Rising from the waves atop a misshapen city of impossible angles and mind-snapping vistas, tentacles the size of ships writhing in ichor, great bellowing leathery wings blasting fetid gales, and an unspeakably alien head bulging with eyes, mouths, and unnameable gaping maws: some refrigerator pasta.
5 thoughts on “But my God, Jones, it was not just pasta. This thing…”
just don’t eat the old ones, they don’t taste so great.
man that was so dumb and terrible that i don’t even think it deserves a sad trombone noise
Strange, I even made the sad trombone noise for you!
you are too kind!
much much much too kind
Lovecraft loved “ethnic” foods, including pasta.
Well, gnocch me over with a feather!