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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

2002-05-31 ... 9:02 a.m.


There's a monster in my pants
And he does a monster dance
Monster PANTS! Monster DANCE!

Also, I sang "Shake The Disease," substituting "make the soy cheese" for the title words. Then I went on to sing some other Depeche Mode songs with a vegan spin, such as "StrangeJuice," "Blasphemous Hummus," "Policy of Fruit," and "I Want Tofu Now." My vegan Depeche Mode album is not available in stores! Order now!

It was a long shower.

I had a very hard time leaving the house today, puttering about endlessly, distractedly cleaning, futzing around, and having severe OCD issues about not being able to leave until I had made things right, which of course is a magical mystery state that can never be fully achieved and is not even well-defined. It doesn't help that this whole week has been kind of weird and slack at work, long rolling dreamy watching-the-clock periods of slack that are occasionally interrupted by panicky crisis. It is very disconcerting. I like the frantic pace of high-volume publishing, but I also like consistency, and I don't like having my leisurely lunch or my incremental long-term project* interrupted by some production person shrieking in my ear about missing copy.

(*I'm writing several chapters of a book our press is publishing. It's the longest of long-term projects because the scope keeps widening and changing. These slack periods are the only times I ever get to work on it.)

Yesterday after work I went to a movie with Dharma333, a kind of disturbing and pretentious but well-photographed movie about revenge and loss and methamphetamines. It had at least two things going for it: a lot of fire (I love to look at fire in film) and a noseless character. I am very intrigued by noselessness. (Or should that be "anasality"?) I once went to an oral surgeon who had no nose. It's true. Why would I lie? His non-nose was sort of a melted twisty lump on his face, like he had been burned, and while it wasn't all that gross once you became accustomed it was still a little weird to have the melted non-nose so close as he bent over to do horrible dentist things to me.

[You've read the Gogol story about the nose, of course? If I have a surreal and annoying day sometimes I think: At least my nose didn't show up in my English muffin and then follow me around the city mocking my appearance.]

[end noseless tangent]

After the movie we had a beer, and then a "just one more" beer, and then I took the surprisingly crowded train home. I saw a girl wearing the skankiest and most mysterious shirt ever invented. It was one of those one-shoulder deals (which even strippers agree is a no-no), and it was cut off at the waist, exposing her none-too-charming torso, and it somehow tied around the other shoulder with a weird little cap sleeve and a GLITTERY spaghetti strap. Oh, and did I mention that it was white? And vaguely transparent? And this person had huge, highly mobile breasts and no bra? Yeah. I was standing by the door and trying not to look but at the same time I was all intrigued by the sheer horror of the shirt and the way that it embodied OH SO MANY fashion "dont's" and by the fact that it was clearly mass-produced. Which means that there are other people walking around in the same shirt. Watch out.

I think witnessing that creepy complex hooker shirt damaged me somehow, because even though it is clearly becoming summer outside* I automatically reached for my hugest baggiest clothes this morning, and now I am regretting my lack of a belt. Casual Friday it may be, but I don't know if I'm inspiring much professional respect when I have to hitch up my pants in the middle of a work-related conversation.

(*One barometer of the summerness is my hair, which is getting very thick and surly, and takes pretty much all day to dry, and in order not to have Don King hair I practically have to use a gallon bucket of that semen-esque hair product every morning. This disgusting image brought to you courtesy of Mimi Smartypants!)

Speaking of sperm, did you know that the male octopus uses his long third right arm to transfer a packet of sperm to the female octopus? Isn't that nice? Nothing says "I love you" like handing over a spermy package. (Mr McFeely was probably well aware of this.) (Now I will go to hell for talking smack about the very wholesome Speedy Delivery man.)

Mark your calendars and gas up the motorcar because we are heading to Whiting, Indiana, for the Pierogi Fest. "It's stuffed with fun!"

---mimi smartypants: 6.7 on the Richter scale.


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