Sauce: An important news item.

I heard a story on the news yesterday, about a man who got caught in a terrible traffic jam. He could have sat there and eaten Cheetos and grumbled to himself, but did he? No. He calmly stepped out of his car, grabbed his conveniently stored bagpipes from the back seat, and began to play some soothing Scottish marches. Was his goal was occupy his mind, or to distract his neighbors from their feverish, strangled haste? Either way, he succeeded. Those who heard him not only forgot about the traffic jam, but were also united under a collective banner of hateful rage. And he’s probably no longer with us on this earth, so I’m sure boredom is the least of his worries. (Unless he made it to heaven, where bagpipes are allowed only on every fifth Monday.)

Disclaimer: I personally enjoy the bagpipes, but can’t help but feel that this man showed an alarming lack of discretion.

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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