The Password’s Lasagna.

Be proud.  It took me two whole weeks to post a picture of a butt.  You’re welcome.

You know how you thought you’d never grow up?   Maybe not everyone nursed morbid thoughts of dying young from extinct diseases like I did, but come on.    Did you really think you’d be here, now, reading this stupid blog and drinking coffee or whatever, and feeling stiff because you like, stood up from your chair more quickly than normal one time last week?    Didn’t you honestly, secretly think that when you were an adult, you’d still be a kid at the same time?    Like, you would have all the same hopes and dreams, but you’d actually be able to carry them out?    That would be cool, wouldn’t it?    And terrifying.    We should all be thankful that the world doesn’t work that way, actually.    But maybe we should stop pretending we never were that kid, at the same time.    You may have changed in a lot of ways, but you weren’t once a child.    You are you, and you have been a child and yo...

People should never acknowledge each other when they’re out doing their respective exercisings.  It’s always a little awkward and one of us usually has snot in places snot shouldn’t be, like on our teeth or elbows or somewhere.  Also I just spend fifteen minutes trying to spell “exercising” with two c’s.  “Ya!  I just spend, what you say, fifteen minoots at it?  Yah?”  Sorry, that was a typo.  I meant “speant”, obviously.   I didn’t draw the snot because I wanted to keep this G-rated, but it’s there. Just use your imagination.  

Hey World!   I spent half of this week on a trip home (or, there and back again), which means I’ve found myself with four blog posts to publish in one day.    Fortunately I’m a super genius and wrote them all ahead of time.    Except this one.    And the other ones.  Lettuce  just say that this morning I found myself frantically pounding out words, trying to think of funny stuff that wouldn’t leave you drooling into your keyboards.   This desperation led me down the age-old path of self-searching that all humorists encounter at some point in their lives...that is, asking myself, “what  have I done lately that was very, very, very stupid?”    There were a terrifying amount of options, but the first to come to mind was this:    I’ve been meaning to mail a Christmas gift to a friend since before Christmas.    It’s been sitting on my counter, wrapped and taped and addressed, for the last month.  ...

In honor of the 12 inches of snow that fell last night (it’s okay, by the way...it only recieved minimal trauma and was quickly stabilized), I couldn’t resist a snowman cartoon. And since snowmen cartoons aren’t very legit (Think about it.  There’s nothing easier to draw than a snowman.  There is nothing easier to make jokes about than snowmen.  Except maybe toilets and llamas.), here’s another one for good measure.  Enjoy, drink some cocoa, and I’ll be back with more next week!!

                                        You’re worth it.                                                                  La de da de yay you.

Yesterday I managed to have an entire conversation with someone who was actually not talking to me at all.   If you’re wondering how that’s possible, two words.    Eye  contact.    If someone is looking at you when they start talking, and doesn’t correct you when you respond, and is talking about a very vague subject which could apply to anyone in the room, it’s an easy mistake to make.   You know how you’ve waved at people who weren’t waving at you, but at someone behind you?    It was like that.    Except it lasted five minutes.    I thought about flipping my car on the way home but decided it would be more satisfying and dramatic to sing along to “Shout” at the top of my lungs while weeping.   It’s a cruel world. 

Last weekend I bought a stuffed dinosaur.   Yes. I think I heard the laughter of the shopping gods as I sneakily paid with cash in the self check line.   I’m (undisclosed age) years old.   I do not need a stuffed dinosaur (he’s a T-Rex, his name is Armageddon, and he has made a habitat on my car dash).   I have never needed a stuffed dinosaur.   Nobody needs a stuffed dinosaur.   But with a strange frenzy, I found the temptation irresistible.  I think my actions were a combination of childhood trauma, unfulfilled longings, and whatever chemical it is that they pump out through the heating system in all major department stores (cue conspiracy-theory music). I have to pause here and mention that this particular department store, which will never be directly named because I still have a tiny rag of pride clinging to my bloated soul, has a name that sounds like “Small Fart”.  Also if you said “Waffle Art”, you would...

Hi world!  I’m sitting here eating licorice (okay, Twizzlers...sorry, purists).  That has nothing to do with the rest of this post.  Here’s the real news: it occurred to me just moments ago that lasagna (la la lasagna...) has four layers.  Right?  If you disagree, I’ll consider it a direct insult to my mom’s cooking.  Lasagna, properly made a la Mom,  has four layers.  Noodles, sauce/veggie/meat/goop/red stuff, spinach or whatever, and CHEESE, which is the important part.   So here’s the deal.   If you can handle it, I have decided to produce four posts each week, corresponding with the layers in lasagna.  Even people who love nonsense like knowing what to expect, right?  I’m talking to all you anxious people right now.  You worrywarts!  Go draw a huge spider on your nose and gross people out.  Think how much more fun that would be than worrying.  And you know what would be even funner than that? R...

Hi, world, and welcome to “The Password’s Lasagna”!  One day I’ll share where that name came from - for now, just revel in the wonderful idioticity of the word “Lasagna”.  Say it over and over again.  Let it flip off your tongue in all its gleeful lasagnaness.  Say it until it means nothing, say it ‘til it means everything.  Lasagna.  It’s a word with many layers.  Moving on quickly now... I have to wonder if, in a year, I will regret this first post.  I’ll think “what kind of imbecilic idiot was I, to think starting a blog would be a good idea?”  As if there aren’t more constructive things to do.  Like...fishing.  Or hunter-gathering (which is the sport of gathering as many hunters as possible in one weekend and stuffing them all in the back of a closed pickup, preferably with a limb or so hanging out and dripping blood).  Or making clay...things.  Useful things.  Mugs and the like.  Or I could be chillin...