Sentient Oregon Moss?

When I first noticed that the slippery moss on my roof wasn't just ordinary moss anymore, it was very late at night.  As I often do, I was busily cleaning my gutters with a toothbrush in the rain.  The little voices began in whispers at first, but soon I could hear the squeaky conversations all around me.  I took another sip of my homemade brew, and I began to furiously scribble pages and pages of careful notes.  Here's an excerpt!


"Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"Joe?"

"Yeah?  What da ya want?"

"What time is it?"

"Take off, hoosier!  Do I look like a clock?  Have another drink, eh?"


I didn't say it was a spellbinding conversation, but...just to hear the moss express its innermost thoughts and feelings was a momentous moment for me, and to learn that it was Canadian moss was deeply moving.  This was rich moss--in a cultural kinda way.

I've now placed my special Oregon moss in a ziplock bag, and I am sharing it with all my friends, colleagues, public transit riders, riffraff, and Frank.  So...if you see a figure climbing around your roof in the middle of the night...it's probably a burglar or serial killer, because I am as coordinated and graceful as a Newfoundland puppy on oily linoleum.