The Password’s Lasagna.

And Happy New Year!!!

Hippos are fun to draw. This is a hippo: Hippos are also considered by many to be the most dangerous large animal in Africa. This is also a hippo: You’re welcome.

For the record. That was just the most awful thing I could think of off the top of my head. Here’s a less awful thing I thought of off the top of my head, once when I was very bored and had been researching Mt. Everest (which I decided not to climb after learning that even in this modern age, there is a very strong likelihood of plunging to your death over a cliff). Sloping          in an     Endless fall         Of shining           Snow, still          Descending               River-hill,              Turned to                 Fractals,                    Free of                        Tracks                            And                          Slowly                             Only                             Falling                               Back,                              The mountain-side                                                       Is all.  Check it out.  It looks like a mountain-side.  Seeeeee? 

...how’s it going? How are you? Have a nice day! These are things people say. They’re called “polite, non-committal remarks,” and they’re perfectly normal. ...how are you like this? Have you had a head injury? I hope you drown in a goldfish bowl! These are things people think. They’re called “socially innappropriate truths,” and they’re perfectly normal. This is when (if you are at all a naturally honest, negatively-trending person) you realize you have a problem. Do you lie and be accepted? Do you tell the truth and be arrested? Do you remain silent, and trudge through life in an aura of mystery? My friends, there are questions that have no answers, but I personally think the world would be easier to navigate if there was a little more blunt truthfulness or a little less people.

So you turn instead to Google and let your questions be seen by all the world, including snoops like me. I happened to look up a strange sensation I’ve been experiencing lately (yes, I do it too, and yes, I’m probably on the brink of death) that involves a crawling sensation on the back of my scalp.  Since it’s not tick season, I assume it’s a tiny person attempting to scale my head in order to have a look around.  Unfortunately, I wear a lot of hats this time of year so even if they make it to the top, they aren’t likely to see much. But that’s not the point. If you ask Google to give you any information involving tingling sensations and your own head, it will immediately throw at you a list of questions asked by similar unfortunate individuals, along with the all-knowing answers provided by an unspecified internet friend. Some of them make you shake your head in pity, such as this sad, lonely soul, who asks, “Can I test myself for a brain tumor?” The answer is undecided, but I t

For example, snow is glittery and the stars are brighter.

If you’ve ever wondered who’s most likely to die in a pedestrian/snowmobile collision, I’ll give you a hint. (Whisper whisper...It’s not the snowmobile.) If you’ve ever wondered what the exact likelihood of your dying in a pedestrian/snowmobile collision is, I’ll give you a hint. (If you are in the right state at the right time of year, say, anywhere north of Iowa between December and March, and you are outside...well, it’s high.  I would include a graph to show you exactly how high, but I’ve never been very good at graphs and I think you’ll understand if I just say that your survival rate plummets very quickly to less than 1 percent.) If you’ve ever wondered how a motorcycle could possibly make a more annoying sound, I’ll give you a hint. (You take the wheels off and put little runners on it.  In other words, a snowmobile.) (Note: It also helps if you drive it across dry pavement every few minutes...it’s slightly nicer than the sound of a giant misusing a chalkboard and ever so

I’m going to a write a post that is made entirely of stream-of-consciousness.  It is a stream of sonsciousness. “Sonsciousness” is not a word. My grammar, and my spelling, fail at times like this. Man, this will interest nobody and horrify a few, but here we go. Pie. Pie pie pie pie pie pie pie pie pie pie pie pipe, spell check, I meant to write “pie,” not “pipe.” Chimney smoke, wintry woods, Santa beards, elves in hoods. Christmas time and fire is high, reindeer run and folks eat pie... Also, folks eat pie at Thanksgiving. Which was yesterday....Happy Thanksgiving, all! Pie pie pie pie pie pie pie. You know when you eat a lot of pie, and then you still want to eat more pie? Exactly. Which do you prefer, pie or whipped cream? Both, duh. Together, obviously.  Obviously shmoviously. And even while I think about pie, there are so many other things that cross my mind.  Like whales.  And pie.  And lighthouses.  And pie.  And yogurt.  And pie.  Yogurt pie. Raisins. Flaming

Yesterday, I had an emotional breakdown. It was all because of a banana. Now, I know that I write about bananas a lot on here - either I identify with them or I’ve eaten too many of them, maybe both.  Maybe I just like the word “banana.”  Speaking of which, have you ever eaten a peanut butter and chocolate covered banana?  If not, please do, thank me later. But back to today.  It was in the restroom at work.  The breakdown, I mean.  And the banana.  Or what was left of it.  There it lay, the skin (or, as you might call it, the peel), tossed in among heaps of paper towels, crammed down, flowing over, heaped up; what might have been a small tree, once upon a time.  And amid it all, like a yellow M&M in a bowl of damply buttered popcorn, lay the banana skin.  It had been out in the air for a while – probably tossed there early in the morning by someone who had, undoubtedly, chewed on it in their cubicle with grating teeth and slavering lips.   And I, seeing it, thought, “On

Need we go into details? A lot of things bug me. A lot. Bugs bug me. Things bug me. Me bugs me. Lots of things. Lots of bugs. Lots of me.

Pee and tree Sign and mine Nose and no’s English was made For dog poetry. Cow and now Chair and hair Eat and meat English was made For dog poetrow. Barf and snarf Burp and slurp Fart and heart English was made For dog poetrarf.

I actually wrote this as a spinach post (my “inspiring” post of the week, lest you forget) sometime last winter.  I’m sure it will leave you with a rosy glow of some sort.  Enjoy. Do you hate things?   I’m here to help.    I also hate things.    There.    Now we both feel really lousy about how lousy and horrible and evil and jerky we are.    Which means we share a common bond.    Which means...it’s sad if that’s the only common bond humans can find.    But it’s better than nothing.

Made-up words are difficult.  See, you get to make them up.  But there are still rules.  Is there anything more frustrating than that kid who turns your game of “exploring the Andes while running from tigers and crocodiles and other accurately-placed harmful animals” into a game of “this is how we do it and there’s no other way and I AM THE PRINCESSSSS!!!” Not that I speak from a bitter personal experience. Anyway, the thing about made-up words is this: Even when you’re talking about them, you have to say “made-up” with a hyphen.  If you don’t, it looks like this: made up.  Which looks absolutely awful. And then “blogstipation” (see last post).  My heart yearned to write it out as “blongstipation,” because “blong” is more entertaining to say than “blog,” which isn’t even a made-up word (except it sort of is, but not by me, which makes me angry).  It’s also probably something inappropriate.  I’m sheltered and wouldn’t know. Other made-up words that annoy me are as follows: Ablobad

You may have noticed I’ve been a little less consistent here lately.  I believe I missed a week, which goes against my strongest moral principles.  However, there has been much change in my life as late, yada yada, the crux of the matter being this: The Lasagna is finished.  It is no more.  I don’t have time for it.  The end. JUST KIDDING (okay, I’m sorry mom, that was mean). There may be some changes here though.  See, recently something happened unexpectedly which, to be as brief as possible, is this:   I now write for a living.   This has not always been so.    I used to spoon tiny seeds into tiny packets with holes in them, but I like to look at that as more of a hobby.    Anyway, these days, I’m a legit, published writer with a special badge that allows me to ask people nosy questions and take photos of their children.   Because of this,   a ravenous fan (hi Auntie!) recently showed concern that I would experience burn-out and be unable to produce blog posts as vora

Last fall I had a pumpkin.  It grew in my garden to an unanticipatedly healthy size, and, once picked, sat on my counter for a solid six months, during which time I sat nearby, gnawing my fingernails and waiting for it to turn into a solid gold carriage...i.e. to magically slice itself open and toast its own seeds into crunchy yumminess, and roast its own flesh to a state of luscious, pie-ready perfection. This never happened.  Instead, in April or May of the year following the pumpkin’s birth and subsequent harvest, I placed it in my yard, still perfectly sound and wholesome, and wished it away, being sick of the sight of it.   This time, the magic worked, and in a matter of days the entire pumpkin had more or less vanished, leaving the earth slightly more enriched and slimy than it had been. The moral of this story is:  If you possess only one small, underly serrated steak knife with a disreputable past, you’ll probably never be in the perfect mood to dissect a giant,

Research is obviously not my strongest soote. Neither is spelling. However, there is someone in this world who is even lamer than me (because being terrible at the most minor research makes me a lame person? I guess?). And that is: A person (or persons, or people, or aliens, or anyone, really) who plays country music on a low, low volume. Where you can hear everything except the lyrics themselves. If you, too, know someone or someones who practice this abominable behavior, I suggest you join me in taking up arms against it. We shall take action on November 1st of this year 2019, we shall carry easily concealed sharp implements with us wherever we go, and when we find these muted-country-music-listeners, we shall, by opposing, end them. Who will stand with me?

I’m trying to increase traffic on this blog, because it’s a crying shame for there to be people in this world who have still not been afflicted with what I got to say. Because I don’t know many people with blogs, and I don’t understand how the world, or the internet, works, I turned to Google, as we all do in this enlightened day and age.  After skimming around websites like “YOU TOO can make $20,000,000 a day at home with your blog.com” and “Wanna know how I got so successful? It wasn’t by hard work.me.com”, and  reading a lot of articles, I got bored and ended up retaining only one piece of information:  Use key words in your blog.    I don’t know what a key word is.   I have a vague idea it’s those things people commonly search for in Google. Kind of like “how to increase blog traffic on my blog like now.”  As to how to use them in my blog - do they have to be mentioned in a few posts? Do I need to titles posts things like “how to be rich instantly”? Do I have to rename my

I was going to post another throwback cartoon, but realized I only had two.  This is bad news.  Either I do not spend enough time drawing cartoons, OR I simply publish every. Single. Stinking. Thing. I draw.  If you’ve been reading since five minutes ago, you’ll probably guess that second thing. Because I don’t have a new cartoon, or an old cartoon, or a moderately middle-aged cartoon, here is a picture of the cover to my new book, soon to be published by the New York Times because they publish books right there in their main office.  It’s already been reviewed by famous people and newspapers that everybody knows the names of.  It’s practically already sold ten million copies in different languages (none of them English).  It’s also got a movie deal in the wings.  This is big stuff, people.  Are you sure you’re ready for it? Okay. Also there’s a lot of semi-nudity, for a clean blog.  I’m not entirely comfortable with that, but since the underwear-clad youth is clearly a moron, le

...rebelled against your job so hard that you ended up writing a post that comes across as clearly manic? Have you ever liked your job, but still rebelled against it? Have you ever suddenly realized that your boss knows about your blog? Have you ever tried to say nice things about your job because your boss might be reading? Have you ever felt as if those nice things come across as slightly insincere? Nevertheless, I am liking my job.  It’s new (gloat gloat gloat).  I’ll probably talk more about it in a different post sometime, but whoa hey let’s not get too personal here.  Next thing you know you’ll be wanting to find out where I live.  Which you never will.  Because I move every three weeks for that very reason. Have you ever realized you were about to enter into a rental agreement that lasts a year, and then wondered if you landlord could possibly, even ever somehow, read your anonymous blog and not realize you were joking? Have you ever felt suddenly uncomfortable with ever

Hey fans!  It’s been a while, because I was sick with an illness that sapped all the joy out of life.  Also, and unrelated, at my new job I am not allowed to put two spaces between the period and the beginning of the next sentence.      So.    I’m just gonna enjoy doing my own little thing here, while I can.       Minute rebelling against the system.                      Oooh that was an extra long space.   Okay anyway (and I’m going to throw in a lot of junk words, too, if you don’t mind, because sometimes you just gotta let loose and live a little).        I had some awesome/great/terrific story ideas all prepped for you, but I donut need to use any of them!!!!!!!!  (See what I did there?  “Donut?”  Like...”Do not,” except....”Donut?”  GET IT????????????) It’s great.  It’s like when you buy a giant box of cereal, and then your mom visits and brings you a giant box of HER cereal that she bought for YOU last time you visited but you didn’t eat it all in two days because HOW COULD YOU

And this may be too politically charged, but I’d like to say right now that one of my best friends is a liberal black bean.  Also, I like to think my handwriting has improved since I wrote this.

I had a different post ready for today, but then it was brought to my attention that a new record has been broken - namely, that a marathon (which is 26.2 miles for those of you who haven’t seen the window decals) has been run in under two hours for the first time in recorded history.   Congratulations, Mr. Kipchoge.    This has been touted as inspiring, as in, “Look!  We humans!  See what we do!  What we accomplish next?  There no limits!  Ooga ooga!”   But you know what else was supposed to inspire us?   The moon landing!   And look how that turned out - now there is astronaut poop on the moon and people STILL believe it was a hoax.   No, what is inspiring is this:  An 88 year old lady running the 50 meter dash in under 10 minutes.  That’s beautiful!  That makes you want to go out and run the 50 meter dash way, way, way faster just to prove you’re better at something than somebody.  That makes you want to accomplish, accomplish, accomplish, all while thinking in adorable

“It was so sudden.” “It took me by surprise.” “I just never expected it.” “You never appreciate what you have ‘til it’s gone.” “I didn’t want to believe it.” “It was too soon.” “It was just...so short.” These are things that people say about untimely death. They are also things that people say when their floss runs out. The English language:  The same five words for every situation.

No, I’m not singing with joy.  That’s just me, trying to communicate.  My friends, I have a new life goal.  Wanna hear it?  I’m going to tell you anyway.  Here it is.  This is it.  Behold. I, the undersigned, am determined to bring the number of times I mispronounce my own name down to an average of three times per conversation.  Furthermore, I henceforth will forgo any giggling, muttering, or stuttering that, to this date, has naturally followed said mispronunciation.  In essence, I am an idiot and make it my aim to become slightly less of one. Aim high, kids, ‘cause life is sweet and nothing’s impossible. Sincerely,

Looking through some old drawings late one sleepless night, I stumbled upon a few ancient gems, which I will be sharing, unaltered, with privileged little you for the next few weeks.  They may or may not be offensive, politically incorrect, shocking, and/or, worst of all, unfunny...but I personally laughed until I cried over them...maybe because it was 2 a.m. and I am deranged enough to enjoy my own sense of humor...but still. I like to call this one “The Horribly Depressing and Unfunny Cartoon with the Hysterical* Facial Expression that I Simply Cannot Recreate because it’s So Terribly Drawn.” *Pretend you’re sleep-deprived and then stare at it for 60 seconds.

That last post got darker than expected.  I’d like to say now that I am not a murderer.  And murderers are never liars.  Therefore, you can trust me. ‘Kay. Now that’s cleared up, here you go.  A picture.  I call it...“Inspiration is a four-legged word.”* *I didn’t think it was possible, but I just made myself throw up all over my keyboard.  Turns out even ironic saccharinity** is enough to turn your stomach. ** Turns out “saccharinity” is actually a word.*** ***Turns out, words are awesome.

I’ve been having a problem with people lately.  To be blunt - they’re too nice.  I’m not saying loving, necessarily, or unselfish, or kind.  Just...nice.  Especially at intersections.  See, you nice old man to the right...you were definitely at the stop sign ahead of me.  That means you get to go first.  It really isn’t a kindness to wave me forward, I promise.  It will just confuse me and stress me out enough to take several seconds off my life span.  And you, you nice, nice lady in the grocery store parking lot...when you’re walking in a crosswalk, drivers are supposed to wait for you.  Just because you weren’t directly in front of my car does not mean you are doing a good deed by irrationally insisting I drive in front of you.  You’re just training me to ignore crosswalks.  And you, you very, very nice police officer who showed me how to replace my left brake light...okay.  I can’t complain about you.  I’m just glad you didn’t look in my trunk.  (The nice old man may or may not have

What do you write about when nothing funny happens?  Beats me.  So here’s a writing prompt.   Cheerios.   Go on.  Write something funny about cheerios and lemme hear it.   What?   You don’t want to?   You gotta be kidding me.   Everybody wants to write about Cheerios.  I mean, every small child, every influential and intelligent adult, each person on their death bed, since the beginning of time, has absolutely yearned for just such a golden opportunity.   And you’re going to pass it up?   I’m ashamed of you.   Really I am.

Note:  This cartoon is confusing to me on many levels, but most troubling is this:  Is it “laid off on the” or “laid off the”?  In a classic move of artistic courage, I chose one and went with it, but there is a troubled feeling in my gut. Or maybe I, too, like this vertically impossible giraffe, should have laid off the kale.  See, “laid off the kale” sounds like I fired it or something.  “You!  Kale!  You are a terrible, unmotivated worker and I have power and I don’t like the way you breathe!  You are fired!  Oh, and by the way, eat some dirt!” Yeah.  Okay.  

That said, here’s a pretty pitcher for ya’, sweetie.

Hey, don’t get me wrong.  I love zinnias.  Zinnias, if you don’t know, come in a variety of colors and sizes, but their defining characteristics include brilliant hues and stiff stems, which makes them one of the very nicest flowers for bouquets.  I wouldn’t name my kid Zinnia, but hey, it’s not bad.  Nothing against zinnias. HOWEVER. When you go out back on a stormy night, long after darkness has fallen, in your vulnerable bare feet and pjs, because you remembered to take the trash out about three hours after you’d forgotten to take the trash out (or “forgotten”, because taking the trash out is the worst), and you find a carefully placed, long-stemmed, single pink zinnia, freshly wilted, ON TOP OF YOUR TRASH-CAN...THAT, my friends, is CREEPY AS H E DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS. If you’ve been reading since Monday or so, you’ll know that I’m in the process of moving.  It’s a long, arduous, painstaking process at the least, and, like Rome, can’t be completed in a day. Except when it can. F

My house is currently being shown by a realtor to an average of two potential buyers each day.  They come and they go, and, in real estate as well as trail etiquette, they take only photographs (as far as I can tell) and leave only footprints.   Technically. Not to abruptly change the subject, but have you ever sat on a suede* couch?  If you did, I bet you drew pictures on it with your finger, because the material shows light when you brush it one way, dark the other.  It’s a very impressionable fabric.  I have one of those couches.  It’s tan-ish, it’s comfy, and I like it very much.**  It’s in my living room, because it’s a couch and that’s where couches seem to prefer to live.  They like it dry and temperate with a little bit of soft lighting and a nice view of their territory, as well as easy access to the street in case they have a conflict with the armchair*** and need to make a quick getaway.   But I digress.   All you really need to know is that strangers are cautiously

If you can do a headstand, please leave a comment, because you’re a total beast and I want to learn your secret. Note:  This cartoon is not autobiographical. Note:  Not at all. Note:  Really.

I went behind a waterfall the other day.  It felt like a different world than the one I’d left - sounds were muted, and the sunlight came in filtered flashes through the falling sheet of glistening water.  Fish soared past on their long journey to quieter waters, tiny cries of “yippee!” echoing off the rocks as they were swept over the edge.   Moss was soft, slippery, under my feet, and the rock overhead felt embracing, not menacing.  The world was water, and silver, and eternally pouring, and I was part of it all.   Then I clambered out and saw a sign, telling me to avoid the waterfall any cost, some of the risks being slipping, falling, drowning, more drowning, and various other unexpected deaths.   Now, there is a time for being cautious, of course, but to be honest...maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad way to go...falling with a fall in the fall.  

You know those posts that stand in the middle of walking trails, to prevent motorized traffic?  Your dog always goes around them on the wrong side.   They’re usually yellow, or orange, sometimes greenly unobtrusive.    They’re easy to run into if you’re not paying attention.   They’re something I’ve generally thought of as a mild annoyance, barely a hazard.    Until now.    Now I know they are equal in danger to a nuclear power plant, or perhaps crawling inside a microwave for a hot ten seconds.   How do I know this, you ask me?  (No, I did not hit one while driving at high speeds on a pedestrian-only walkway.) While on my road-trip,  I encountered one (while walking...what kind of monster do you assume I am?) that was plastered over with official Warning stickers.   There were two, and they read, simply: Warning:  Deformities And Warning:  Cancer I tiptoed from the scene, and since the stickers did not say exactly how the post would increase your risk of contrac

I went on a road trip last week.  I won’t bore you by telling you a series of travel stories, because I hate when people do that to me, but I will ask you a few pertinent questions. Have you ever been passed by someone whose license plate read “hadehaha”? Have you ever driven for 12 hours and, when asked for the highlight of your drive, been forced to say that the greatest moment was when you saw a sign for a road called “Boody St.”? Have you ever been offered a free hamburger at McDonald’s because they “made one too many”?  And then rejected it because you had no one to give it to and you were already questioning why you wanted to eat even one McDonald’s hamburger? Have you ever been so bored by your drive that you prayed a speeder would pass you so you could drive an eighth of a mile behind them and let them trigger any speed traps?   Have you ever admitted to speeding on a public website?   Have you ever been astonished at returning home alive, so much so that yo