Be. The. Stoat.

See, here's the deal....


I paint myself into these little corners and then when I'm uninspired, I'm stuck.  


Monday 
Wednesday
Friday  


I said to you and mostly myself when I shook things up here a bit in my trench back in August.  


What if I'm still shell-shocked from my three hours of work that Blogger annihilated on Tuesday night?  


What if I have nothing to say?  


What if, God forbid, I'm BORING?  


Then I have to sit here and type anyway and pretend that I have a grand plan when in reality there's just nothing but solid free-flow randomness going on right now. 


I'm not even drinking.  


I guess I could point you to some random web stuff I saw this week while poking around.   


Like scooting chickens.

And stoats. Stoats are badass.*  "Be the stoat" is my new mantra. Be. The. Stoat.  (Warning, don't watch if you're going to be traumatized by the whole predator/prey thing.  Especially when it's so close to Easter and said prey is a cute bunny rabbit. Not, thankfully, a loppy-eared bunny though. That would just be tragic and horrible and nightmare-inducing.)


Oh, I know! I could use this particular mental lull to start a campaign to get the Bloggess to pose with a taxidermied stoat and give me permission to post the pic right here on Trench Warfare. I mean, she got Matthewfucking Broderick to pose with a SPOON for her blog, for crying out loud. He's been my boyfriend since War Games and Ladyhawke**, both of which pre-date Ferris Bueller by years, meaning I'm totally a better Gen X-er than her even though she named her cat Ferris Mewler*** so the least she could do is pay it forward, right?  


You betcha.  


Plus, she just lives down in Texas so we're practically neighbors! AND my brother-n-law has a booth at Roundtop, only the biggest antique show this side of that huge cross on I-40 in Arkansas, every year so he would have the inside scoop of where all the good stuff was and flea markets are TOTALLY her thing, so we could even have a date! Except I wouldn't call it a date because then she might think I was being all stalkerish and weird. Which would turn her off to posing with a dead taxidermied stoat and letting me post it here.   


Of course, that means I might have to actually get on Twitter. 


Like, tweet and everything. 


The horror. 


Decisions, decisions...


If it means having a date bonding with drinking merlot with getting her to look my way, I'll make the sacrifice. She'll probably play hard-to-get. Ignore me for three years because I'm so low on the blogger food chain. Make me beg...


That's OK, I'm in for the long haul. Know why?  Because I. Am. The. Stoat.    


I wonder if I can find a song about stoats....?  


OMG! SCORE.  


Song of the week: Suspicious Stoats  by Trampo. Just press the little play button there.  

suspicious stoats

*Embedding not allowed 
**Can I get an "Amen" for Ladyhawke? 
**Which, OK. Best cat name EVER. But, you know...whatever. Besides, I'm declaring my next cat's name to be Philipe Gastone, so we're even. I just can't let Old Angry Cat know I'm already planning for his replacement because then he'll find a loppy-eared bunny, behead it, and hide it my bed all Godfather-like. But only after he eats the ears. BTW, he's still bald. But don't tell him I told you, OK? I might end up with a loppy-eared bunny and a stoat head in my bed.