BEWARE THE WEASELS, MA'AM

The other day someone said he really liked women from New Zealand; they seemed so open and warm compared to San Francisco women, whom he likened to raptors. Then he and his friend spent a couple of hours chatting with an exemplar who was in town. By the time the evening ended both men were wagging their tails and drooling.

It was a rather fascinating display. I have seldom had a chance to watch the normal heterosexual male in action. If the lady in question had been attractive to me, I likewise might have ended up like a mushy canine.
Yipping, panting, and making doggy eyes.

Except, of course, being a dry fish with considerable reserve I would probably not have shown it.


My conversational gambits towards the other gender tend to be not geared towards establishing optimum conditions for a link-up.


The other day I told someone to bundle up, for heaven's sake, there are snow-weasels out there! Stay warm, and they won't get you!

I thought it was prime advice. It showed my depth of concern.
If she had asked, I might have volunteered a blanky.
Because I did indeed want her to be warm.
Beware their ravenous appetite!

It was not meant to be a 'come-on', or a "let us hook up and behave like animals" line. I'm rather out of practice on those, and haven't found a nice young lady yet who would make me become all swoony once again.
My type does not presently include women from New Zealand.
They might indeed be very charming, those Kiwis.
Despite the exceptional high heels.
But nope.


Courting someone who is in town for only two more days does not seem a very sensible course of action.


The ideal person to pursue is someone entirely local, who understands the snow weasel paradigm, and realizes that burrowing into a large downy comforter, with a fascinating book -- detective fiction, trashy self-aggrandizing autobiography, or culinary literature -- is the surest way to keep imaginary beasts at bay, and spend many hours in a happy glow.
With or without a companion and a plate of yummy cookies.
Because summers in San Francisco are cold.
Let us keep warm and slumber.
Or have a toe fight.
Toasty.


Snow weasels come down from Alaska, and love nothing better than feasting on nice young ladies and small friendly creatures. The trail to the south is littered with the skeletons of their victims, all white and glistening and pathetic, and nothing grows there. They are like both heat vampires and daemonic ermine. Fierce, ferocious, hungry, and efficient killers.
You can hear them in the evening, clinking their little cutleries (steak knives, cleavers, and very sharp forks) and moaning alluringly. No, that's NOT the wind; do not believe the cynics who wish to misinform you.
Stay indoors, get under the covers, and have some warm tea.
Lie in bed pretending to be a large inanimate lump.
You can do it; you have talent.

Man I hate summer in San Francisco.
The cold sneaks up on you.

Snow weasels!




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