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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

2002-11-20 ... 10:40 p.m.

Wow. Sometimes at work I bash two pencils together, but nothing like this. Wow.

The other night I had a dream that I was running a boutique that sold knitted scarves for bears. All kinds of bears would come in. Polar bears, grizzly bears, black bears. They were not anthropomorphized in my dream (no talking, no walking upright for no reason), but apparently they needed scarves. I would hold a scarf out to a bear and tie it around the bear's neck and say, "That looks fabulous!" and then I would ring it up and the bear would wear it out. (I don't know how or even if the bears were paying me.) I called my dream-boutique BEARWEAR. Then, in the morning, the time when I write down all my dreams (and the time when I occasionally bore you sweet, patient people to nearly to death with descriptions of them), I remember the word BEARWEAR and I go to Google BEARWEAR and I get all freaked out because the results are 100% anal fetishism, like "Dirty Coed Slut Stuffs Her Ass With Five Whole Onions" (I am totally not making that up), which, if you left off the exclamation points that of course go with that, would almost sound like an alternate-universe small-town newspaper headline.

Why onions?

And (I have no idea why I start this next bit with "and," since it does not in any way follow the thought about bears wearing fancy hand-knitted scarves or dirty coed sluts stuffing five onions up their asses, but remember, I am all busy turning off the self-editor here*) today I spent forever on hold with Ameritech. Here's an experiment: Ask anyone who lives in Chicago to use "Ameritech" in a sentence and I guarantee* (*guarantee not guaranteed) that you will hear at least one really foul expletive in there. The "problem," which was entirely of Ameritech's manufacture, was this. I pay my bill online. It is a vaguely retarded system: They send me the bill via e-mail, on an account that I rarely check, and then I have to go to the website and pay it. Vaguely retarded system but it has worked, more or less, lo these many months. And then today I get the e-mail but when I go to pay my phone bill there's an error message that says "Warning: no account number is associated with this account." WHICH IS LIKE THE MOST CONVOLUTED AND SELF-REFERENTIAL THING TO SAY TO ME. What am I supposed to do about it? And in their system, the account number is the phone number, so are you trying to tell me that I have no phone number? Because I do. I input a certain sequence of numbers into the keypad and the phone rings at my house, and if it is a weekday LT often answers and says "The Cat is freaking out" or "I just spent all day programming this fucking thing and it still doesn't work right" or "Woman! I'm not wearing any pants! Come home quickly to partake of my wang! And bring bourbon!"

*Which is a crock of shit, that "turning off the self-editor" business, since if I were truly sincere about not self-editing I wouldn't subject you to all these parenthetical disclaimers, and all I can say is that I am dedicated to the fine non-art of uncrafted journal writing, and also that I have been taking antihistamines. Or maybe prescription tranquilizers. It's hard to remember. I have been taking the pink things. Thank you.

I wish I had a cute funny story about what happened when I finally got off hold with Ameritech, but I don't, because I never got off hold with Ameritech. I got sick of hearing about how my call was important to them and my work phone cannot be speakerphoneized (yeah, don't get me started. It's all substandard equipment all the time in my world), so I gave up. If they want their money they can come to my house and arm-wrestle me for it.

(let's put all the phone anecdotes together) (okay) Soon after the Ameritech on-hold incident I received a misdirected phone call (why, why can't people learn how to read numbers?) and I answer with my Standard Phone Greeting Of Great Specific Helpfulness and this woman says, "Hi, I'm looking for information on how this all works." How what all works? "You know, how this whole thing works." Ma'am, I wish I knew. I never did find out what she was talking about. Wrong number. You must be looking for Omniscient Mimi Smartypants. She hasn't been invented yet.

Stats Referral Of The Week: Blowjob "just for fun." That's kind of sweet, somehow.

I like to rock out when I edit. Sonic Youth, Haydn masses, and Tribe Called Quest have all been particular favorites this week/last week, when my work duties are all about sitting in front of the computer for hours and hours. (Sonic Youth may be all innovative with the noise but a lot of it is in very straight-ahead 4/4 time and that's what you need for text editing.) However, tragedy struck on Tuesday when a dirty coed slut stuffed her ass with five onions. I mean, tragedy struck on Tuesday when my headphones broke. Only one ear was working, no many how many times I pressed the little wires together (if I can hotwire a car [which I can], I figured I should be able to hotwire my headphones). I pitched my old broken crappy headphones and hoofed it to Walgreen's to buy new functional crappy headphones. And when you spend $5.99 you get what you pay for. The sound is unbelievably bad and the headphones are the kind you insert (sorry, I couldn't think of any more delicate ladylike way to say that). I didn't think this was possible, and I don't want my headphones to go on a major ego trip, but the insertable headphones are TOO BIG FOR MY LITTLE EARS. Yeah, all the headphones say that they are too big for any woman's ears but these really are.

There is a new character to add to the cast of characters who ride the #155 bus with me: Pakistani Raymond Carver. There is this guy, of Pakistani descent, and he looks just like Raymond Carver. I wonder if Raymond Carver ever wore kurta pajama, or if this guy ever wrote something like, "I finished my drink and thought about fixing another one. I fixed one."

I was reading over Pakistani Raymond Carver's shoulder on the bus, which is a bad habit that I know I really will go to hell for, and I saw this "headline" in today's issue of Red Streak (which is the Sun-Times' inferior version of the Tribune's Red Eye, which is itself a dumbed-down Weekly Reader version of a not-terribly-good paper): HAS J. LO SOLD OUT? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Oh my goodness. Where do I begin. I think I don't. I think I leave you to puzzle over that one on your own.

Articles from the North Korea "press." There's one about a horse from heaven. and one about mysterious apricot flowers.

Good advice: Neither obey thou each feeble oath-monger, detractor, spreader abroad of slanders, hinderer of the good, transgressor, malefactor.

---mimi smartypants is a feeble oath-monger.


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