One who blogs about narwhals and cheeses

Langres (cheese)

Langres (cheese) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

may see a sudden increase in visitors.


Therefore, it is tempting to write about these topics exclusively.




It never ends well. It sometimes ends blubbery.


It is hard to STOP




Murdersocks: Chapter 2: In which time passes most murderously

Common Ravens (Corvus corax) at the Tower of L...

Image via Wikipedia

It would be unnecessarry and possibly insulting to you, doomed reader, to recount the rest of that fatefully murderous first day.  You won’t be surprised to learn, I hope, that it was full of murder.  We (the Socks and I) murdered every man, woman, child, and animal we came accross from then on.  Oddly enough, the only thing that was left unmurdered was a group of crows I passed on the way home.
Every murder, as in the incidents I have described, took place during the course of an instantaneous flash and was preceded by the same murderous glow.
This was very exciting at first, though always a bit unpleasant.  I had never been murdered before (at that time) and didn’t know what it was like, but I knew it must be even less fun for the victims than for myself.  It always happened so fast that it couldn’t have been all that painful, but death was death and murder was definitely a kind of death.  I tried not to think about it too much.


Untitled Poem

(read aloud when surrounded by sheep, sheepdogs, or other wooly organisms)
I don’t see what I believe
I don’t believe what I see
I don’t think you should grieve
over what it might be
The rain falls on dryness
my teeth become ice
the ice steams to skyness
would you like some more lice?
Soup is not soon
just as bees are not meaty
it pools on the moon
while it dreams of graffiti
The dreams of the soup
fall to earth with the rain
and it moves in a loop
because it is a brain
The brain that is rainy
soup dreams from the sky
may find wheat is grainy
not at all like a lie
I see what I believe
I don’t believe what I see
I think I will grieve
over what it might be

The [Slightly Continued] Story of Ed

Once, some time ago, there was an Ed.  In this world, there have previously been two billion Eds and there are at least 191,023 Eds alive today.  Ed never was and still isn’t a rare name, but no two Eds are exactly alike.  Hypothetically, identical twin Eds could be nearly alike, but not many parents would give two siblings the same name, even if they weren’t twins.  It would be too confusing.  I guess there may be some parents out there that would consider it for the convenience of only having to yell one name when asking all their children to do something, but even then, the many disadvantages would probably outway that bit of usefulness and drive those parents to change their minds.
None of that really matters here because this specific Ed had no siblings or even parents with any names at all.  Ed’s family lacked not only names, but any presence at all in the world.  To the best of Ed’s knowledge, he had sprouted from the ground.  In truth, he had, but he had also once had parents before they buried him.  Not knowing this vital piece of his history, the real question: ‘why had they buried him’ had never occurred to Ed.
Ed mostly concerned himself with one thing, and he concerned himself with it very well.  Baking pies on the Moon was that one thing.  It is a well established fact that any baked good made on the moon will be superior than that same baked good made somewhere else.  The weak gravity, lack of substantial atmosphere, and general wholesomeness of the Moon were mysteriously and miraculously just the right thing for all manner of breads, biscuits, cakes, pastries, and pies, but for some strange reason, not muffins.  The leading researchers in Muffin Science have yet to suggest a better explanation than “The Moon just doesn’t like muffins”, which, if true, raises further questions that are much more potentially important, but also much harder to think about.  Neither the harder question nor the simpler one made any difference to Ed.  Ed baked pies.