Today, whilst enjoying some ice cream with some friends, I discovered yet another of my seemingly endless identites. I am the King of Noodles. Beyond any doubt, I have been found after much deliberation. And there was much rejoicing. However, due to some contradicting responsibilities and abilities associated with some of my aliases, I may have to embark on a deep, epic, soul searching journey to Beantown, USA, and I may find that I may not be who I thought I was.
Either way, I would like to take this oppourtunity to explain my duties and privileges as the King of Noodles. Tonight I will post the final installment of my acclaimed series The Meaning of Life Explored, and will begin a new series documenting my adventures as the King of Noodles.
The following poem is a very detailed explanation of my daily noodletasks. It may be too intense for some beans.
The noodles enter the cavern of fears and saliva,
with some hesitance and in a tangled conglomeration.
Their silent cries tickle my nose and make a dying lunge
at conformity.
At this point, the noodles lose their hopes
and they are alot like knotted ropes,
except in an ironic protest.
The noodles are attacked by calculus,
weighed, poked, prodded, yet left totally and
completely unharmed.
Some things push them,
organizing them in no particular order,
that is,
if by no particular order you mean perfectly arranged
in every impossible way.
The noodles are stacked sideways,
and then stacked in the traditional sense of the word,
in the style of Merriam-Webster.
Then they slide down my throat, unharmed,
except really scared.
But scarred?
Of course not, KOM.
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