We thought that a neighborhood of loveable, shaggy Muppets would escape the ravages of the recession: my friends, we were wrong. So, so wrong.
In a tearful announcement earlier today, Kermit the Frog announced that, effective immediately, Sesame Street will lay off 20% of its workforce. While he refused to give specifics, he did indicate that the cuts would be made from the on-air staff, leaving no-one immune to these Draconian cost-cutting measures. Out of approximately 140 Muppets, this represents a loss of 28 beloved characters. Who will it be???
Yes, this is a post about how to eat beaver. Not just ANY beaver, you understand; we have us some STANDARDS around these parts (these ones right down…here) and will not show you how to gnaw on gristly old beaver, the kind like an old baseball mitt made out of bbq jerky.
The wife coyly tried to explain her purchase of a new pair of expensive imported panties. “After all, dear,” she said to her husband, “You wouldn’t expect to find fine perfume in a cheap bottle, would you?”
“No,” her husband replied. “Nor would I expect to find gift wrapping on a dead beaver.”
No indeed!
We’re all about the fresh, young beaver here. Although perhaps not as much as the lesbians down at Lick might like, now that we think of it.
Where were we? Oh yes, speaking of ourselves in the second-person plural, for no reason we can fathom other than it’s practice for when Randy Andy comes to his senses, loses some weight, and gets his butt off the golf course and marries me. Or Hot Ginge, I’m easy.
Anyway, it does look like some people could use instructions for the most basic things, like the great Canadian (yes, it’s Canadian, check out the website) art of beaver-eating. Why, we’ve even got 1/24th of each day devoted to beaver!
The Brits, on the other hand, have to go to great, bureaucracy-enveloping lengths to be reintroduced to beavers. What, they don’t have Lavalife there? Apparently, they killed every one they could find, thus bringing to life the old cliche about, If I see something I’ve never seen before, I’ll shoot it. Boarding school has a lot to answer for, I’m telling you.
Russia, of course, being somewhat desperate and all out of ponies and small children since Yeltsin sold every mammal larger than a husky, has developedits own way to prepare beaver for eating, and here it is, with photos. Warning! Very wet and lots of bare flesh!
The 17th century Catholic Church actually declared beavers to be a fish according to dietary restrictions, meaning they are ok to eat on both Fridays and throughout Lent.
Well, this should be more widely known, is all I have to say about the matter!
Did you know that the US Cub Scouts give a Silver Beaver award? I nearly got thrown out of the leader’s meeting for laughing so much when they gave it to a retired woman with grey hair.
Hmmm, it’s given for Outstanding Service to Youth. I know more than one or two beavers that would qualify under those criteria!
In the spirit of these fine organizations and countries comes a post from Bug Girl on her serendipitous discovery of a tome of wisdom devoted, at least in substantial part, to instructions on pleasing one’s wife with wild games and, of course, the preparation and consumption of beaver.
The author claims the meat is “dark, moist and tender”; Hmmmm, sounds like somebody’s got a touch of Jungle Fever.
I wonder if it has some tips on how to stuff a beaver? It’s been so long I’ve forgotten.
Sadly, none have ever approached the catchiness of the original tune and site: there’s just something about Adsense-laden sidebars that somehow limits the freedom of the ecstatic experience, once shortlisted for Song of the Millennium.
They look suspiciously like Meerkats. Better keep an eye on these buggers.
Regular raincoaster fans (an irregular bunch, for sure) are well aware that around these parts (these ones right…here, to be specific) we recognize no gods; none but Cthulhu and Christopher Walken.
Mr Walken’s thespian skills are indisputed, but perhaps fans are less familiar with his amazingly powerful prose reading ability. Regular raincoaster readers will be familiar with his astonishing reading of The Three Little Pigs; new readers are welcome to click through and review before moving on to the new material.
That’s nineteen. Not Ten Years Ago in Spy. Yes, it has been that long. Feels like it when you really think about it, don’t it? Especially if you’re reading Graydon Carter’s magazine now.
I’m stealing this because not only is it a precious jewel plucked from the greatest glossy setting of the last century, but also because it is a perfect demonstration of the Canadian character; not only the policy here elucidated, but also the urge to explain our passive-aggressive policies in a manner half apologetic, half ironic. In fact, every truly Canadian action is undertaken in a spirit half apologetic, half ironic, and that includes looting and burning the White House: we were, after all, only knowingly referencing the burning of York. Always following the lead of the bloody Yanks, that’s us.
Anyhoodle, here it is, a letter to Spy in the January, 1990 edition, from the benighted, but polite, dominion of Canuckistan.
Dear Editors,
As an ex-flight attendant for Air Canada, I can tell you that whenever the Grim Reaper made his way through one of our cabins, the procedure was a little different from Delta Air Lines’ [“Bound for Glory: What Happens When Your Last Stop Comes Before the End of the Line,” by Jay Blotcher, September]. We still notified the family and had the plane met by an ambulance, but we didn’t just leave the deceased for dead during the flight.
Maybe it is just the Canadian way, but we were basically told to lie and pretend that the passenger was not dead, only ill. It seems the airline though if we ran down the aisles screaming “Oh God, he’s dead, Gloria!” the passengers would become alarmed and subsequently be too afraid to visit the in-flight duty-free shop. So we were told to vacate the seat beside the deceased, put a fake oxygen mask [they HAVE those on planes? I am becoming alarmed] on him, turn his face toward the window and cover him with a blanket. (So he wouldn’t get cold?) The rest of the flight would be spent offering the dead man drinks and complimentary earphones [which Air Canada now no longer offers, even to living passengers] to continue the charade.
The thing I could never understand was that a flight attendant was expected to sit beside the body for landing. It’s not as if they expected you to date the guy afterward or anything, but really…how can a corpse have anything but a safe landing?
(I wasn’t with the company very long and never personally had a passenger die on one of my flights; however, there were quite a few I wanted to kill.)
raincoaster 