The mysteries of Lasagnafarm are many, my child. Let me begin here. . .
There are at least three of us, and an occasional fourth who lives underground and submits postings by leaving rambling voice mail messages from a public phone near the Bayonne Bridge. He’s the funny one. The rest of us are bureaucrats who wouldn’t know comedy from a box of Tuna Helper. The Young Manhattanite is an amalgam of several people and a quart of fortified wine from the Three Brothers liquor store in Bushwick. (S)he comes to us in a reverie, like the Virgin Mother on the wall of an abandoned bus shelter. We are helpless but to lie prone and weep.
We are full time, insomuch as it takes a full day of thankless office toil to inspire such a hodgepodge of unfocused rantings. But we hope, one day, to attract many promotional deals with corporate sponsors. I am envisioning a McDonald’s “Indifferent Meal” and something called the “Nike Air Lasagna,” with commercial spots in which Joe Pantoliano will try to lift his leg high enough to kick Shaquille O’Neal in the shins. My fingers are crossed. If you have any contacts at Fortune 500 companies, be sure to send them our way. We will send cookies in return. As far as comments go, we are far too insecure to handle public discourse. Maybe our group therapy sessions will one day bear fruit in this area.