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.
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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
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Strange, I even made the sad trombone noise for you!
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you are too kind!
much much much too kind
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Lovecraft loved “ethnic” foods, including pasta.
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Well, gnocch me over with a feather!
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