One themed satire by Alison Ross

Praying to the Pasta Pilot:
The Inanity of Religion and the Religion of the Inane
by Alison Ross

When I was younger, I invested belief in monotheism of the Judeo-Christian variety. You know, god, the paternal wizard with the ivory ZZ Top beard, esconced in a throne he stole from Spain’s Queen Isabella, pretending to preside over worldly affairs but in reality about as effective and relevant as British royalty.

Then, as I got older, I began to question the existence of this god, and branded myself “agnostic.” You know, one of those pesky fence-straddlers, an indecisive weasle (as ridiculous and dangerous as undecided voters) who stopped short of actually renouncing the existence of god for fear of divine retribution. I cloaked my agnosticism in all manner of justification, but the reality is, I was a wa-theist - a wannabe atheist who craved the cool counter-culture aura of disbelief and yet the cozy protection provided by belief.

My spiritual search culiminated in my practicing Buddhism for a couple of years. You know, the non-theistic religion of the placid plump guy. Granted, the real Buddha was a skinny bastard, but willowy waifs don’t make good statuettes that you can give as gifts to your bohemian friends. After all, Americans like guys who look like they’ve feasted on a few too many McNuggets. Just because it was pork poisoning that killed the historic Buddha doesn’t mean the plastic toy Buddha can’t be enamored of fried chicken chunks - right? “I’ll have my Buddha Biggie-Sized, please, with a side of satori fries.”


Nowadays, though, I invest my spiritual heart and soul in the Flying Spaghetti Monster (FSM). I suppose you could say I’ve come full circle, back to my monotheistic roots. For in the beginning, the Flying Spaghetti Monster made angel hair pasta, and it was without form, indeed a tangled mass. And the FSM said, “Let there be meatballs,” and then there were meatball beasts, roaming all over the pasta. And the FSM said, “Let there be sauce,” and there flowed rivers of tomato sauce. And he saw that it was good. And then the FSM said, “Let me make creatures in my image,” and so he created many platefulls of pasta and blessed them all and said, “Be fruitful and multiply and have dominion over all other cuisines.” And so Italian cuisine reigned supreme, with pastarias opening all over, especially in New York City.

It’s true that over the years the FSM has faced some stiff competition from the Whole Enchilada Fiend and the Skiing Pate Appetizer - after all, the Mexicans and French jealously believe that their cuisines are also divinely inspired. But the FSM is magically divine, impregnating extra virgin olive oil, feeding the masses with loaves of garlic bread, and turning water into a carafe of Chianti.

The holy trinity - Pasta, Meatballs, and Tomato Sauce - have inspired the erection of many Noodly Temples. Inside these temples reside a Father Parmesan preaching the virtues of eating Caesar Salad as an appetizer before plowing through plates of pasta.

But in all seriousness, perhaps god the paternal ZZ Top wizard and the placid plump guy can get together at their local pastaria and discuss religious belief over a bowl of tiny flying spaghetti monsters. And perhaps after ingesting these aviating noodle knaves they will both concede to the paralyzing preposterousness of religious faith.

Burp.