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the latest waddle:

good morning, wordpress - 10:36 a.m. , 2009-07-03

elaborate murder attempt - 2:56 p.m. , 2009-07-01

building a tractor in the basement - 10:42 a.m. , 2009-06-19

ask no questions tell just a few lies - 3:17 p.m. , 2009-06-09

my long lasting flavor really lasts long - 1:10 p.m. , 2009-06-04

2004-03-17 ... 10:25 a.m.


Do you want to FREAK OUT? Engage in some sustained thinking about the platypus, and then a quality freakout will be yours! I have already talked at length about my slowly evolving platypus-knowledge: everyone grew up knowing that it is a mammal and yet lays eggs (freaky!), but not as many are aware that the male platypus is venomous or that the female has no nipples. Here is the newest freaking-me-out platypus fact: the platypus gets more REM sleep than any other animal. Platypus dreams!

Or maybe you would like to FEEL SICK! In which case I strongly suggest you take a look at the Hot Pocket! Even with many graphic designers, photo stylists, and professional food photographers at their disposal, the Hot Pockets company does not have a pedophile's chance in prison of making their products look appetizing. I was going to steal just the worst of the graphics to show you, but (a) I don't want any Hot Pocket photographs defiling this page (I've had pictures of Nora on here!) and (b) I honestly cannot decide which Hot Pocket is the most disgusting. Currently I am leaning toward the meatball-and-mozzarella variety, which seriously looks like a cross-section of a tumor. Here is an actual cross-section of a tumor for comparison, and I swear that if you enclosed this thing in croissant dough people could be fooled.

(From the same site: "Hi kids, Daddy's home! Listen, I know you guys wanted a puppy, but can you believe they were just going to throw this giant tumor out? What should we name it?")

Both LT and I (okay, more me than him) are as obsessed with the term Hot Pocket as we are disgusted by the physical Hot Pocket. For a while I was all about the Hot Pocket sexual innuendoes ("Hey baby, do you want a snack? Because I think my Hot Pocket is ready"), until I decided that it was not quite right for my resplendent hoo-ha to be mentally associated with the vile marriage of meat nuggets and melted cheese. Now I am mostly using "Hot Pocket" as a sentence-filler, for when I cannot remember the real word for something ("then you put the thing in the, ah, other know...ah fuck...the Hot Pocket. No. You know what I mean.")

If BEWILDERMENT is more your speed, you could wonder along with me why the new underwear I bought (purple with a design of smiling monkeys) has a little hot pocket in the crotch. A place to keep valuables?

To feel as if RATS ARE EATING YOUR NERVE ENDINGS, just view the mannerisms and listen to the voices of any one of the following televisual people:

1. Dr. Melfi on The Sopranos. She bugs me more than tampon-sliding stories, more than people who high-handedly talk about body image issues in the context of saying how thin they are (I. Do. Not. Care. What you look like), more than St. Patrick's Day (more on this later). One of the reasons she bugs me so much is that I cannot figure out exactly why she bugs me, and I am the sort of girl who likes to know her own brain. It's something about her voice missing the crucial overtones that would make it human. It is the weird flat whine her words take when she tries to show emotion, and the way her gestures are a microsecond behind the words they accompany.

2. Ally Sheedy in The Breakfast Club, a movie I hate anyway for its fascist retrograde message, which is that your only hope at high-school happiness is to tone down everything "unacceptable" about yourself. The way Ally Sheedy opens her mouth long before any words come out of it drives me batty.

3. And speaking of mouth-breathers, remember the guy who played Billy on Melrose Place? Even admitting that I know this means confessing my old Melrose Place addiction, but how could you not love a soap opera that ended a season with a not-quite-murdered character clawing his way out of a shallow grave? Still. Billy, please close your mouth once in a while.

If you'd rather LET YOUR BAD ATTITUDE VERY NEARLY GET YOU IN TROUBLE, just forget that St. Patrick's Day is now apparently celebrated for an entire week, and go to a bar on a Saturday night only to find it populated by drunken glitter-face-painted shamrocked zombies. When a guy leans over you to loudly order "A RUMPLEMINZE SHOT AND A BUD LIGHT," reflexively say something like "It's the 'I'm A Complete Tool' drink special!" Then realize that you did not just say it inside your head.

If you want to feel SMOOTH, you can be suckered in, as I was, by some drugstore hair product that promised "100% more smoothness." Who couldn't use more smoothness? I do feel like my hair is smoother, but I also now have to think abut Puff Daddy's penis every single morning as I blow-dry. (Be grateful you do not have my brain.) This is because of a long-ago episode of The Osbournes when Sharon was postulating that Mr. Daddy's penis would be "very smooth," which sent Kelly Osbourne into a spiraling fit of embarrassed shrieking, which of course was partly Sharon's goal all along. I cannot wait to have a teenage girl.

If you want to feel NOT SO SMOOTH, you can be indulging in some hardcore daydreaming on your way home from work and get off a stop too soon. I actually wondered for a split second if the El station had been remodeled between my morning and evening commutes, since it looked very different. Yeah, it looked different all right. As in several blocks south and with a different name. The very next day I also made a big deal about waving and saying hello to Kat on the train, except that it was not Kat, and now there is a total stranger who is wondering why I was so happy to see her. True tales of transit dorkitude!

---mimi smartypants loves her little tax deduction.


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