“Daddeh, can fwuffy hab Sketties?” Pasta asked his owner.
“No. You already had dinner. Besides, you missed the litter box and shat on the floor last week. I get it was an accident and you’ve been a good fluffy since then, but I’m still mad at you. So no. You aren’t getting any spaghetti.” His owner said.
“Bu… Bu… Nu faiw! ‘Ou say am gud fwuffy bu’ nu gib skettis? Nu faiw!” Pasta whined.
“I just told you why. I’m still mad at you. I don’t care that you’ve been good since then. You aren’t getting spaghetti for at least another week or two.”
“NU! NU FAIW! ‘OU SAY AM GUD FWUFFY! DUMMEH DADDEH! GIB PASTA SKETTIES NAO!” Pasta demanded.
His owner recoiled at that. Pasta had never shouted at him like this before. Let alone had called him a “dummeh”. He frowned. “Pasta, did you just yell at me and call me a dummy? Fine! No Spaghetti for a month! That’s four weeks starting now!”
“NUUUU! NU FAIW! GIB SKETTIES! GIB!” Pasta demanded.
“I said, NO! Damn it, Pasta! Do you want me to put you in time out?!”
“GIB SKETTIES NAO OW GET SOWWY HOOVSIES!” Pasta shouted with tears in his eyes, rearing back and smacking his owner’s legs with his forehooves.
His owner looked down at Pasta in absolute shock. Pasta had just hit him. His fluffy. Hit him… It hadn’t hurt, but that wasn’t the point. He didn’t even feel angry. If anything he felt sad. Pasta wasn’t the first fluffy he had ever owned, on account of fluffies short life spans. He’d had the misfortune of having a smarty once or twice before. He had been so sure Pasta was going to be one of the good ones too.
He still could be… but the owner was going to need to take some drastic measures to nip this in the bud…
He knew what he had to do but he didn’t know if he had the strength to do it…
After a moment he took a deep breath and gathered himself for the truly heinous and unholy act he was about to perform. “Alright… You want spaghetti that badly? Fine… I’ll give you spaghetti.”
“Weawwy?! Yaaay! Sketties!” Pasta cheered happily.
His owner picked him up and brought him to the kitchen. Setting Pasta down on the kitchen table, he said, “I have to go get something I’ll be right back.”
Pasta wasn’t listening; he was too excited about the prospect of spaghetti.
The owner walked out of the kitchen and came back a few moments later with a fluffy diaper and a rope.
This brought Pasta out of his reverie. “Daddeh? What am dat fow? Dat no’ how ‘ou make sketties…”
“You’ll see in a moment.” His owner said, as he set the items down on the table. Picking up Pasta, he put the diaper on the fluffy. He then proceeded to tie Pasta’s legs to prevent him from moving.
“What ‘ou doin’ Daddeh? Wet gu! Wet Pasta gu nao! Nao!” Pasta shouted, struggling futily in his owner’s grip. His owner ignored this.
Once Pasta’s legs were firmly tied to his body, his owner positioned him so he would be able to see him cooking.
May god forgive him for the horrific sin he was going to commit, but it was to save the soul of his fluffy.
CRACK!
“SCREEEEEEEE!” Pasta screeched as his owner snapped the spaghetti noodles in half with his bare hands. The horror was unimaginable to the poor fluffy.
The owner then dumped the broken noodles into the still cold, unsalted, water of the large pot on the stove. Only then did he finally turn the stove on.
“NUUUUUUU!” Pasta shrieked. This was all wrong! You needed to get the water boiling before putting the noodles in! And you needed to salt the water! He had watched his owner fill the pot and set it on the oven! There wasn’t any salt in there to speak of!
“What’s wrong, Pasta? I thought you wanted spaghetti.” His owner said, throwing some raw hamburger meat into a skillet. Taking a spatula, he started breaking up the hamburger meat instead of taking it and forming it into nice perfectly shaped balls. Making it similarly to how one might cook the meat for hamburger helper or tacos rather than spaghetti and meatballs.
“STOP! DADDEH! PASTA AM SOWWY! PWEASE STOP! PWEASE” Pasta begged and pleaded, wiggling in his restraints.
“Nope. Sorry buddy. You know exactly what you did. You wanted spaghetti that badly? Well it’s too late. I’m already making it. I won’t stop now.” The owner said as he continued to mash and stir the meat, making sure it was all fully browned. Once it was, he simply turned the heat off. He added no spices, no marinara sauce, no olives or mushrooms. He simply left it as it was. Plain cooked beef.
The minutes ticked by and Pasta, who was already devastated by this travesty of cooking began growing steadily more and more worried. “Daddeh… Da noodles… Dey am done… Pwease…” Pasta begged with tears in his eyes,
“Hm… Nah. They’re not done yet. I’ll give ‘em a bit longer.” The owner said, making a show of looking into the boiling pot.
More time passed. “Daddeh! Da noodles! DA NOODLES! PWEASE DADDEH! STOP!”
“Mmm… Just a bit longer.”
“NUUU! NUUUUUUU! DEY AM GONNA BE OBER COOKED! DADDEH! NUUUUU! PWE-HEE-HEESE!” Pasta begged, now sobbing as tears rolled down his face.
His owner ignored his cries and kept cooking the noodles well past al-dente.
When he finally decided it was done, he poured the noodles into a big strainer in the sink, dumping out all the water. Then he rinsed the cooked noodles in cold tap water for a few moments before shaking out any excess water and dumping the broken and violated noodles back in the pot.
He scooped some back out and onto a plate, then dumped some of the still warm cooked hamburger meat onto the noodles.
Pasta thought it couldn’t possibly get worse from there. He had been wrong. Oh so wrong. The owner went to the fridge and grabbed three ingredients that were the stuff of nightmares made manifest.
First he covered the meat and noodles in ketchup. Then he put a couple dollops of mayonnaise on the already ruined travesty against god and Italy. And then came the worst crime of all… Pineapple… He put pineapple on this abomination of a spaghetti dish.
“Well… Here it is. Your spaghetti. I hope you enjoy. Because this is the only thing you’ll be eating for the next two weeks. And you’re going to have to watch me make it every. single. time.”
Pasta stared at the dish, completely defeated. His spirit just as broken as the spaghetti. His soul, just as violated as this dish.
Summary
With how much fluffies love spaghetti, you know this had to be done at some point. To you Italians and professional chefs out there, I’m not sorry and I apologize for nothing.
Also, I wasn’t quite sure how to tag this. So I hope the tags I chose work.
