Moose in the Kitchen

I’m still filled with joy over my new design. I’m also bogged down by trepidation. What if my posts aren’t equal to the beauty of the masthead? What if, now that I have my very own domain name, I flub? Stall. Forget to relay quotes like, “We’re a nation of hussies. Hussies who don’t wear slips,” after an unsuccessful bout of lingerie shopping. Fail to transcribe the charming monologue I imposed on the dog while she hunted sand gophers and stared at me in scorn for giving her such a lame script. Continue to type sloppy sentences while gleefully flinging adverbs all over the screen.

These are sobering thoughts.

I’ve been infected by the crippling need to Say Something. Newcomers are hereby notified that this is the Seinfeld of blogs. If there are significant issues at hand, I feel it my duty to ignore them. If I am having a crisis, you will not hear about it. My deep thoughts are usually lost somewhere between my brain and a post-it note. I will, however, tell you about my lunch. Which I’m told is Cardinal Sin Number One of blogging. This leaves me at a bit of a loss. I’d like to be eloquent and meaningful but am left with the verbal equivalent of a whoopy cushion.

In an effort to write about something, anything, I flipped open the dictionary and put my finger down at random in the tried-and-true method of fortune-telling, decision-making, and blog-fodder-finding. I got “string.”

String.

Dear Dictionary,

Is that the best you can do? Really. You’re filled with words like “pugnacious” and “supercilious” and “gigot.” And you give me string? I am underwhelmed.

Love, Moose

My Essay on String

People who resort to the dictionary for ideas, rather than gracefully admitting defeat, are also the type to play word association games. String theory pops to mind, but I know nothing about string theory. I could look it up, but that would be cheating. I only cheat on taxes and tests. (Note to the IRS and my fourth-grade teacher: Ha, ha! Kidding.)

I’m not male, so an exposition on g-strings would do little for me. Neither would it do much for you, I suspect, unless I include pictures.

Please note: I’m not including pictures. Don’t bother scrolling down.

Uncomfortable undergarments lead us to classical music. Air on a G-String is a Bach standard and has nothing to do with underwear. The strings go nowhere more interesting than up and down the alphabet so, again, don’t bother scrolling for pictures. The G string comes after the F string and before the H string. I assume. I never learned to play the violin. If there is no such string as the H string, please don’t shatter my illusions. I’m very fond of my illusions.

String itself is very useful. It comes in balls. You can tie things – or people – up with it. If you choose to tie up a person, make sure he’s a scrawny sort of person, else the string may break and you’ll be in trouble. Amount of trouble is directly proportionate to strength of victim’s biceps.

In conclusion, I know nothing about string theory or the violin. I may or may not have cheated on a fourth grade test. I’m not obliging with the g-string pictures and only recommend tying up people with little to no muscle mass.

I’m also aghast that, when attempting eloquence and meaning, I write a post about string.

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1. The Hapless Wonder Triumphs!
2. Drunk and Full of Cake
3. Why I Don’t Answer My Phone, Ever
4. Bastion of Pyromaniacs