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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

2003-07-16 ... 2:55 p.m.


Exploding hot dogs. Keyword: "fizzing." I am going to have nightmares now. But this is great news for suicide bombers who cannot afford plastic explosive, and who are not so sure about the whole "suicide" thing, and who are instead considering making their point in a hail of smelly meat.

Not my kind of fun, but you go on ahead with the trompe l'oeil food.

Guido the Italian Sausage was injured during a baseball game. He is okay now, and even has a certificate of bravery.


Which leads me to another thing. Hey, Italian-American associations getting all hot and bothered about stereotypical portrayals in The Sopranos and such? LOOK TO THINE OWN PIZZA PARLORS. I don't know about you, but I am a thousand times more offended by some midget with a tomato-shaped hat and a big mustache trying to sell me frozen pizza. Look at the signs for any local place and you will see a similar caricature, as wide as he is tall, shilling for pizza. You wouldn't depict some Shylock figure on a deli awning, so why is this pizza cartoon acceptable?

I am also offended by the TV-commercial suggestion that people of Italian heritage would willingly and enthusiastically eat at Olive Garden, but that's another rant.


Michael Latil is apparently the premier photographer of hot dogs and sausages.


Except for remarking on girls who are sort of hot-dog-colored. I keep seeing these women on the train who have either spent serious time broiling on a beach or have gone crazy with the self-tanner. What makes it worse is that they tend to wear extremely pale eyeshadow and frosty pink-white lipstick. It makes them resemble a discolored fetus in a laboratory jar, which I do not think was the original plan.


After the dollar beers with my sister last night, and after she dragged me out for late-night Mexican food (drinking makes me not want to eat: I am not one of those munchy drunks), I went home, chatted with LT, and fell asleep pretty quickly. There were strange dreams. One involved a large shaggy dog named "Reality Dog," and in the dream Reality Dog kept showing up on the edges of scenes like a foreshadowing symbol in an artsy French film.

There was all sorts of interesting bus business this morning. First, The Happy Crooner, one of my favorite long-lost crazies (where has he been?), was wandering around on Devon singing. While I waited for the bus, he sat down on a bench across the street, with all his shopping bags and craziness, and treated the neighborhood to a sort of speed-metal version of the Beatles. He mushed all the words together real fast and then cheerfully yelled out the last word, so it sounded like this:

loveloveme DO!
youknowIlove YOU!
I'llalwaysbe TRUE!
soplease eease eease EASE!
pleaseeaseease EASE!

He always seemed to get stuck right about there, and would just start the verse over again. I rather enjoyed his interpretation.

Also, I could have had a free toddler today if I wanted one. This woman got on the bus with a whole gaggle of little children, and sat one of them next to me. I was engrossed in Dreams Of A Robot Dancing Bee and he was engrossed in a Matchbox car. At their stop the woman was gathering up all these children and telling them to come on, get off the bus, and I think she assumed this one kid was right behind her when actually he was still sitting there driving his car around on the bus windowsill. There was a second, right before the doors closed and the bus lurched forward, when I realized this, and she is standing on the sidewalk and realizing it herself, and then the doors closed and we both, from outside and inside the bus, are simultaneously yelling, "Wait, wait." I escorted the little kid off the bus and all was well. He seemed completely unimpressed by the whole thing and probably would have ridden quite happily to the end of the line as long as he had his Matchbox car.


Hipster sperm.

Creationist science fair.

A short one today. All those hot dog links made me queasy. Between this and Octodog, though, it should be all out of my system and hot dogs need not be mentioned for the rest of the summer.

---mimi smartypants plumps when you cook her.


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