07 September 2016
Story #825
R. Linda:
It came to me attention recently that the young whippersnapper (one Weasil by name) has a remarkable sense of fashion. Uh, maybe I need to change that to an extraordinarily odd sense of fashion showmanship. Whatever you want to call it, it is indeed bizarre what the Weasil wears that passes as the latest in men's accessories.
I will give you an example. Just the other day, I was fired an email from the young laddie that, in his travels abroad, he discovered the perfect pair of shoes. Further, he did not buy them at the time because he was having a bad day and wasn't in the mood, BUT in hindsight and leaving the area, he realised those shoes were just the thing and he had to have them. Now this would have been all right if he were on his own, but no, the wife and mother-in-law were travelling with him. The place where he found the shoes was not one of their favourites (if truth be known, they had been glad to leave it), so turning back just for a pair of shoes would cause dissension in an already stressful trip. The Weasil reckoned he could do without and probably find them online, so onward with the holiday. They proceeded UNTIL one evening in a large city with Internet, the young whippersnapper got online (having a bad fetish developed over those shoes) to find they were not online anywhere in the world, which meant one thing -- he had to go back!
"I am NOT going back there, but if you two want to, I will stay here until you return." The mother-in-law, one Barbara, as Weasil calls her, Babbra, stated in no uncertain terms.
"I DO NOT want to go back there either, I just want to get off this continent and go somewhere where we won't be subject to snide remarks and no one understands English." Amanda (the wife) interjected with some force, I will say.
But Weasil was dead set on those hopper covers and informed them it was his fashion mission to go back to the place and get himself not one, but two pairs of the glorious must-have shoes. It was not without resentment and heavy sighs the ladies told him to do what he would and off to the spa they did go, leaving the Weasil on the phoney baloney (phone as we call it) to make the necessary arrangements to go back to that dreadful place to pick up the golden prize (at least in his mind anyway).
It took the Weasil not a day, not three days, but two weeks to travel backwards in time because he had avoided the rainy season, but going back had entered fully into it. There was mud he slogged through, fog so thick you could cut it with a knife and find yourself hacking for days just to get a peephole. There was, of course, the bloody language he did not speak and "they" didn't speak his either, so it made for a lot of crazy sign language which took the Weasil nearly 250 kilometres out of his way to the sacred destination. Yup, all those things made for a very wet and annoyed Weasil, but even more annoyed, if not downright angry, were the two ladies he left behind who waited, and waited, and waited with no word from the Weasil. At first, they were worried, then they got nervous, and then they got aggravated until anger took them over, and he did not have the decency to at least communicate by carrier pigeon! I tell ya, women, sheesh.
I mean, how many mud spas, oily massages, facials and pampering can two women endure? Not to mention all that good food with heavy sauces and gravies, exotic fruits and veggies all in caramelised juices, not to mention chocolate, it was, after all, one of the countries of the cocoa bean. SIGH
Unbeknownst to the ladies, the Weasil had found the road to the village of the must-have shoes covered in mudslide. His guides took him around to the other side of the mountain, yes, R. Linda, the village was on a mountaintop, and there he waited for climbing equipment to arrive with pack animals. Three days later, with another downpour of cold rain, Weasil's shoe expedition started up the first muddy slope to the top. Mules lost footing and would slide by the Weasil after a shout-out in the country's language to "watch out, mule in backslide!" Finally, after day one of a bone-chilling night spent on the first slope (or as the Weasil fondly referred to it, Base Camp 1), the Weasil was ever ready to carry on to the next of six slippery slopes to the kingdom of the sought-after shoes.
And here I thought women had a shoe fetish, but not so. Weasil can match them shoe for shoe. He can. I won't bore you with the muddy, slimy details of the climb; just know that Weasil finally made it to the top, tears in his eyes, only to find it was Sunday and the shoe store was closed. Oh, what to do?
Waiting around was the normal option, or breaking in would be a second option, but no, it was a small place, and that second option came not without its consequences. So nothing for it but waiting a day and hoping Monday wasn't some kind of Yak holiday. It wasn't, that's the good news, the bad news is the cobbler had sold that pair of fantastical shoes the day before Sunday. To whom the Weasil wanted to know. Now I know what you probably think: that the crazy Weasil would accost some other tourist for those sensational hopper covers, but that is not what happened. The cobbler could see murder in the eye of the slighted Weasil and suggested that if Weasil had the time, he'd create another pair specially made for Weasil's feet. Well, this was news and good news, hell yes, the Weasil said and slammed his muddy hoppers up on the man's workbench for measuring.
As with all things Weasil, the bad news is that it took the cobbler three days to fashion not one but four pairs of fashionable luxuries for the Weasil's feet.
Meanwhile, back at Casa Unquieto, the two lady companions of the Weasil were disgusted and tired of feasting (because they both put on a good 2.14 stone, to be exact). They no longer cared for the welfare of said hubby/son-in-law, so they booked a flight to LAX. They'd check into a fat farm for a week and then fly home with or without the Weasil and his new shoes.
Finally, having foot gold on his feet, the happier than happy Weasil (there's a scary thought), marched around the shop to every floor mirror to catch every angle of his new hopper covers. Satisfied, he had the cobbler pack all four pairs of custom-made shoes like the world had never seen, and off to slide down the mountainside with his guides and mules to the foot of civilisation (or something near to it).
It took him three weeks when it would have been one to get to the Casa Unquieto. He found the ladies gone with the wind long ago, but they left him a note on where they had gone off to. Immediately upon receipt of said note, Weasil booked a plane, keeping eyes, fingers, legs, and whatever else he could cross, hoping the weather would hold, and he could fly out to Los Angeles. For once, he was in luck, and he left the country of extraordinary shoes, chocolate, heavy sauces and gravies and was on U.S. soil only to find the ladies had gone yet again. They didn't wait the week; they sweated off some of the fat and decided that was too much like work, so they flew off to sunny Scotland. Wait a minute, something is wrong with that. Let me fix it. It's not sunny Scotland; it's rainy Scotland. Yes, Weasil enjoyed about five hours of sunshine at the airport before departing for almost the same weather he left behind in shoe country.
Once on his native soil, he hoofed it up to his estate where he found his two ladies sitting at tea in front of a palatial window, rain pounding on the panes, munching strawberry jam-filled scones as he walked in wearing, you know what, and instead of the reaction he thought he'd get, they both stood up in terrified wonder of what on earth had got hold of his feet! Once he got them settled down and took the hopper covers off to demonstrate they were not rabid animals attached to his body, they unslung a heap of Spanish on him that he could not and to this day still does not understand. They had how many weeks in shoe country? A lot. And besides the feasting, facials, massages, and swimming in the indoor heated pool, they had picked up the language to a degree that they spoke it fluently. Yes, they did.
Weasil told me he couldn't get a word of English from either of them. They'd look at each other, say, "Quien no sabe?" and laugh. They are more than angry at him, and the one English phrase they get after the Spanish words, el tonto, is: for THOSE ugly things we were left. Oh boy. And the Weasil, in his mixed-up mind, thinks Tonto means the Johnny Depp character in The Lone Ranger movie. Uh, not so Weasil Tonto.
"Well, Kemosabe," he said to me (me thinking of the quien no sabe the ladies say to each other having gone straight over the Weasil head), "I have me the worldies bestest shoes evah!" And I will say they are remarkably unique. Yup, they are, and no, I won't be getting a pair anytime soon. See below for the lovely articles that the Weasil sports, and he has four pairs of them! Hey, but that's nothing after the hell he says he went through to get them. I dunno.
Gabe
Copyright © 2016 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
It came to me attention recently that the young whippersnapper (one Weasil by name) has a remarkable sense of fashion. Uh, maybe I need to change that to an extraordinarily odd sense of fashion showmanship. Whatever you want to call it, it is indeed bizarre what the Weasil wears that passes as the latest in men's accessories.
I will give you an example. Just the other day, I was fired an email from the young laddie that, in his travels abroad, he discovered the perfect pair of shoes. Further, he did not buy them at the time because he was having a bad day and wasn't in the mood, BUT in hindsight and leaving the area, he realised those shoes were just the thing and he had to have them. Now this would have been all right if he were on his own, but no, the wife and mother-in-law were travelling with him. The place where he found the shoes was not one of their favourites (if truth be known, they had been glad to leave it), so turning back just for a pair of shoes would cause dissension in an already stressful trip. The Weasil reckoned he could do without and probably find them online, so onward with the holiday. They proceeded UNTIL one evening in a large city with Internet, the young whippersnapper got online (having a bad fetish developed over those shoes) to find they were not online anywhere in the world, which meant one thing -- he had to go back!
"I am NOT going back there, but if you two want to, I will stay here until you return." The mother-in-law, one Barbara, as Weasil calls her, Babbra, stated in no uncertain terms.
"I DO NOT want to go back there either, I just want to get off this continent and go somewhere where we won't be subject to snide remarks and no one understands English." Amanda (the wife) interjected with some force, I will say.
But Weasil was dead set on those hopper covers and informed them it was his fashion mission to go back to the place and get himself not one, but two pairs of the glorious must-have shoes. It was not without resentment and heavy sighs the ladies told him to do what he would and off to the spa they did go, leaving the Weasil on the phoney baloney (phone as we call it) to make the necessary arrangements to go back to that dreadful place to pick up the golden prize (at least in his mind anyway).
It took the Weasil not a day, not three days, but two weeks to travel backwards in time because he had avoided the rainy season, but going back had entered fully into it. There was mud he slogged through, fog so thick you could cut it with a knife and find yourself hacking for days just to get a peephole. There was, of course, the bloody language he did not speak and "they" didn't speak his either, so it made for a lot of crazy sign language which took the Weasil nearly 250 kilometres out of his way to the sacred destination. Yup, all those things made for a very wet and annoyed Weasil, but even more annoyed, if not downright angry, were the two ladies he left behind who waited, and waited, and waited with no word from the Weasil. At first, they were worried, then they got nervous, and then they got aggravated until anger took them over, and he did not have the decency to at least communicate by carrier pigeon! I tell ya, women, sheesh.
I mean, how many mud spas, oily massages, facials and pampering can two women endure? Not to mention all that good food with heavy sauces and gravies, exotic fruits and veggies all in caramelised juices, not to mention chocolate, it was, after all, one of the countries of the cocoa bean. SIGH
Unbeknownst to the ladies, the Weasil had found the road to the village of the must-have shoes covered in mudslide. His guides took him around to the other side of the mountain, yes, R. Linda, the village was on a mountaintop, and there he waited for climbing equipment to arrive with pack animals. Three days later, with another downpour of cold rain, Weasil's shoe expedition started up the first muddy slope to the top. Mules lost footing and would slide by the Weasil after a shout-out in the country's language to "watch out, mule in backslide!" Finally, after day one of a bone-chilling night spent on the first slope (or as the Weasil fondly referred to it, Base Camp 1), the Weasil was ever ready to carry on to the next of six slippery slopes to the kingdom of the sought-after shoes.
And here I thought women had a shoe fetish, but not so. Weasil can match them shoe for shoe. He can. I won't bore you with the muddy, slimy details of the climb; just know that Weasil finally made it to the top, tears in his eyes, only to find it was Sunday and the shoe store was closed. Oh, what to do?
Waiting around was the normal option, or breaking in would be a second option, but no, it was a small place, and that second option came not without its consequences. So nothing for it but waiting a day and hoping Monday wasn't some kind of Yak holiday. It wasn't, that's the good news, the bad news is the cobbler had sold that pair of fantastical shoes the day before Sunday. To whom the Weasil wanted to know. Now I know what you probably think: that the crazy Weasil would accost some other tourist for those sensational hopper covers, but that is not what happened. The cobbler could see murder in the eye of the slighted Weasil and suggested that if Weasil had the time, he'd create another pair specially made for Weasil's feet. Well, this was news and good news, hell yes, the Weasil said and slammed his muddy hoppers up on the man's workbench for measuring.
As with all things Weasil, the bad news is that it took the cobbler three days to fashion not one but four pairs of fashionable luxuries for the Weasil's feet.
Meanwhile, back at Casa Unquieto, the two lady companions of the Weasil were disgusted and tired of feasting (because they both put on a good 2.14 stone, to be exact). They no longer cared for the welfare of said hubby/son-in-law, so they booked a flight to LAX. They'd check into a fat farm for a week and then fly home with or without the Weasil and his new shoes.
Finally, having foot gold on his feet, the happier than happy Weasil (there's a scary thought), marched around the shop to every floor mirror to catch every angle of his new hopper covers. Satisfied, he had the cobbler pack all four pairs of custom-made shoes like the world had never seen, and off to slide down the mountainside with his guides and mules to the foot of civilisation (or something near to it).
It took him three weeks when it would have been one to get to the Casa Unquieto. He found the ladies gone with the wind long ago, but they left him a note on where they had gone off to. Immediately upon receipt of said note, Weasil booked a plane, keeping eyes, fingers, legs, and whatever else he could cross, hoping the weather would hold, and he could fly out to Los Angeles. For once, he was in luck, and he left the country of extraordinary shoes, chocolate, heavy sauces and gravies and was on U.S. soil only to find the ladies had gone yet again. They didn't wait the week; they sweated off some of the fat and decided that was too much like work, so they flew off to sunny Scotland. Wait a minute, something is wrong with that. Let me fix it. It's not sunny Scotland; it's rainy Scotland. Yes, Weasil enjoyed about five hours of sunshine at the airport before departing for almost the same weather he left behind in shoe country.
Once on his native soil, he hoofed it up to his estate where he found his two ladies sitting at tea in front of a palatial window, rain pounding on the panes, munching strawberry jam-filled scones as he walked in wearing, you know what, and instead of the reaction he thought he'd get, they both stood up in terrified wonder of what on earth had got hold of his feet! Once he got them settled down and took the hopper covers off to demonstrate they were not rabid animals attached to his body, they unslung a heap of Spanish on him that he could not and to this day still does not understand. They had how many weeks in shoe country? A lot. And besides the feasting, facials, massages, and swimming in the indoor heated pool, they had picked up the language to a degree that they spoke it fluently. Yes, they did.
Weasil told me he couldn't get a word of English from either of them. They'd look at each other, say, "Quien no sabe?" and laugh. They are more than angry at him, and the one English phrase they get after the Spanish words, el tonto, is: for THOSE ugly things we were left. Oh boy. And the Weasil, in his mixed-up mind, thinks Tonto means the Johnny Depp character in The Lone Ranger movie. Uh, not so Weasil Tonto.
"Well, Kemosabe," he said to me (me thinking of the quien no sabe the ladies say to each other having gone straight over the Weasil head), "I have me the worldies bestest shoes evah!" And I will say they are remarkably unique. Yup, they are, and no, I won't be getting a pair anytime soon. See below for the lovely articles that the Weasil sports, and he has four pairs of them! Hey, but that's nothing after the hell he says he went through to get them. I dunno.
 |
| Jazzy right? Ya gotta be crazy! |
Gabe
Copyright © 2016 All rights reserved
omg they have tails!
ReplyDeleteYes, yes they do and I suspect so does Weasil.
DeleteThose THINGS look Like ears and if you look you can see a mane. Not worth the trip. LMAO
ReplyDeleteHow many horses were sacrificed for 4 pairs of shoes? Rich boys stymie me.
ReplyDeleteThat might be llama hide not sure what it is really.
DeleteHave him kick his shoes together and see what sound it makes. Llama or neigh. LOL
DeleteScary
ReplyDeleteYou know Gabe, with the right dress suit these could look arse kicking, LMAO
ReplyDeleteI hope you're joking
ReplyDelete