Sauce: A political speech. Or, Why I’d be a great president.

Saucey sauce sauce! Ha ha!
You knew you could always trust me for great content, didn’t you? And as always, I never disappoint!
Sauce sauce sauce. Yep, folks, I’ll be here all night! Gimme a hand!
(Memo to self - I am so hilarious. The people are going to love that incredibly witty opening.)
Okay. That was fun. But let’s stop fooling around and get down to the nitty-gritty reality of this thing we call life. Life isn’t fair. Life isn’t just. People aren’t fair. People aren’t just. Sometimes they’re just stupid, but they’re never just just. But sometimes a little hint of justice peaks out from behind the dark clouds of incompetent, anarchistic (Is that a word???? Memo to self - remove all memos to self before publishing!), man-made obnoxiousness we call the penal system. I don’t know exactly what’s up with the penal system, by the way. My mind gets hung up on the “pee” sound and I start snickering and my brain receptors shut down. It’s people like me who makes the world such a great place, let me tell ya’. We stand around in a blissful stupor, chewing our agrigarian cuds, chuckling over funny sounding words while innocent toddlers are led to the electric chair on false charges that aren’t true! (Memo to self - “agrigarian” adds a very nice touch. Whatdoesitmean.)
I have amazing hair today! It’s made out of carrots or something and that’s why it’s yelloooowwww!
Did I just say that out loud?
What was I talking about?
Oh yes. Justice! Justice needs to happen more often! People in authority need to be under the same justice as the commoners! People in charge should be subject to justice just as much as people who work at Wal-Mart! People like me deserve justice just like people like you, excepting a few exceptional exceptions. I demand complete and total justice for everyone, all the time. ALL the time. Constantly!
(Memo to self - why is the crowd waving axes and shovels?)

Comments

Welcome to Weirdness!

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 chilling with friends...engaging in meaningful conversations over cups of coffee.

Noodles: Just, noodles.

I realized on Thursday that I have no idea who I am. It was very disconcerting, particularly as it happened moments after I’d stood up suddenly, not realizing there was a heavy plank shelf directly over my head. It was also after two or three hours of inhaling the stale remnants of ten years of uninhibited mouse parties, and an entire bottle of environmentally caring cleaning fluid. Anyway, this isn’t exactly humorous (unless you get a kick out of existential crises), but it made me wonder if anyone else feels the same way. So, readers, tell me this - do you feel as if you know who you are? Or are you just pretending to know? Or are you, at this moment, simultaneously reading this on your phone and telling a complete stranger all the ways that you feel isolated from the rest of the human race? Let me know. “I” am interested in your answer. PS Anticipating zero comments, because the majority of my readership is too intellectual to stoop to the paltry pract

Noodles: It’s autumn, all of you.

Hi world. It’s me, your favorite super sheltered, extremely Scandinavian, strangely endearing pile of soggy, tomato-drenched crinkly noodles! Otherwise known as Baby Swedish Lasagna under an Inadequate Tent. The reason I bring up my origins is this: I grew up without hearing anyone say “y’all”. I believe the contraction never crossed my path outside of a book until middle school, when it became trendy among my equally sheltered, pale-skinned friends. I started saying it often, with little understanding of its pronunciation, spelling, or proper usage. At some point, perhaps in a fit of cultural sensitivity, maybe after the madness of middle school had seeped out of my neurons, I stopped using it. Except in emails. Yes, my friends, I am an email y’aller. It just works for the already-awkward group conversations. There’s honestly no equivalent in northern dialect. Check it out. “You guys.” Offensive to feminists. “You girls.” Offensive to mature women. “You ladies.”

The Password’s Lasagna.

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