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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

2002-12-03 ... 2:23 p.m.


Whenever I am watching football (the game with all the ludicrously huge guys running into each other, not the game with all the sinewy South American guys running past each other: I include this note so as to make this journal thingy internationally comprehensive. That is me, always with the helpfulness.)

I forgot what I was talking about. I got tired, turkey.

Oh. Whenever I am watching football with other people, I like to notice the different styles of talking back to the television. LT tends to punish ignorance rather than reward success: he does not celebrate much at touchdown time but show him a missed tackle or flubbed sack and he gets exasperated. My dad asks rhetorical questions: "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT KIND OF A PLAY WAS THAT?" And I recently had it pointed out to me (since one does not always have awareness of one's sports-watching behavior) that I tend toward the gentle exhortation of the gentlemen on the screen: "Run, sweetie! Go baby go!"


Twice a week now LT is seeing some other woman, who manipulates his arm and shoulder and applies electric current to his torn rotator cuff. He is vague about the electric current thing and I always picture some grand Bride-of-Frankenstein-style device, but more likely it is just a little handheld thing like a heating pad or a vibrator. He has exercises to do, and claims that receiving vigorous fellatio and lying on the couch drinking expensive bourbon is also part of his therapy, and that his therapist just forgot to write that part on the handout, but I think I am going to call our insurance to be sure.


We're only making plans for da da dirty dirty bison
We don't like him so much because he's very ug-ug-ugly
We're only making plans for da da dark brown bison
He has a right to live though he's ill-shaped
He's on the way to extinction
We only want what's best for him
Bear up bison never say die!


Dude! That's gross!

Yuck! Meat news!

Facts about the Chomskybot. You can get to the Chomskybot itself from the bottom of the page.

When you see the world as a process or from the perspective of a walker, then what you see will have blurred edges. God. I need to type this out in 26-point type and hang it up on my wall. I have heard no truer or more useful words today.

More Roz Chast. She rules.

These are totally cool videos. I have the first compilation, which includes the amazing, magical-realism "Story of Beef" in supersaturated color. I can always use more educational film compilations.


I think I speak for all of America when I say, "Woooo-eeeee." If you are not from a snow-making part of the planet, you should come here and see the snow. There sure is a lot of it, and much of it is not even lying on the ground yet but instead is all floating around in the air. Today is the day when having a window office, on a high floor, is extremely detrimental to one's work ethic. Today is also the day when having spent the previous evening at a bar, with the nice bartender who buys you rounds and brings you peanut M&Ms,* is also extremely detrimental to one's work ethic. And when I say "one," I mean "you," by which I mean "me." If you catch my (snow)drift.

*Peanut M&Ms make a fabulous follow-up to a tequila shot, by the way. Lose that salt and lime stuff. Lose it like a lint-covered mint in the bottom of grandma's handbag. Peanut M&Ms are where it is at.

I am chipper enough, however, even after my non-good-girl Monday night. My only minor complaints are that my boss told me I looked "cute," first thing on my office arrival this morning (I guess "cute," for her, involves a messy ponytail and shocking makeup-free pallor); that somehow I managed to grab three My Bloody Valentine CDs to bring with me to work, and although I love my MBV this is kind of overkill, and I could stand to be a bit more engaged with the world right now instead of floating in this swirly dissociative state; and that no one is returning my increasingly whiny and clenched-teethy phone calls and e-mails regarding some work-related confusion.

BIG NEWS. My sister and I are going to see Al Gore on Thursday. He and Tipper (Tipper! Why! Are! You! Named! Tipper! That! Is! Like! A! Dog's! Name!) are making an appearance at the feminist bookstore on Clark, to pimp out their book about family and love and the Spirit of America's Heartland or whatever. Al Gore's promoters kind of jerked us around, in my opinion: in order to get in to see Mr. Gore you have to buy one of these overpriced books and there are all kinds of RULES about when to show up and what Al Gore will and will not do for you (he WILL sign your book, with one "personalization"; he WON'T give you a neck massage; he WILL make a little self-deprecating joke before he begins talking, because that is programmed into his Al Gore AL-gorithm [ha! ha! and again, ha! I make the funny!]; he WON'T pick up your dry cleaning and bring it to the reading). I warned my sister thus:

Me: You know I am going to get kicked out of this reading. I am going to get hauled away in handcuffs and leg restraints because I know I won't be able to control myself around Al Gore.
Sister: That's cool. I don't mind.
Me: I can't decide whether to just stay in the back and repeatedly yell, "Take off your pants! Take off your pants!" or if I should just make a dive for his belt buckle while he's signing my book.
Sister: Okay, I don't mind the leg restraints and the bailout but let's not get ourselves shot, now.

Now that I have used all those colons I am in a dialogue mood, but I am not a playwright so here's another Pointless Chat Transcript.

Mimi Smartypants: I was annoyed at the X-Files the other day. This super-intelligent thing with superstrength crashed through a sliding glass door for no reason. Why not just open the door? They must have had extra special effects budget.
feedmewithyrkids: Evil things cannot calmly enter rooms. They have to crash into them, like the Kool-Aid guy. Or like Aerosmith crashing into a Run DMC video.
feedmewithyrkids: Or was that the other way around?
Mimi Smartypants: The Kool-Aid guy destroys your house in the name of refreshment. (And I think Run DMC smashed into Aerosmith.)
Mimi Smartypants: They should have just gone next door and knocked politely.
feedmewithyrkids: But they're rappers. They knock down the walls, old skool.
Mimi Smartypants: Technically the heart of the song is Aerosmith's riff. Run DMC were the guests. Which means they shouldn't be knocking down walls but asking "Hi Aerosmith, can we rap over your guitar thing?"
feedmewithyrkids: It's an allegory about intellectual property rights.
Mimi Smartypants: It's an allegory about cooperation and collaboration. Sesame Street style. Or it's a commentary on the disenfranchisement of ghetto kids who don't have guitars.
feedmewithyrkids: It's also an allegory about the changing demographics in the mid 1980s. Aerosmith is old and established. Now they are the suburban dad banging on the wall telling the kids to "turn off that noise."
Mimi Smartypants: "We're moving into your neighborhoods and rapping over your riffs, Mr. Ugly White Guy."
Mimi Smartypants: But they all learned to get along! It's a heartwarming video.
feedmewithyrkids: Yes.
Mimi Smartypants: I was going to say something about a Steven Tyler muppet but really there's no need. He is his own muppet.

---mimi smartypants is her own muppet.


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