Skip to main content

Sauce: Peeved - A Ditty.

Hello world, welcome to the dumbest thing I’ve ever written.  It helps if you sing it with gusto.  (Hint: UIKEYINPUTDOWNARROWgive “favorite” and “chocolate” three syllables.)
Dun dun dun...

...If you’d rather eat spaghetti 
With butter,
And if petting armadillos makes your bitty heart flutter,
If you wear twenty-three inch plugs 
And you snack on creepy bugs,
And you turn off the radio before 
Your very favorite song ends,
If you dance to rapping only 
And you never just be lonely,
Then I think we cannot ever quite be friends.
If you like to play the tuba
And get thrills at going scuba
Diving with a pack of grumbly-tumbly sharks,
If you stick Q-tips up your nose 
And knit socks for all your toes
And deface all the bathrooms in the parks,
If you get joy from picking peanuts 
Out from every tin of mixed nuts
And don’t laugh at jokes that center on Depends,
If you run away from cats
And feed chocolate to bats,
Then I don’t think we can ever quite be friends.  
(Why am I sharing this with the worldddd.....?????)

Comments

  1. So, there’s a little accident in this post. I’d call it a typo but I’m pretty sure it’s not my fault. If you can spot it I’ll make you a bumper sticker of whatever you want. For realsies.

    ReplyDelete
  2. You win a bumper sticker! Who are you? If you know me, shoot me an email. Otherwise, use the cute little comment form at the bottom of this page and send me your address. I promise I won’t come kill you in your sleep.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

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.”