Sauce: sNOmobiles.

If you’ve ever wondered who’s most likely to die in a pedestrian/snowmobile collision, I’ll give you a hint.
(Whisper whisper...It’s not the snowmobile.)
If you’ve ever wondered what the exact likelihood of your dying in a pedestrian/snowmobile collision is, I’ll give you a hint.
(If you are in the right state at the right time of year, say, anywhere north of Iowa between December and March, and you are outside...well, it’s high. I would include a graph to show you exactly how high, but I’ve never been very good at graphs and I think you’ll understand if I just say that your survival rate plummets very quickly to less than 1 percent.)
If you’ve ever wondered how a motorcycle could possibly make a more annoying sound, I’ll give you a hint.
(You take the wheels off and put little runners on it. In other words, a snowmobile.)
(Note: It also helps if you drive it across dry pavement every few minutes...it’s slightly nicer than the sound of a giant misusing a chalkboard and ever so much more soothing.)
If you’ve ever wondered whether the world was better “back in the day,” you know, like before machines and, oh, snowmobiles, and stuff....I’ll give you a hint.
(It was.)

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 chillin...

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: I’m not easily suede, butt...

My house is currently being shown by a realtor to an average of two potential buyers each day. They come and they go, and, in real estate as well as trail etiquette, they take only photographs (as far as I can tell) and leave only footprints. Technically. Not to abruptly change the subject, but have you ever sat on a suede* couch? If you did, I bet you drew pictures on it with your finger, because the material shows light when you brush it one way, dark the other. It’s a very impressionable fabric. I have one of those couches. It’s tan-ish, it’s comfy, and I like it very much.** It’s in my living room, because it’s a couch and that’s where couches seem to prefer to live. They like it dry and temperate with a little bit of soft lighting and a nice view of their territory, as well as easy access to the street in case they have a conflict with the armchair*** and need to make a quick getaway. But I digress. All you rea...

The Password’s Lasagna.

Search This Blog