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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

2002-02-05 ... 2:08 p.m.

Someone mentioned that the writing here is seriously lacking in transitions. He was correct.

PARAGRAPH ONE. Shhhh, Mimi Smartypants. You need to rest. Needing to rest is a plausible explanation for why I am currently obsessed with ants on a log. Why aren't there more, and more creative, variations of this snack? ANTS ON A PLANET: Spread peanut butter thickly over outside of cantaloupe, swirling to make topographic representations of mountains, valleys, etc. Layer on approximately 6 billion raisins or, for extra credit, work out the circumference/size of the cantaloupe relative to the size of the earth and calculate how many raisins would be appropriate. ANTS ON A SNOW-COVERED LOG: Obviously, with marshmallow fluff instead of peanut butter. GAY PRIDE ANTS ON A LOG: Peanut butter, celery, and Skittles. ANTS ON THE FRENCH RIVERIA: Spread peanut butter on a baguette. Dot with cocktail umbrellas and snooty raisins of leisure. Get Moroccan and Tunisian raisins to act as waiters and cabana boys.

SOMETHING THAT VAGUELY FOLLOWS. Here's some more bug-related food. Or rather, food that looks like bugs. Sort of.

PARAGRAPH TWO, BEGINNING WITH A SENTENCE FRAGMENT. A step-by-step guide to radical perineal prostatectomy. I found it when I was trying to ascertain whether a "peanut dissector," a phrase that one of my authors had used in a medical article, was legit. It is. And it has nothing to do with dissecting a peanut. (Note: I am not responsible for any radical perineal prostatectomies you people decide to perform tonight after four or five gin and tonics. But make sure you send me any photographs!)

PARAGRAPH THREE, A BIT MORE DOWN-TO-EARTH. Today I have an intense craving for solitude and quiet. But it's not going to happen. I think I'm going to rent out a soundproofed room somewhere in the city and just have it be my own little home away from home. Has anyone out there ever spent time in one of those sensory deprivation tanks? Creepy or pleasant? Of course, going this route would force me to wear some sort of limb-exposing garment, like a bathing suit, I assume. That might be a deal-breaker.

PARAGRAPH FOUR, BACK WITH THE MEDICAL SHIT. More medical-language hyperbole: I just read a proof where the sentence "the patient's doom was sealed" got used. Okay, sure. Let's hope your bedside manner isn't as wildly exaggerated as your academic prose. "Wow, Mrs Cheney, your husband had a whopping big occluded artery! It's like there was barely any artery, it was all plaque! For a while there I thought his doom was sealed!"

PARAGRAPH FIVE, COMPLETELY RANDOM. LT and I had a discussion the other day about what would happen if you put a Stretch Armstrong doll on a George Foreman grill. (Note: I don't know why it has to be a George Foreman grill, it's just funnier that way.) Apparently we were not alone in wanting to play dangerous Stretch Armstrong games. Does the George Foreman grill come with a money-back guarantee? If so, it would be good to grill a Stretch Armstrong doll on it and then send the whole mess back to the manufacturer, and write a cover letter saying it just started to smell funny and didn't work. And then they could open up the grill cover to find Stretch's smashed melted blond-weightlifter body inside. ("Well, I think I've found the problem.")


---mimi smartypants is a tooth gone loose in the mouth of the world.


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