Nuncle, for holyness apprated
Must ye eaté pon yonself!
Marry, hast not thou believst?

Book of Luigi, dated 1423

And behold! As wonder has comuted pon us! While you’d expect nothing more than worldly pesto for dinner, his holy creator of cuisine divine (Dexter’s dad) apparates in our door tending a sending of “Linguine Sancte” – staring at you divinely with its many meaty, compassionate eyes.

We’ve had an abundant apparition of his Spaghetti-ness in our kitchen, alright.
So what did we do?

Ate him prudently with sanctitized parmegiano, truthfully sacrificed us a few holy espressi afterwards, and then rejoicingly smoked us a damn fine L&M incense to cleanse all these evil maccaroni from our minds.

Hail Linguine, son of Jah Pastafari.

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