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Doug vs. Japanese Snack Foods: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3.

rant is where the heart is

diaryland: entry for 2003-05-19 (14:31)
In which our plucky young hero does this once in a blue moon (get it, Mimi? get it?).

I've got a yellow rubber band around my wrist, and written on it in red letters is I LIKE MYSELF.

Which (as I look down at and smile fondly and think of romans a clef and letting someone else handle the Wittgenstein story and fine-tasting beer that is Belgian in name only, surely) makes it really hard to go with my original plan of starting a literary feud.

I just can't do it. I'm sorry. I know you wanted a feud. I know you wanted snide backtalk and little rumors spreading around literary circles and cliques and battles over bad coffee in second-tier coffee chain shops. I know that Gertrude Stein is dead but you stay alive only because you can cling to hope that her spirit lives on. But Mimi Smartypants is not a dork, and I just can't bring myself to pretend otherwise. Not even for you, dear reader. Perhaps when I write my roman a clef, I'll fictionalize some parts, and the character D. Smartpantalon (first name obscured in very Dostoyevsky style) will be precociously self-absorbed and natter on about boring advertising-slogan-related shop talk all day and will be married to a Belgian. Also she will secretly smoke crack.

(What is it about crack that makes it the go-to drug joke for pale white people who grew up in the suburbs? Is it the exoticness of city danger, latent racism? Or is it just that we're all too hopped up on Oxycontin to get the ironic distance necessary to pick a genuinely funny drug?)

(I hope it's the last one.)

(Where's my crack pipe? Ha ha!)

And anyway I can't say mean things here in the real world, because Mimi Smartypants is just so dang cool. No feud. Sorry.

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