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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

2002-07-17 ... 12:54 p.m.

From the Moron Files: This morning I was eating my granola bar breakfast at my desk and trying to get a CD in the computer at the same time (gotta rock out while I edit), and I absentmindedly stuck the half-eaten granola bar into the disc tray and punched the button to close it. Luckily I realized my mistake and was able to snatch out the granola bar before it garbled up my CD drive. (But what would it have sounded like?)

The desire to insert objects into slots must be universal; a colleague of mine has a hilarious story about his 3-year-old son who put a syrupy toaster waffle into the VCR. It was about the right size and shape, so I guess he just went for it. I thought that was so cute. Expensive and messy, but cute. And then there's the time in college when I had a library book to return and a letter to mail, and I put the letter in the book drop and mailed the book. Right idea. Wrong slot.

(WRONG SLOT looks funnier and funnier to me the more I read it. Wrong slot. Growl snot. Strong owl!)

Joyce Kilmer and that dumb boob-intensive (twice in twelve lines!) poem can kiss my ass, because right now I am so allergy-stricken that I want to murder every tree. It's their fault that I can only breathe out of one nostril at a time, and that I am comically sneezy, and that my eyes are so leaky people are coming up to me asking what's wrong. I HATE YOU, TREES! At least temporarily. Trees are better in winter anyway, with twisty black branches. Then they look like they have something important to say, instead of all this green leafy chitchat.

I take this time out to say hello to whoever was up way too late asking Google all the hard questions like Why won't mimi smartypants sex me up? (you never asked) and Why won't mimi smartypants lick me? (maybe if you had a better flavor: that sour-cream-and-onion cologne has got to go, my friend), and who finally settled on Please sex me hard, mimi smartypants (what good manners you have!). Whether I know you or not, thanks are in order, because your Google fortune-telling made me laugh this morning, even before tea.


I guess you could make a case for this being offensive to some, but it's funny to me and that's all that matters. It gets points regardless for including the phrase "I'm like an octopus at the boner buffet," which I think really needs to be immortalized in song or poetry.


Y'all can keep your Segways, I will hold out for my personal flying machine.


Inexplicable Japanese game show, anyone?


Greg Klatecki will soon get a letter from me (I have been drafting it in my spare slacker moments, in between odious work tasks) suggesting that he change the name of his fiefdom. There is a Chicago suburb called Wheeling, but I decided it really should be called Wheeee!ling, to try and give the place a more "fun" image. Which it could definitely use. (Actually, to be fair, I've never been there, but it doesn't seem to have a whole lot to recommend it. I'll stay right here in Chicago, where the beer is cold and the women are insane, and make my suggestions about suburban name changes from afar.)


I had a somewhat exciting lunchtime. I went to the bank (that's not the exciting part, hold on, jeez you're so impatient), and Bank One on Michigan Avenue, besides having a stupid name and swallowing up all the other banks, was in the throes of some sort of customer crisis. Up the escalator in the teller area this well-dressed yuppified guy was having a total meltdown, tantruming like a toddler and demanding to see the manager, the bank president, the Pope, he can't be treated this way, his dad can beat up your dad, etc. A bank bigwig of some sort was trying to reason with him but this guy was having none of it and continued to freak out about the abominable treatment he was receiving. Just as I was finishing up my transaction,* a massive slab of a polyester-uniformed security guard waddled up and stood behind the guy, arms crossed, apparently just waiting for some prearranged signal to drag him off for a beatdown. I tried to linger because that would have been funny to watch, but as I was leaving it looked like things were being settled to the satisfaction of the Boorish Outraged Oaf (the BOO). Too bad.

*I had to get a money order, for a rather significant amount of money, because the folks that I unfortunately have to do some business with are stuck in the past and won't take personal checks. I've never gotten a money order before. It's all complicated and has actual carbon paper in between the parts and the "Pay To The Order Of" line is currently blank. Does that mean this is exactly like cash until I fill in that line? And I have to constantly, until I get around to filling it in and mailing it off, pat myself down in nervous OCD fashion and worry that I may have lost the money order? I thought so.

---mimi smartypants is dangling a participle over a precipice.


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