Nate Is A Weasel: The Ravitz Diaries


No assignment has ever terrified us more than absconding with a page from Nate Ravitz’s personal journal.  The Ravitz Compound is a maze of Bouncing Bettys, concertina wire, and Burmese tiger traps that has already claimed the lives of fourteen TMZ reporters.  It would have been declared a public safety hazard long ago, but it’s just so good at killing TMZ reporters.

Despite the danger, we soldiered on because we did not want to let you, the reader, down.  Especially after you mailed us that box full of money (that’s still on the way, right?).  Perhaps you’ll be shocked by what you read below.  Perhaps bemused.  Perhaps, once it occurs to you what great, personal peril we went through, you might feel compelled to send us another box full of money (use a different carrier this time).  But whatever your reaction, the Nate Is The Weasel Investigative Team wants you to know this: don’t abbreviate our name on the check, because the bank will not let us cash something made out to “NITWIT”.

diary

7:00 AM – I wake up, then shave whiskers.  I mean beard.  Gotta start calling it a beard.

7:30 AM – Morning call from the League of Weasel Brethren (hallowed be its name).  The Weasel High Emeritus suggests I slip more pro-weasel propaganda into the podcasts.  I say I’ll think about it.

8:30 AM – Once again, I arrive at the ESPN offices to find that someone has parked in my “quadropeds only” parking space.  I file an H.R. complaint, but they reply that the parking space was just a prank and they didn’t think I’d actually use it.  But if they think I’m not filing another complaint about the prank, they’re wrong.

8:40 AM – Check vole traps behind the ESPN dumpster, nothing yet.  Might be eating out for lunch.

8:45 AM – Podcast pre-production meeting with Jay & Matthew.  When I get up for coffee, someone switches my chair with one that does not accommodate vestigial tails.  I ask who did it, but they just snicker.  I refuse to sit until someone brings back the chair.  Meeting ends in a standoff.  H.R. will hear about this.

9:00 AM – Just before baseball podcast, Joe Mead drops off breakfast tacos.  Mine is labeled “egg, cheese, & marmot”.  Guys get a big laugh out of that.  I make a show of throwing it away, but secretly retrieve it when no one is looking.  Marmot a little gamey.  Write strongly worded email to H.R., but it gets returned.

10:20 AM – Registered letter from the Chinese Astrological Council says they still refuse to recognize “Year of the Weasel”.  They maintain it’s covered under Year of the Rat because both are “capable of great evil” and “can be obstinate & vindictive”.  I curse them all to hell, shred their letter to tiny pieces, then write them again.  This time I use all caps.

10:50 AM – During morning paper pushing, I get a cut in my hide (note to self: gotta start calling it skin).  Since H.R. is blocking my emails, I drop off complaint in person.  When they refuse to provide a notarized receipt, I urinate in their wastebasket.  Atmosphere seems tense.

11:40 AM – Weasel Hotline rings.  The High Emeritus has downloaded the show and is upset that I failed to “further the weasel cause” during the podcast.  Guy is starting to get on my nerves.

12:00 PM – Vole traps still empty.  Arby’s is nearest equivalent.

UnionCard

1:30 PM – While wandering by the SportsCenter studio, I hear one of the hosts make an off-color weasel joke.  So I punch them out.  Then THEY file an H.R. complaint against ME!  Some nerve.  Anyway, H.R. takes their side (of course!) and I’m on 3 months probation.  But Linda Cohn won’t make that mistake again.

2:40 PM – I think my stylist suspects.  During afternoon haircut I inadvertently asked for a “fur shampoo”.  We laughed it off, but things were still awkward.  And the live rat in my mouth didn’t help.  Will have to call League and have her followed.

3:10 PM – Traps get first catch of day, but it’s just Lee Corso.  I throw him back.

3:30 PM – I Google myself (and no, that is not a euphemism), #1 result is that website calling me a weasel.  I instead go to the website that says I’m not a weasel, but that is even more depressing.

3:55 PM – Now banned from the H.R. office because I filed a complaint about how frequently the word “human” appears on the H.R. forms.  At some point they’re just rubbing it in, you know?  And what the hell is wrong with changing it to “Mammal Resources”, anyway?  For crying out loud, our company’s mascot is a mouse!  I will not be kind in my next H.R. complaint, which I will have to file by carrier pigeon.

5:00 PM – On commute home, I jam to Clay Aiken.  And no, the rumors aren’t true: he only seems like a weasel.

5:30 PM – Stop by Lowe’s on the way home to pick up a Garden Weasel.  It’s degrading, but hey, the thing works.

6:30 PM – The wife asks me to get Italian take-out for dinner, but all this talk of carrier pigeons makes me hungry for more Arby’s.  Wife is not pleased.  It then becomes my job to feed baby Ravitz, who gets strained squirrel everywhere.

8:00 PM – Monthly meeting of the Weasels, Varmints, & Pipefitters Local 937.  As usual, the pipefitters are brutally insensitive toward the issue of owls in the workplace.  When will this scourge end?

2:15 AM – Weasel High Emeritus drunk-dials me and sobs uncontrollably for 5 minutes.  I tell him everything will be alright, then hang up.  Ermines.  What are you gonna do?

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