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.

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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...

Noodles: Cake.

I once read that humorists live small, pitiful lives. Which is true, if you think about it. It’s hard to joke about, say, sacrificing your life for the common good of your fellow humans. Great people are rarely funny people. Even when they have a sense of humor, what will they laugh about? “Today? Huh huh huh yuk yuk....Todaaay, I hugged TWENTY LEPERS and prayed soft prayers with them in the candlelight and three of them experienced miraculous healing! IS THAT LIKE NOT THE MOST HYYYSTERICAL THING YOU HAVE EVER HEARDDD??? I mean, com’on!!!!!!” On the extreme other end of the spectrum, you have, for example, me. I will probably never pilot a spaceship to Mars and bring back a strange new mineral that cures all diseases. But I will, with alarming regularity, experience trivial little setbacks in my journey up the vertical glacier of social acceptance. Take today. We had cake in the ...

Noodles: There are just some things you can’t ask your doctor.

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...

The Password’s Lasagna.

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