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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


2002-11-25 ... 11:34 a.m.

A HYPERCOLLECTION OF HYPERTEXT FOR YOUR HYPERPERUSAL

Ten things you didn't know about the origins of country music.

Every time I go to buy a casket, I ask, "Wait, has a bimbo ever sat on this casket in a major beaver-shot pose?" If the answer is "Yes," I am sold. (Work-safe although it may not sound like it.)

(So very not work-safe): Close-ups of penis piercings. Most of them have a certain intriguing, abstract quality. The bottom one has a certain Hobbit-ish, gag-inducing quality. (And if you really want to make yourself sick, there are lots of piercing procedure photos on that same website.)

Pee. Make art. Let other people who are not peeing with you see your pee art.

FREE DELIVERY! Pre-ordered semen from NECSC can be delivered to the Nationals in Colorado or to the convention in Maryland at no additional cost. Get your semen catalog with color photos now by sending $3 with your request to blah blah blah. Two wonderful things here: (1) semen catalog; (2) the domain www.cybergoat.com. Cybergoat!

Thank goodness. Now the astronauts can have their pizza.

RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE: HOWEVER, YOU WILL FEEL A BIT GOOFY IF THAT MACHINE TURNS OUT TO BE A BLENDER OR A DUSTBUSTER

What do we want? GRADUAL CHANGE! When do we want it? IN DUE COURSE!

What do we want? NUBILE YOUNG MAKEOUT DOLLIES WITH POINTY NIPPLES! When do we want it? RIGHT AWAY!

What do we want? A FLAKY CROISSANT! When do we want it? TOMORROW MORNING!

(These are some ideas to get you started. I am thinking about staging a General Protest. Everyone has their own little niche, whether it's pro-choice or anti-war or anti-globalization,* and the parks and public squares are getting awfully crowded and political debate is getting awfully fragmented. I think it might be strategically simpler to get everyone together for one giant protest, where you can protest anything you want.)

*These globalization protests sometimes make me a little cranky (WHAT DOESN'T, MIMI SMARTYPANTS?), because although many of the people there are obviously bright and articulate and have real concerns about where this planet is headed, and about the vast amounts of resources that do not go toward food or education but rather toward the repulsive mandate that I as a First-World Person have the right to a cheap DVD player (I have these concerns myself), there also exists at these things a healthy contingent of brain-dead hippies who can barely tell you what the WTO actually does. When people do nothing but yell slogans and look stylish in Che Guevara t-shirts, it's kind of disheartening, really, and sometimes I fantasize about going up to one of these kids and saying, "I will give you a pot brownie if you can tell me in your own words why you're here," and then sit back and wait for the stream of clichés to come pouring forth.

SO CRANKY SO VERY CRANKY

[sorry]

A COLLECTION OF TIDBITS FROM MY WEEKEND, IN MORE OR LESS CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER EXCEPT WHEN NECESSARY FOR THEMATIC REASONS

Friday night was Round Two of GIRL-ON-GIRL PIE ACTION, the night where S. and I go on with our bad selves and bake to the beat in my hip-hop kitchen heck yeah. This time the baked good of choice was not pie but ginger-orange pound cake, but GIRL-ON-GIRL POUND CAKE ACTION does not have the same ring to it, so we decided to keep the event's original name. We were up until 4 am. We used a whole pound of butter. We used six eggs. We whipped our own cream, whipped it, whipped it good. We made the best damn Heart-Attack Cake you ever saw. It was a good time. It was a lot like one of those cooking shows, except with more swearing and drunkenness and breaks to stick our fingers in the batter.

Heart-Attack Cake, plus the cranberry compote that went with it, required us to use a whole lot of orange zest. I own a zester, because I am a bad-ass ninja and I will zest your ass, but I have not personally used it very much. I like a twist in my cosmopolitan but a lady never garnishes her own cocktails, so the zester has been traditionally wielded by LT. So S. is mixing her head off, with the four sticks of butter and avalanche of sugar and six eggs becoming a lovely artery-clogging dream come true, and I am attempting to zest some orange peel into her mixing bowl, and it's an uphill struggle. I am not so much zesting the orange as gouging it. After twenty minutes of battle I have a cratery Planet Orange and a few meager chunks of zest, in contrast to the long curling strips of orange goodness produced by S. Clearly, a left-handed zester needs to be invented. Where is Ned Flanders when you need him?

Baking + Sopranos will = funny dreams: I recorded one the other night where I was involved in a cookie-baking business with the Cosa Nostra. It was a legitimate business venture as far as I could tell, I just happened to be in the cookie-baking business with all these Mafia guys. We called the business HEY COCKSUCKER EAT A FUCKING COOKIE or something like that (dream-details are sketchy) and we mostly made nice normal cookies like oatmeal raisin and black-and-whites. (If you don't know what a black-and-white cookie is, you should find out. And you should eat one if you possibly can.)

And the rest of the weekend went like this: Nap; nap; feel guilty about the vast reserves of domestic energy LT is expending (raking leaves, doing laundry, grocery shopping so I can continue with my slothful ways); decide not to feel guilty because I work hard all week, damn it; wonder if I am becoming some sort of suburban-dad stereotype, wanting nothing more than to drink beer and watch football on the weekends; cook a yummy dinner, or rather cook up various side dishes while LT does most of the work; have my sister over; kick her ass in Scrabble; spend some tea-drinking time with people I like; chase down the tea with beer later that afternoon, which I believe is known in drug circles as a "speedball" and is how that guy from Alice in Chains died. Kind of. Same idea, anyway.

It looks like I am becoming the culture liaison to my upper management at work. Besides teaching everybody what "huffing" is (it came up in an article), I recently had to give a detailed and somewhat bizarre explanation when we had several e-mails going back and forth on a certain topic, and to distinguish between the original topic and the updated, new information on the topic I titled my first e-mail something like "Topic" and the second one "Topic 2: Electric Boogaloo." Then I had to put up with a third round of e-mails about what the heck I meant by that. And you just try explaining to your boss that there once was a movie called Breakin' and that its sequel, inexplicably, was called Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo. Then try explaining that ever since that particular point in the 20th century, "Electric Boogaloo" has seemed like a really appropriate subtitle for just about anything. Next, move on to explaining that you were making a joke, albeit a really lame one, and can we all just move on if you promise never, ever, to wig out like that again in a business setting? Close your office door and pull out your secret flask of Jim Beam. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Monday entries really are just placeholders to keep me from getting stage fright about the rest of the week, and going back under my blankets to whimper. Okay, world. Anytime you want to do something interesting, I will be ready to observe it.

---mimi smartypants has to do it until she's through it so she'd better get to it.

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