There was a murder done in Boston today. I know because I stumbled upon the bloody scene this morning:
I quickly deduced, as the master Clue player that I am (like a chessmaster, only smarter, ahem), that it had to be my boyfriend, Chris, in the kitchen, with a bowl of pasta. How heating up a small bowl of spaghetti with a little sauce turns into a crime scene to rival any that I've ever seen in my 48 Hours Mystery shows is beyond me, but I have a sneaking suspicion it's my boyfriend's ingenious way of getting out of ever having to make a meal again. Call me crazy but I really don't feel like being the "cleaner" every time he gets in the mood for a midnight snack.
After documenting the evidence, I shook Chris awake and immediately started the interrogation, which didn't last long, seeing as he was the only suspect. Also, I was beginning to get a sneaking suspicion he wasn't taking the allegations very seriously, since he was casually trolling the Internet on his phone while I was giving him his sentence: A lifetime of never being able to go in the kitchen to cook again (which was his master plan all along, I'm sure).
"So did you see this? It's a picture of a flying minivan!"
"Really? Let me see." I am so easily distracted. Plus I felt like I had punished him enough with my endless spiel about the benefits of using a sponge over a dish towel when your bowl of spaghetti has been viciously slaughtered.
Sure enough, he had found a picture of a minivan with wings. I wasn't buying it, though, as it wasn't actually in the air.
"I really don't think it actually flies. If we had the potential to fly around a la The Jetsons (which, by the way, I'm really not sure why we're not at this point. It's 2012, people!), don't you think we'd all have a flying car?"
"I'm telling you, they exist! Here, I'll find a picture of a car that's actually in the air."
As I was wondering aloud at whether a flying car, if one really did exist, actually is more just a regular airplane that is shaped as a car and not actually a "flying car," per se, Chris, playing an impromptu game of our beloved popular perverted Google searches, shouts, "flying spaghetti monster!"
"I was typing in 'fly' into Google, and the fourth most popular search for that? Flying spaghetti monster."
I grabbed his phone, convinced he was punking me to distract me from the fact that he was dead wrong and that there are no such things as flying cars because really who would choose to deal with gridlock traffic and stop signs and crosswalks over being able to fly over all the road ragers with your middle finger high and proud and a big ol' F-you grin on your face? No one, that's who. But, sure enough:
Michaelangelo's first draft.
This might have just replaced chupacabra in the #1 spot on my list of shit I've never seen but totally exist and really want to see before I die. Hopefully not as a direct result at having finally seen them. I was now beginning to think that maybe my boyfriend had been framed. Maybe it was the flying spaghetti monster* all along. Holy crap. I felt horrible.
"I'm so sorry hun. I didn't mean to falsely accuse you like that. It's clear to me that what actually happened was that you were innocently heating up your pasta and sauce and being really clean about it, when the flying spaghetti monster swooped in, grabbed your bowl, and murdered your pasta in cold blood."
Chris looked at me with sad puppy dog eyes and even conjured up a little tear. "I don't know how you're going to make this up to me." Sniff, sniff.
"I'm so sorry. You know what, though? I totally revoke your sentence. I'm actually feeling a little hungry. You should go in the kitchen and whip us up some eggs and bacon and coffee. That'll make you feel much better."
Thank you, flying spaghetti monster. Thank you. You've done more for me than that useless chupacabra ever has. Lazy chupacabra.
*Deity for those who follow Pastafarianism. Of course.