wedgieboy vs. weggieboy

“What do you mean? Is this another one of your ‘I’ slamming ‘me’ blogs? Wedgieboy vs. weggieboy certainly sounds like it. Explain!”

Thus began another long, long, l-o-n-g, twisted, convoluted, cross-referenced, side-barred, confusing, and confused explanation of something I didn’t really want to know about anyway. Not really. Idle curiosity is all. Friendly chatter.

[No, You missed the subtle difference in spelling. (Subtle for a dyslexic orangutan..!) There are three basic meanings to three or two of the words, if you count. Yeah. See above for several examples of what we’ll call a “Type I wedgieboy. Note how they writhe. Note how they squirm. Note how they call out “Mama” in many languages. Note how they hang, twisting in the wind. Type I wedgies rarely reproduce, unlike their tormentors, who have taken over the world, running most national governments and virtually all major transnational businesses. Yes, Hitler was a wedgieboy, though Stalin most likely was a tormentor.] 


Tori the Norwegian Forestkatz or "wegie"

Tori the Norwegian Forestkatz or "wegie"


  Whaaaa..!? [Technically, this is a Norwegian forest cat named “Tori”, a “Wegie”, which I include because I like cats. For those not impaired, “Wegie” is pronounced as “WEE-gee”.  It has nothing to do with the wedgieboy vs. weggieboy explanation. Or, if you insist, we can call this one Type IIa. I’m amenable!]

Are we ever going to get to “weggieboy”?? My patience is thinning, and I need to hit the bathroom. [Twit! We are at the Type IIb “weggie”. Not to be confused with those above, it has an “egg” in it, so is pronounced “WEGG-ee”. Wrap your dyslexic orangutan lips around this: WUH + EGG + ee + boi. Say it ten times. Say it until your gums bleed. A weggieboy is someone with the disease Wegener’s granulomatosis, a potentially fatal form of vasculitis. Rather than go through life thinking of himself as a victim, something weak and to be pitied, a weggieboy – or weggiegirl, as they come in both varieties- doesn’t think of himself as a WG patient, but as a weggie, a person who, but virtue of a superior positive attitude, good doctors and nurses, many people in his support groups (work, neighbor, church, community, WG support group), the Drug Duo from Hell (Cytoxan and Prednisone), is a survivor, one of the 9 in 10 people who comes down with Wegener’s granulomatosis and lives. I hope you wet your PANTS!]

Is that a weggieboy?

Is that a weggieboy?


[Sorry, bad guess. Below is an example, perhaps not the best example, but the one I have to show.]

Picture 1

[Here’s a video of the real deal, showing the meeting of two actual weggies. I’ve tormented you enough]

You don’t know how unlikely such a meeting is!

weggieboy takes on weggieboy


  1. Why didn’t you post something in June, you slug?! Family visits aren’t sufficient justification to stop posting. Slug. SLUG!
    How do the texters put it? U r a slug.
    | \                   o o
    \ \________\/
    \_________/< SluG!
    • Edit Comment

    By: weggieboy on July 5, 2009
    at 4:10 pm



    • Dear weggieboy-

      I feel your pain, literally. I am both your best friend and your worst enemy. I know your strengths and your weaknesses. We are related to the same people. I’m surprised and hurt you call me a “SluG” . That was a lame effort on your part to create, typographically, a slug to further point out what you feel is a great oversight or failure on my part: slugishness. On the contrary, mon ami, mon frere, mon- erm!- moi! Familial visits are the source of great amusements, mutual ribbing, shared happiness, recalled sadness. They refresh and charge our batteries. They reconnect us with the people we love most, yet see all too rarely! That requires effort and time to reconnect to this wonderful world into which we are most accepted as we are and because we are. Families are the treasure we all seek but oftentimes forget is as close as a phone call, as easy as a letter posted, as fun as a web camera and a hilarious collaboration among siblings to produce a video to show those who couldn’t make it (nieces, nephews, their kids) 1. nah nah, you aren’t here having fun with us, 2. love you, and want you to see how much fun we can have as a family, and 3. give you a chance to see your aunts and uncles, mothers and fathers, get “stoopid” in a way that reconnects them with us in a big loving family. No in jokes here, bub. Well, maybe one or two. But sluggishness? How many people will read the June blog? How many people read any of these blogs? They just happen when they do. They aren’t a thing to schedule. They must be spontaneous and fun for me or they just won’t be. One month might be a blog-a-week month. The next might be a blog with another waiting to be hatched month. They create themselves in their time. I’m on sun time now, friend. Call me a slug if you will, weggieboy! The label sticks to you!
      And I know where you live…!

    • Edit Comment

    By: weggieboy on July 5, 2009
    at 4:29 pm



  2. p.s. I happen to know you are addicted to Japanese cat videos on YouTube, sicko.

volunteerism- how to pay up what you owe

My mother and father spent tens of hundreds of hours in volunteer activities that benefited the community where they lived most of their lives.

So engrained was their habit of volunteerism, their grave marker includes this saying: “Service to others is the price you pay for the space you occupy.” Carved in stone! Both were active volunteers in the church. But there is an extreme example of volunteerism: My mother taught water safety classes and adapted aquatics for 60 years as a Red Cross Volunteer. The only thing that involved her attention as long was her marriage, which lasted 71 years, until my father died November 4, 2008.  So grateful was the community that the City Council past a resolution  to name the bath house at the new swimming pool after her, an honor rarely given to living people who don’t first fork over a million or so dollars! On the plaque bolted to the front of the bath house: “Service to others is the price you pay for the space you occupy.” Cast in brass!

"Service to others is the price we pay for the space we occupy." Barely seen, the family motto of service to others is carved into the stone of my parent’s gravemarker as well. Place your cursor on the photo….

There’s a pattern there, and a challenge. I am my parents’ child. I live in the community where their good works stand as testament to their character. It is a small town, where I rarely have a day that someone doesn’t say, for example, “Oh, your mother taught me to swim!” Or “Your mother and father helped tile this fellowship hall.” Or, well, you get the idea!

Until they went into the care center half a block north of my apartment, I helped my parents as they became less and less able to take care of their needs. I planted gardens, a great joy, as you can guess if you read the blog before this one. I scooped snow. That had to be a great labor of love, I tell you, because I hated, hated, hated every scoop I pushed off the walk and drive! I mowed grass. I hated that until I bought a push mower. That allowed me to mow in the early, cool morning, bare footed. I raked fall leaves. Those I returned to the garden. I loved improving the soil that way. By the time we had to leave the house, the garden soil was so loose, you could turn it with a little effort and a garden fork. This service to others counts, I suppose, though doesn’t it fall more under “familial duty”? I think so.

I retired January 30, 2009. Now is the time for me to pay the price for the space I occupy!