A good while back I posted my, "Letter to Piraticus." For some reason the OP went away, as have a bunch of the replies. So here it is again.
A Letter to Piraticus
I have heard your word of wisdom and the word was, "Arrrrrgh." May Pasta be always on the Piratical palate that utters it's soothingness.
Though the soft palate, being nearest the unclean end, and by it's very softness laying further from the Piratical ideal of manly men and toothsome wenchy Pirates may not savor fully of Pasta's Noodly Goodness. Only the hard palate, the holder of knives and swords, may savor fully.
I send greetings and wish to share the story of how I became a follower of the, "Flying Spaghetti Monster."
The transformation came slowly, much as a good sauce must simmer for the full six hours, must allow the garlic and spices to diffuse through the body of the sauce, must fill the kitchen, the entire house, with a rich aroma before it is worthy of tastefully caressing his, "Noodly Pastasend."
As a child I knew nothing of the, "Lord of Lasagne." It shames me to write that I was grown before knowing the taste of sauce on that prince of meals, Pasta. It is true, before the knowing of woman's soft flesh, Pasta was only experienced by me when buttered and, perhaps, sprinkled with Parmesan cheese. Sauce, no matter how long it simmered or how succulently it was spiced, never crossed my lips.
My parents, Pasta be on their plates, tried, by example, to lead me to the full richness of a well sauced Pasta. At the oblong table, red of top and trimmed in chrome and black rubbery strips, built by my grandfathers's work hardened hands in 1950, my father's plate would be heaped with Pasta and great rivers of rich sauce would flow thickly down it's side where it would, with many signs of pleasure and contentment, be sopped up by the ever present loaves of Wonder Bread. But I could not see.
I wonder if I would not have came to the truth sooner if my mother had but once worn a Pirate costume while cooking. But never once, not even on a Friday, did she do so.
There it is. I was low. I was but an ignorant child.
In May of 1987 I was working on a pipe line in central Utah. (What is a pipeline but a long thin string for delivering the Fount of Fusilli's bounty. What is the network, the thousands, if not millions of miles, of pipe lines that cover the world, but another way of knowing the Master of Macaroni. But I was blind to these obvious things then.)
Seeing my ignorance and evidently not knowing enough to figure out another way of setting my feet on the true path the Maestro of Manicotti broke my leg by allowing his Noodly Appendage (sixty feet of ten inch pipe) to come loose, knock out three teeth, three being the Holy Number of tooth knocking out, and break my leg in two places. Two being the Holy Number of leg breakings.
In his not overly clever message sending he chose not to send pain to visit me, but allowed me to fall into shock which held until the EMTs shot me up with Demerol, Pasta be on it's plate (and a double helping of sauce 'cause that's some good stuff).
The leg breaking thing, all in all, especially when compared to the flooding New Orleans for allowing homosexuals to dream of normal human rights wasn't all that bad of decision making for the Messiah of Mezzani.
But even then I could not see the obvious.
One night in August 1987 it began to come to me. I know not how this happened, except to suppose the Sage of Sagnarelli's Noodly Appendage crept out and caressed my inner thigh. At first, being in a beer induced slumber and dreaming of wenchly strippers, I thought it to be my Wench-for-life. In the semi-sleepy throes of the, "Gallant Reflex," I threw her three quick ones. Three being the Holy Number for middle-of-the-night boffings. Later, lying sated, beside the Love-of-my-life, listening to the neighbor pound on the wall and scream repeatedly, "Damn't it's four in the morning, give it a rest,"(Repeatedly being the Holy Number of late night neighbor cursings.) a strange yearning grew in me that we must depart our sweet home and go forth seeking. . . . I knew not what. But go we must.
Early the next morning in all the haste we could manage, crippled, my leg casted stiffly in, non-spaghettible, thus unspeakable, ridgeness that displayed my unknowledge of the Prince of Paccheri to all, we set forth to travel to the north.
Unfortunately McDonalds didn't open until six, so we had to wait in the drive through. It was there, while paying for our black coffees (Black being the Holy Coloring of coffee.) we remembered that our suitcases were still sitting beside the bed and ran back home where we decided a couple of quick ones before starting out seemed appropriate. Finally, at nine thirty we left, only stopping to get some more coffee and a couple of Egg McMuffins.
For three days we wandered the desert (Really. Due to excessive beer intake we had drifted into Nevada missing Las Vegas and ending up at the "Little A' Le' Inn" on the Extraterrestrial highway where we replenished our supply of beer). The urge within me to go toward some great thing that awaited was overwhelming. But I had no idea what or where this could be, except that it wasn't here where the beer was overpriced and not all that cold and not a single stripper gracefully greased the pole.
I despaired of knowing what it was that I sought. Only repeated dosing with lukewarm, overpriced beer kept me from breaking down. But the beer, Pasta be upon it's plate, made me want to take a leak. Wandering out of the lights of the parking lot and into the desert in search of a sagebrush large enough to hide behind (Hiding Behind being the Holy Method of outdoor urination) I looked up at the stars.
The moment my bleary eyes found the heavens a great shooting star burst across the sky. Surely it was the greatest that had ever blessed the stary Shangri-la. The flaming trail spread from horizon to horizon never dimming until it vanished as one piece.
Overwhelmed, my eyes still glowing with the singular fire of what now was obviously the work of the Monarch of Mezze Penne, I fell to my knees and threw my arms out wide to embrace the knowledge that was surely coming to me.
There was, of course, no response.
Later, after reading, "The Gospel of the Flying Spaghetti Monster," I realized that this was nothing personal. The King of Calamaretti generally just doesn't find us all that interesting and almost never actually speaks to us.
On my knees, my arms flung bescheechingly wide I also discovered that I had spilled my beer and wet my pants without actually hiding behind anything.
The next two days we trudged to the north, that being the direction of the fiery star's flight. Which, in spite of the silence, I had decided must be the way to finding.
We came, finally, to Bellingham, Washington, thanks to the Ruler of Risi's hidden hand, and a small marina where the Giver of Gnocchi's truth would finally unfold to me.
There two swarthy men, of manly years and composure, and a Comely Wench labored.
Nine cases of beer, five bags of ice, two coolers, six pounds of Cavattapi, and a two gallon pot of savory sauce, Savory being the Holy Taste of Sauce, and a loaf of Wonder Bread lay at their feet.
This far and no further they had wrestled their cargo from their car. They, the manly swarthies, panted in the heat occasionally breaking wind that smelt faintly of oregano. The wench, secure in boobs and an impressive "cameltoe" looked serenely out to sea, patient, waiting, secure in the knowledge that the others were drunk and would put up with anything if the slightest specter of sex in any form was in any way possible.
It was hot, far hotter than it should have been for that local and time. Their load was heavy and made worse (as I was to discover later) by the Comely Wench choosing to give the men an occasional "sideboom" rather than actually carrying anything.
"What ho, brothers," I cried, seeing they were sorely vexed by the wenches' failure to help and not entirely sober enough to pass up on the "sideboom". "Do you need help?"
The taller stared for a long time at my smiling face. The shorter man stared only at the ground.
Five cases of beer and two helpings of Pasta later, the taller man, laughing, his arm across my back, the two of us now entwined forever by the brotherhood of drunken Paste gorging admitted to me, "When you yelled out, "What ho," I thought you were talking about my wife and I was deciding whether or not I should bring suit, my lawyer being a virtual Rectum of Righteousness, or kill you and pillage your truck. But yet there was something about you. A faint aura of Noodlieness whispering RAman that held my hand."
"Aye," the taller of the two finally replied.
My heart leapt at the sound of this sea invoking word. For no reason that I could then name I knew this was the land I had traveled so far and drank so much beer to find.
The shorter man, who had till now ignored me, suddenly jumped to his feet exclaiming, "Yeah, sure buddy."
It was only much later that I discovered that this sudden enthusiasm was due to my Woman-of-dreams, braless, in a tight tee shirt, with her "headlights" on, walking around the truck.
But on these small things often turn bigger things; or other small things, or things of the same size, or things of no easily determined size - thus the Prince of Pinette would probably say if he'd ever get around to saying things to folks.
In a short time their trim little vessel of twenty and five feets was loaded. As the Lover of my Loins and I started to say good-by, our good deed finished, the Comely Wench staggered forth.
Standing to the side of the two men she raised her arms high, the unusually large cutout for her arms giving enough view of her charms to take their attention off my Vixen of Vice's succulent orbs for a few minutes.
"I have consumed of the Beast of Barley to the point where I must make prophecy or pass out, (her exact words here were garbled and may have been, "Or pass gas") or perhaps both." For long moments she examined us. Then, slowly nodding her head as if in answer to words unspoken she said, "They are meant to come to sea with us." Her flashing blue eyes dared no interruption or denial. From her emanated a great force and a silence fell over the land.
The smaller of the two man slowly dropped to his knees then forward until he was supported by his hands. With a look of wonderment he gazed at the Comely Wench. Twice he went to speak but could not. Never losing his look of wonderment or taking his eyes from the Comely Wench he spewed a great fount of beer and partially digested Campanelle in what seemed to have been a white sauce.
With a strangled cry of, "Arrrrrrgh," he collapsed forward into his recent lunch. A veritable tsunami flew across the dock.
All were still, unsure for many minutes.
The man still standing bent forward, hands on his knees and studied his friend. Finally, with a great sigh he rose, "Look," he pointed at the mess, "It points to our ship." He took the Comely Wench by her shoulders and shook her gently, watching her breasts dance back and forth, "Your words are true." With a great smile he turned from the Comely Wench and took my hand, "You are welcome to travel with us. We sail in moments and will be gone on a great cruise of many dangers and possible riches."
Hearing the call that I knew must lead to the finding I did not hesitate, nor my Lady of Love. Slowing only to help drag the smaller man by his legs (Leg Dragging being the Holy Manner of drunk dragging.) we strode forth to the ship and whatever would follow.
After repeated dunkings of the smaller man so he stinkith not so much we threw him below and sat sail.
It was hot. Even the wind that pushed us onward to our finding held well the heat of the great sun as it crossed the sky. Twice the larger man spoke of this and when he did his eyes turned to the Comely Wench and hers to him.
But their faces did not hold the same shameless horneyness as before. There were instead deep thoughts, perhaps fear, and if nothing else great concern and worry over something that I could not yet gain an atom of knowledge about.
I went below to relieve myself of the heat and drink a few cold beers with a plate of well sauced Pasta. By mistake, or as I now believe, Noodly Prodding, my hand went to the wrong locker. When opened there was not the bottles and cans, running cold sweat, promising immediate icy pleasure on the tongue and later an altered thought process, but the clothes and regalia of the Pirate.
"We weren't going to mention that just yet," the Comely Wench said from the short ladder that led down to the main cabin.
I was sore afraid and more than a bit sea sick.
But she smiled a great smile and swooping down to the correct locker and brought forth a six pack of the coldest beer. "Come up and join us. The Second Mate and I would talk to you and your Loveliest of Ladies.
I glanced down at the still comatose smaller man. She, seeing this, smiled sweetly and tosseled his still damp and slightly foul smelling hair, "The First Mate will be okay. It is his way to sleep these things off in a short while. He will join us topside when he will."
"Are you then the Captain?" I asked, glad to finally have some idea of the ranking of these three would I felt would play such a big part in our life to come.
"No, the Second Mate is the Captain." Taking my hand she pulled toward the deck.
"But you're Pirates?" I asked, remembering what I had discovered in the locker.
"Yes, and so shall you and your Spouse of Sexual Sighing be. Come."
And she led me to that I had sought.
Pages and pages I could write of the wonders they patiently explained to my Warmer of Cockles and myself but surely you have already heard them and there is little use to repeat them here. This was indeed the great finding of which I had sought.
When the First Mate joined us he graciously sat far downwind (Downwind being the Holy Positioning of those who have beshat themselves.) It was then that we learned that he had been the Comely Wench's first husband.
She, quite rightly, had left him to marry her Second Mate when it became obvious that too much Pasta and beer made him hurl. Her Second Mate, she assured me had never spewed in his adult life and no matter how much beer and Pasta he ate his farts were ever fair.
Having now some feeling for what had overtaken us I ventured to ask, "What do we do now? If we are Pirates and thus serve the "Sovereign of Stringozzi" as such, should we not start pillaging or something?"
"Learn patience Young Deck Hand and Sweet Deck Handette," for such they had named us when it was seen that we had come to know the Noodle and had accepted His Complex Carbohydrates into our bosoms (along with a generous ration of beer)
"Yes," the First Mate said as he modestly hid behind the mast and tried to wash out his trousers, "We will act tonight. It is far too hot yet today."
"Land Ho," yelled the Comely Wench. With this glad news we all ran to the bow to see for ourselves. Unfortunately this included the First Mate who was not yet entirely clean, or clothed at all. As one we retreated to the stern.
There my Woman of Wantonness cuffed me soundly on the jaw. "Why" I cried. Never had She of Sensuality done me so. I rose to cuff her back (Back Cuffing being the Holy Response to Cuffing) but was stayed by the desolate look on her sweet face.
"All these years you've have been lying to me."
I dropped my hand in shame. Comely Wench and the Second Mate snickered and looked away, trying not to laugh at my embarrassment. I crept to the far railing and stared out to sea where I sat, refusing all Pasta and even beer until far into the night.
There was on the island of Sucia which was one of the San Juan Islands that lay off the city of Bellingham a fair sized bay. It was laden with many sailing vessels. It was these that were to be our targets.
"Come Young Deck Hand," The Second Mate commanded me at midnight (Midnight being one of the several Holy Hours for commencing Piratical raids), "You have sulked enough and we have long since quit giggling at you. It is time to start our Noodly Work."
I cheered myself as I could and determined to act my best in whatever was to come and went below with the rest of the crew to don our Piratical clothes and weapons.
When I held my weapon, a great rusty sword such as any Pirate would lust after, a great feeling of things to come passed over me. It was a MOMENT. I could see that my Damsel of Disappointment felt the same. She smiled at me and were alright again.
In the fog and dark we lowered ourselves over the side into the trusty dingy that had been towed behind our good ship. Slowly, making no sound, we slipped through the dark sea toward our victim. It would be a grand prize I thought. Perhaps 70 feet long, two great masts rose out of sight in the swirling mist.
We came alongside and tied ourselves fast. I grabbed for the line, eager to haul myself on board and begin my Piratical work. "Now there will be looting and pillaging," I whispered to my ship mates.
"Not so fast Young Deck Hand," the Second Mate said, grabbing the great, dark coat I wore. "You must be instructed. We have not yet told you all that a proper Pirate representative of the Savior of Stortini should know."
"Yes," the now much better smelling First Mate chimed in. "We don't actually pillage, rob, sink, kill or any of that other stuff."
The Comely Wench broke in, "It's not the kind of thing the Creator of Cannelloni really goes in for. He's, far as we know, more up for a few good chuckles."
"And," the Second Mate added, "You got any idea how long you'd go to jail for if we did the kind of stuff you see on Pirate movies?"
"So what is it that we do then?"
They told me and in a moment our stalwart crew of five climbed aboard. Moving like wraiths we approached the wheel. Then, as one, we dropped our pants and what had once been the great plates of Pasta and cold soothing beer flowed forth to mark our presence, for the owners, who were not Pirates, to find in the morning.
It was done quickly, the necessary paperwork went even faster then it was back over the side and away.
It was but a moments work and our trusty ship was turned seaward and we began our return.
I was confused. "If we gain nothing then why does the Flying Spaghetti Monster ask this of us?"
"We do not know Young Deck Hand," the Comely Wench said.
"All that we know is that Pirates and Pirating are pleasing to the Redeemer of Ravioli," the Second Mate added. "You will see his pleasure at our act soon."
Hardly had he spoken when a great cold wind blew up. The temperature dropped and we who had been hot were now not.
For the next week Bellingham was over ten degrees below normal and the people were happy.