Sarsaparilla Alphabet #9

I - ICELAND

There is a saying mostly used by smug nerds about Iceland. It goes thusly: "Iceland is green and Greenland is icy! I am such a clever motherfucker to come up with that all by myself!" Okay, so the last part was made up, but that's what they're all thinking. But what is obvious is that most of these social degenerates have never actually been to Iceland, while I have, and I can report that Iceland is actually a gigantic ice fortress that is home to all sorts of unique wildlife, social customs, and 114-foot tall, natural ice sculptures depicting the end of civilization. Also, the ice is green.

To most outsiders, the music of Björk and Sigur Rós symbolize what Iceland is, and I am here to tell that, in fact, THESE ARE SIMPLY PROPAGANDA DESIGNED TO LURE YOU INTO ICELANDIC FIRE FIELDS. The covers of both artists' latest albums actually provide clues to reality. Björk's magical suit is actually the armor of the Icelandic imperial guard. With Sigur Rós (translation: sugar rows, a street name for cocaine), it shows a group of people, naked, running across a street. They are actually crossing the vast fire rivers to go vote for the ruling party.

Fig. 1: An Icelandic Imperial Army Uniform

Now, you may be wondering, "How in the world can Iceland be both a gigantic ICE FORTRESS and also strewn with FIRE PITS AND RIVERS?" And as you ask this question, I reply that you in fact have answered it yourself! Iceland is in fact NOT OF THIS WORLD, but instead in a parallel dimension, accessible by actually traveling to what the Earth defines as "Iceland."

I know that you have many questions left, such as "Why is the ice green," "How long has the real Iceland existed," "Who are you," and "What are you doing with my baby?" Trust me, all will be answered in due time, though I need your child for an experiment involving anteaters and a gigantic electromagnet. I apologize in advance, however, for Iceland is not what you would typically consider as one of the Areas of My Expertise (har har).

Sarsaparilla Alphabet #2

B - BUTTER

On a glass plate on a long dinner table draped with a crimson table cloth sits a block of butter. Taking a seat, Edward wraps his head around the chair's arms, which are carved with snarling griffins. The butter sits 25 feet away, and Edward stares at it. He leans down onto the table, twists his head to the side, and stares at it, as if at any moment, it will show signs of life. He grabs a butter knife, holding it like a machete. He stands up slowly, careful to not arouse suspicion. He freezes. The butter's watching. Ducking behind the black curtains, Edward peeks out the side for his chance. No good, it seems to have eyes on all five sides. He has one last chance.

In two solid motions, he cocks his arm backs and heaves his mighty weapon at the beast's heart. Just nicked him, he snarled. But at least he's wounded. This may be my chance!

Edward ran like a madman, howling a war cry with both his hands in the air. He leaped onto the table and grabbed the butter with both his hands and wrestled with the foul beast. Gaining the upper hand, he smashed it into a slice of bread, vanquishing the malevolent being.

Edward carried his spoils back to his large chair with the griffins engraved into the arms and sat and placed it next to the five forks, two knives, three spoons, and a cloth napkin, folded in a way that resembled a swan. Unfolding the napkin into his lap, he sank his teeth into the bread, spotting his luxurious mustache with yellow entrails. There was a knock on the door, and a man in a crimson suit (adorned with a brilliant yellow ascot) emerged from the other side of the tall, heavy, wooden doors.

"Prime Minister? I come to discuss a possible treaty for peace."