking she would patronize us and shame us into submission, stopped and snipped, “Oh, I know, you’re really suffering.  Kids are such a pain, right??”  I smiled. “Not all kids.  Just yours.”  BURN!

Then there was the time I was at my local pet food shop.  It was a small space with little room to maneuver.  On this particular day, I was joined in the store by a shrieking harpy and her doormat boyfriend/husband.  She bitched nonstop about anything and everything, and stood around blocking the entire fucking store.  No matter where I was, she was in my way.  And she took umbrage at my efforts to get past her.  Mind you, I did say “Excuse me.”  If she hadn’t been so busy yattering away, perhaps she might have heard me.  Instead, she muttered “Bitch” just loud enough for me to hear.  I looked at her, rolled my eyes and calmly said, “You’re so boring.”  An unconventional response, but one that I suspected would drive her apeshit.  And it did.  BURN!!

Now I’d like to close with one of my all-time favorites, which wasn’t a burn but a great line nonetheless:

When I was in college, a bunch of us got into a stuffed animal fight, hurling teddy bears and other plush toys at each other (yeah, I know, but give me a break, we were freshmen).  One of my friends sustained a direct hit with a bunny.  She cried, “I’ve been killed by a Gund!!”

And I said, “Gunds don’t kill people.  People kill people.”

I’m still patting myself on the back for that one.

Search terms: WTF edition

I’ve got to switch things up around here.  My recent posts have been sentimental and/or introspective and frankly, I’m starting to annoy myself.  It’s time to break away from all that thoughtful shit and bust out a new batch of search terms.  For a refresher on the other mind-boggling search terms that bring people to my blog, please click here and here.

First, the newest members of my I Hate Alex Trebek club:
why is alex trebek such an insufferable prick
why does alex trebek think he’s hot shit
i fucking hate trebek
alex trebek isn’t a nice guy

I wish I didn’t like Jeopardy! as a game because I have such a hard time watching it with that smug bastard hosting.  I yell at the television at least once per episode, usually more:  “Fuck you, you little douche!”  “Shut up!  Stop talking!”  “Ass!”

What is WITH these people??
weebles boobs
weebles rack
weeble porn
weeble butt plug

Based on the disturbing popularity of these sorts of terms, I’m going to create a new literature genre: Weeblerotica.  There’s obviously an unmet need here.  A very twisted, baffling, unmet need.

Not quite the right URL, sorry:
heynicerack.com
loveyourtits.wordpress.com

If only I had thought of either of these for the name of my blog.  I could have been Madame Boobs.  Both of these domains are available, by the way.  I checked.

Some pressing questions that require answers:
can cats carry demons
Yes, but only if the demons are very small.   Cats can’t handle a big saddle.  Also, cats are pretty lazy.

what do i do i’m scared of weebles
Did they not read the title of this blog?  FEAR NO WEEBLES.

can i touch up my hair and raid it the same day
I suppose so, if you have a lot of bugs in your hair and you don’t mind that bug spray smell.  But you know, you may have more important concerns than your hair.  Just saying.

i wore pantyhose for halloween, now i can’t stop
I find this one particularly curious.  Is this person now addicted to pantyhose?  How does this happen?  What was their Halloween costume, anyway?

you see another brother in christ and you get nauseous
Whoa, is that any way to talk about a brother in Christ?  Let he who is without nausea-inducing qualities cast the first stone, dude.

Um, what?
prepare to fuck a new woman every day … but first read through our policies below

What the hell kind of organization is this?  I’m going to need to see these policies of theirs.  And is there a division for those who might wish to fuck a new man every day?

Variations on Fuck You:
fuck you american style
i fuck people like you in prison

Yes, well.  “American style” could mean so many things…  And although I’ve never been to prison, I watched Oz, so I know what’s up.  But if someone says, “I fuck people like you in prison,” does it mean that you’re a tasty piece or does it mean that you’re an obnoxious jerk who needs to become someone’s bitch?  It could go either way.

So many weevils, so many idiots:
how to make sure weebles aren’t in your food
what happens when you swallow a weeble
what to do if spaghetti has weebles in it

You mean like this? I usually just pick them out and lick off the sauce. It’s really no biggie.

If I had a dime for each search term where they obviously mean weevils and not Weebles, I’d be writing this post from my yacht on the Riviera.

My personal favorite:
geddy lee madame weebles in bed

Geddy, is that you????  Don’t be shy, baby.  Email me.

More search terms that would make great band names:
picturesque vagina
barricading the cheese
big pubes little dick
pantyhose ascendant
precocious tits
subway penis
dead marshmallow

A non-Valentine

I hate Valentine’s Day.  Always have.  When I was single, I looked at happy couples, men buying flowers, and women carrying flowers, and it turned my blood to bile.  I hated them all.  I was sickly green with envy.  It would eat at me until I wanted nothing more than to recreate the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, except with a lot more carnage.  Cupid could take those arrows and shove them up his chubby little ass.

No love songs played in my house.  It was The Smiths, The Cure, Elvis Costello… any gloomy, angry, or depressing songs were okay.  After endless dating disasters and unhealthy relationships, I resigned myself to being one of those bitter, cranky, single New York women who always wore black, lived with her cat, and had regular threesomes with Ben & Jerry.

Then Mr. Weebles came along.

Who am I kidding, I’m still bitter and cranky, I still wear black, I still have cats, and although the threesomes aren’t so regular anymore, Ben & Jerry and I are still friends with benefits.

Mr. Weebles hates Valentine’s Day too.  When we first started dating, he warned me that he didn’t like the forced sentiment imposed by a Hallmark Holiday.  Fine, I said.  We’ll do the opposite of something Valentine-ish.  So instead of lovey-dovey gestures and fancy dinners, we celebrate Valentine’s Day at the least romantic venue of all:  Hooters.  Because nothing says Be My Valentine quite like cute girls in skimpy outfits, curly fries, and ESPN blaring.

Mr. Weebles is a modest guy.  If you’ve read this, you know this about him.  He doesn’t dig attention or grandiose gestures.  So, honey, if you’re reading this, tough shit.

Our good friend Meizac (Meizac and Mr. Weebles are friends too) posted a song on Facebook this morning—”Dead Sea” by the Lumineers.  I hadn’t heard it before so I looked up the lyrics.  There were two lines in particular that killed me:

You’ll never sink when you are with me

Honey can’t you see I was born to be your Dead Sea

This is how I feel.  Dude, you know that as long as I’m alive, I will never, ever, let you sink.  I would kill anyone who tried to hurt you.  I love you with every fiber of my being, and I would do anything and everything for you.  You were my missing puzzle piece.  Thank you so much for finding me.  Happy February 11th.

And now if you’ll excuse me, I need a few boxes of tissues.