06 November 2019
971
R. Linda:
I was in a rush and there was Weasil, standing in me kitchen, coffee pot in hand, watching me.
"I could help yer arse, ya know." He said sipping from the pot (I still don't know how his mouth isn't a blackened burnt mess and I also don't like he does that).
Me Mam grabbed the pot from him, poured a huge travelling cup (a blatant hint if ever there was one) of the liquid gold, handed it to him, and then dumped the pot to make fresh, uncontaminated joe for the rest of us all the while tsking at him through clenched teeth.
"What?" I said exasperated.
"Da kiddies, I coulda got em' ready fur ya." He said sipping from the travelling mug like it was no big deal.
"Okay then!" I said trying to find my work folder. Mam poured me a cup of joe the way I like it and she left taking the pot with her (for safe keeping I supposed), while I took meself to my office to find the delinquent folder.
Next, I come back to an almost empty kitchen and THIS is what I found.
The youngest, the last to leave for the bus, was rocking his head back and forth across his little table in frustration.
"Whatever be the matter?" I said as I came back in.
"UNCA WEASA BE DA MATTER!"
"Weasil," I stupidly corrected, "what's he done?"
"HE'SA TALKIN' TA ME!" The wee one shouted.
I realised I left my car keys in the other room and left for a fraction of a minute to come back to this:
Weasil: "Sos heres a poem fur ya kiddo -- Five little piggies sleeping' in a bed, four woke up and one was dead!" This was said while he was making a sandwich.
Now I know why Weasil's own brood are the way they are.
"Okie dokie, ya dunt like datty dere one, sos howz dissy one here? Six little piggies sitting' on a cake, five little piggies . . ."
And that's as far as he got before I cut him off.
"Wot?" he said all innocent.
Before I could say a word the youngest piped up with this gem, "HE," this said pointing at Uncle Weasil, "used me school scissors to cut a piece of roast beef! Now the scissors won't cut paper and I have no scissors for school!"
Well, as you can imagine I was rather taken aback, and there on the counter was a roast beef sanny that the Weasil was breakfasting on and the offending scissors were next to the open bread bag.
"AN' -- HE," (again pointing at the guilty Weasil who stood munching on the roast beef sanny like someone else was being derided), "HE PUT ME SHOES ON THE WRONG FEET, LOOKA!"
And sure enough, me kiddo looked pigeon-toed.
"AN'!" He shouted, "HE," (again pointing at the culprit) "PUT ME SHIRT ON INSIDE OUT!' And he opened his jacket and sure enough. "I TOLE EM' I COULD DRESS MYSELF! A LOT BETTER THAN HE CAN DRESS ME OR EVEN HIMSELF LOOKA HIM!"
Oh yeah. Because as I looked at the munching Weasil, I noticed his shirt was on backwards and he had one stripped sock on his left foot, and a non-matching black sock on the other foot. The usual debonair Weasil was not exactly dressed for the outside world, no it seems before Weasil had his pot of coffee, he came down dressed in whatever he slept in and that was the case here. Even his sweat pants were on backwards and well, he certainly was not one to help dress small wonders for the day.
Hastily I corrected the clothing faux pas on my youngest, muttering under me breath at the incompetency of certain persons who can't function without their coffee (I know, ignore that in me please) and the fact they aren't being helpful when one be oneself late for work.
After straightening the clothing situation and asking if snack and lunch were in his backpack (no worries here me Mam takes care of all that), I left to get my jacket. When I came back, I found an almost instant replay of the first scene in the kitchen.
"Once dere wuz a smallie little rat and he had an uncle weasel, who only liked to teasel, and one day da smallie little rat and hiz uncle weasel came down wit da measles, but da smallie little rat was eaten by uncle weasel's cat and . . . "
"ENOUGH!" I shouted at the Weasil who thought he was being a very amusing fellow, but obviously, the wee one wasn't amused and didn't think he was funny, and I was sure wasn't happy about being called a small little rat to boot. I dunno about Weasil at times, correct that, all the time. I drove the child to the bus stop and he was still not a happy camper. I promised him Uncle Weasil would be gone before he returned at the end of the school day.
I then drove back to the house instead of to the highway and work to confront the Weasil about his inability to parent children nor help with other people's children, but I didn't have to worry, as I drove in he was driving out. Seems me Mam booted the Weasil's arse out to his red Mustang and told him many disparaging things about himself, which I be sure the Weasil found very hard to believe, but she did and he was on his way, coffee-less I might add, and SHE was in the driveway wiping her hands like she was rid of something messy. I turned around, saluted her grandness and left for work, and I am happy to say I wasn't late, just almost, and when I returned the Weasil was not at me abode. Happy ending for me and the wee one who informed me "Unca Weasil iz a luny tick (lunatic) of the first magnitude." I be impressed with the lad's assessment, and big word that I am sure after hearing the tale from the wee lad his teacher imparted that lovely conclusion to me son, who has made it his own. All is well that ends well!
Gabe
Copyright © 2019 All rights reserved
971
R. Linda:
I was in a rush and there was Weasil, standing in me kitchen, coffee pot in hand, watching me.
"I could help yer arse, ya know." He said sipping from the pot (I still don't know how his mouth isn't a blackened burnt mess and I also don't like he does that).
Me Mam grabbed the pot from him, poured a huge travelling cup (a blatant hint if ever there was one) of the liquid gold, handed it to him, and then dumped the pot to make fresh, uncontaminated joe for the rest of us all the while tsking at him through clenched teeth.
"What?" I said exasperated.
"Da kiddies, I coulda got em' ready fur ya." He said sipping from the travelling mug like it was no big deal.
"Okay then!" I said trying to find my work folder. Mam poured me a cup of joe the way I like it and she left taking the pot with her (for safe keeping I supposed), while I took meself to my office to find the delinquent folder.
Next, I come back to an almost empty kitchen and THIS is what I found.
 |
| Nope not happy |
"Whatever be the matter?" I said as I came back in.
"UNCA WEASA BE DA MATTER!"
"Weasil," I stupidly corrected, "what's he done?"
"HE'SA TALKIN' TA ME!" The wee one shouted.
I realised I left my car keys in the other room and left for a fraction of a minute to come back to this:
Weasil: "Sos heres a poem fur ya kiddo -- Five little piggies sleeping' in a bed, four woke up and one was dead!" This was said while he was making a sandwich.
Now I know why Weasil's own brood are the way they are.
"Okie dokie, ya dunt like datty dere one, sos howz dissy one here? Six little piggies sitting' on a cake, five little piggies . . ."
And that's as far as he got before I cut him off.
"Wot?" he said all innocent.
Before I could say a word the youngest piped up with this gem, "HE," this said pointing at Uncle Weasil, "used me school scissors to cut a piece of roast beef! Now the scissors won't cut paper and I have no scissors for school!"
Well, as you can imagine I was rather taken aback, and there on the counter was a roast beef sanny that the Weasil was breakfasting on and the offending scissors were next to the open bread bag.
"AN' -- HE," (again pointing at the guilty Weasil who stood munching on the roast beef sanny like someone else was being derided), "HE PUT ME SHOES ON THE WRONG FEET, LOOKA!"
And sure enough, me kiddo looked pigeon-toed.
"AN'!" He shouted, "HE," (again pointing at the culprit) "PUT ME SHIRT ON INSIDE OUT!' And he opened his jacket and sure enough. "I TOLE EM' I COULD DRESS MYSELF! A LOT BETTER THAN HE CAN DRESS ME OR EVEN HIMSELF LOOKA HIM!"
Oh yeah. Because as I looked at the munching Weasil, I noticed his shirt was on backwards and he had one stripped sock on his left foot, and a non-matching black sock on the other foot. The usual debonair Weasil was not exactly dressed for the outside world, no it seems before Weasil had his pot of coffee, he came down dressed in whatever he slept in and that was the case here. Even his sweat pants were on backwards and well, he certainly was not one to help dress small wonders for the day.
Hastily I corrected the clothing faux pas on my youngest, muttering under me breath at the incompetency of certain persons who can't function without their coffee (I know, ignore that in me please) and the fact they aren't being helpful when one be oneself late for work.
After straightening the clothing situation and asking if snack and lunch were in his backpack (no worries here me Mam takes care of all that), I left to get my jacket. When I came back, I found an almost instant replay of the first scene in the kitchen.
 |
| UGH!!! |
"ENOUGH!" I shouted at the Weasil who thought he was being a very amusing fellow, but obviously, the wee one wasn't amused and didn't think he was funny, and I was sure wasn't happy about being called a small little rat to boot. I dunno about Weasil at times, correct that, all the time. I drove the child to the bus stop and he was still not a happy camper. I promised him Uncle Weasil would be gone before he returned at the end of the school day.
I then drove back to the house instead of to the highway and work to confront the Weasil about his inability to parent children nor help with other people's children, but I didn't have to worry, as I drove in he was driving out. Seems me Mam booted the Weasil's arse out to his red Mustang and told him many disparaging things about himself, which I be sure the Weasil found very hard to believe, but she did and he was on his way, coffee-less I might add, and SHE was in the driveway wiping her hands like she was rid of something messy. I turned around, saluted her grandness and left for work, and I am happy to say I wasn't late, just almost, and when I returned the Weasil was not at me abode. Happy ending for me and the wee one who informed me "Unca Weasil iz a luny tick (lunatic) of the first magnitude." I be impressed with the lad's assessment, and big word that I am sure after hearing the tale from the wee lad his teacher imparted that lovely conclusion to me son, who has made it his own. All is well that ends well!
Gabe
Copyright © 2019 All rights reserved
