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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

2002-09-18 ... 6:18 p.m.


Online confession: I have just eaten most of a bag of organic cheez doodles. And so the fuck what about the "organic" part, especially when that word is immediately followed by "cheez doodles." Hooray, somewhat lower in fat; hooray, no genetically modified ingredients; hooray, organic corn, etc. But still. Cheez doodles. There's no honor in eating a bushel of cheez doodles, even faux-hippie cheez doodles. All the manuscripts I handle today will be stained orange, and my lips/mouth/tongue feel kind of tender and strange from the influx of salt and sharp corn edges. Oh, and of course while I was deep in a trance, reading work-related material and chomping on said organic cheez doodles, the primitive lizard part of my brain apparently decided that my own sock would be a fabulous place to wipe my dusty orange hand. Thus I get the Spaz Award, for that and for the following reason: Immediately after the Cheez-Sock Affair I tripped over nothing while carrying a full cup of hot tea and did a spectacular clumsy pirouette and near-total-wipeout, spilling scalding Earl Grey all over my boots and the hem of my skirt. So the entire lower quarter of my body is stained, sullied, and besmirched. CLEANUP ON AISLE ME!


This morning, after a very mysterious and severe coughing fit (Shoutout To My Lungs: I smoked NOTHING last night, you guys! What the fuck is your problem?), I checked my e-mail, including the e-mail from my Yahoo Exclamation Point account, which has been neglected for days now. Can I speak for a moment about how much I despise Yahoo Exclamation Point? Their mail program is a piece of shit. First of all, there's something wrong when you claim to have a "Spamguard" service but there are routinely many more pieces of spammy crap in my in-box than there are in my "bulk mail" folder. I'm not even sure why I even have a stupid Yahoo Exclamation Point account, except that, you know, sometimes a girl has to splash gasoline all over the headquarters of her former employer and throw a match, and then hop a freight train in the middle of the night, arriving at dawn in some strange city with a new name, a new dark evil purpose in life, and a new e-mail account. You understand, I'm sure.

I think we left the point back there in the road somewhere, so let's throw this baby into reverse and go pick it up. Although Yahoo Exclamation Point is a very annoying entity, sometimes in the very early morning I appreciate its quick-and-dirty newslink AP headlines on the side of the page, just so I can see if any significant countries* blew up overnight. And sometimes these news headlines are unintentionally sexy and beautiful and wonderful and strange, such as: Robot Probes Pyramid Shaft, Finds Obstacle. (Here's the story, only with a less-sexy headline.) I mean really, only the word "finds" is dead weight there. Pyramid. Probes. Shaft. Obstacle. Robot. Mmmmm. Now I want to write some cyberpunk egyptologist slash fiction.

(*You know, like Belgium. Or one of those weird Caribbean islands populated mostly by billionaires and drugged-out movie stars.)


I had to go to a meeting today with a company bigwig (so different from the rest of us punywigs) who had to give some bad financial news and hand down some unpopular cost-saving edicts etc. And I was really getting tense and irritable during the meeting because of this man's rhetorical style, which was to seize on one colorful metaphor and return to it periodically. This particular bigwig was fond of saying "we're not out of the woods yet" and "we've got a flashlight, and we're trying to make a path out of the woods" and other woods-related imagery like that. The problem with colorful metaphors in public speaking is that, to my mind, the speakers never take the colorful metaphors far enough. Why not mention the wolves that no doubt lurk in the woods? Or the fact that the reason we are having trouble making it out of the woods is that we ate fifteen hits of acid and now we are much more interested in rolling around naked in leaf mulch and listening to the stories that trees tell? Why not talk about the member of our woods-traveling party who fell in the creek and now he won't stop bitching about his wet socks and boots and somebody seriously is going to smack him in the mouth unless he shapes up? What about the poison ivy in a rather, ahem, personal area? Or how we're stumbling around with our metaphorical flashlight, metaphorically trying to make it out of the metaphorical woods, and we stumble upon the metaphorical decomposing torso of an alcoholic drifter from Alabama?

Man, they so should let me be a bigwig. I'd give good speeches, at least. And I've been practicing my sexual harassment skills too. ("Hey sweetheart, those are some real perky boobies you got there. How about getting us some coffee?")


I walked across the Michigan Avenue bridge today and noticed how strangely low the railing is, and how one could very easily just hop right over it and jump in the Chicago River. Now, I know that wouldn't be a good idea, and I donít have any particular urge to die by drowning, a broken neck at impact, and/or having my skin peel off from all the pollution. But I could jump over, and I wish the railing were higher so that would not be an option.

Similarly, when I used to drive, I would think: How do I know that I won't just suddenly jerk the wheel to the left and go head-on into oncoming highway traffic? I don't think I want to do that, but how do I know that I won't have a strange momentary impulse and do it anyway? Hey, I do stupid shit all the time. Worrying that I might do that led to obsessive, repetitive thoughts that I would do that, sort of without my brain's consent if you will, and led to even less of a desire to drive.

(You: Hey Mimi Smartypants, can I borrow a cup of crazy?)

(Me: Sure thing. I've got plenty.)


Elderly penis.

Mr T. cereal.

All I want for my birthday (which, granted, is not for a while yet) is artificial food. Artificial food, people. Artificial food would thrill the pants off me and leave me standing there in my unmentionables. It's so hard to decide, though! The cappuccino is pretty cool, but then there's the hot dog plate. Or you could just get a bunch of vegetables and adorn yourself with them like a Produce Goddess. Get your broccoli on, baby. Oh yeah. I like it all nutritious like that.

(Except when I am busy eating cheez doodles, that is.)

---mimi smartypants reminds you that it's only funny until somebody loses an eye.


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