Once upon a time there was a guy who had a dream. That dream was to make a gigantic noodle. He had drafted plans of his noodle, which was to be roughly the circumference of a school bus and as long as three-and-a half football fields. He made t-shirts, hats, buttons, commemorative plates and belt buckles that all featured his amazing noodle. He even secured the rights to www.giganticnoodleguy.com as well as www.giganticnoodleguy.org, www.giganticnoodleguy.edu and, for some reason www.stinkyfeet.com.
The short-term plan was to build the noodle. After that was complete, he would air-drop marinara sauce and three boulder-sized meatballs and have it photographed from space and maybe put the picture on a postage stamp or a flag or t-shirts or something. Oh how he dreamt of that fine day. He could almost taste it, all garlicy and noodley.
He told everybody he could about his noodle plan. All day, every day it was "noodle" this and "noodle" that, "noodle noodle noodle." People thought he was a little weird, but hey, who isn't, am I right? So he liked noodles. So what? At least he wasn't robbing liquor stores or running for State Comptroller. At least he wasn't eating kittens or painting pictures of Mike Ditka oil wrestling Refrigerator Perry while cats played poker in the background. At least he didn't go around quoting Friends while wearing a Speedo driving all over town on a bobsled pulled by babies. At least it wasn't anything weird, y'know?
Then one day, he realized that this was a stupid idea, the noodle idea, and instead just invented the George Foreman grill. He lives on a beach somewhere where he just sits around with his pet spider monkey Chip and a bodyguard who is half robot and counts his money and occasionally buys small European countries and renames them for the fun of it. Have you heard of the nation of Yourbootiestan? He owns it. Poopoostia? That one too. Crappersburg? Hobotopia? Smellyelbow? All him. He also hired George Lucas to remake the Star Wars prequels so they aren't so, you know, not that good, really, no matter how much you try to tell yourself otherwise.
But still, there is a hole in his heart roughly the circumference of a school bus and three-and-a-half football fields long. A hole that can't be filled with money or go-go dancing ladies or 152 pairs of Chuck Norris Action Jeans or Fabergé eggs or solid gold Air Jordan's or 13 autographed pictures of Danny Aiello or the enchanted head of Engelbert Humperdink that sings and tells the future.
Sometimes he cries at night, wiping his eyes with hundred dollar bills, thinking of the noodle that could have been but never was.
So what's the point of all this? I guess the moral of this story is simply this: Never let go of your noodle. Hold on to it and never let go.
Why are you laughing? What?
Oh. I see. You're gross. Seriously.
