One evening, on a chilly, December evening, I was walking home with my best friend, Catherine. We lived about a block away from each other, and our classes were coming to an end to start celebrating the holidays. She turned to me in the most serious manner and asked, “What are you doing for Christmas this year? Would you like to come over to my house to open some presents? You know my family thinks of you as another daughter.”

    I looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “I thought I told you I wasn’t celebrating Christmas anymore. I’ve converted to a new religion,” I exclaimed sassiness dripping from my words. She stopped dead in her fur boots and stared at me hard. 

    She studied my seriousness for a moment before laughing and blurting out, “The pasta religion? I thought you were joking!” I rolled my eyes, pulling her arm and continuing to walk. “I was serious. It’s like Christmas, but you basically eat noodles all day! IT’S GLORIOUS!” I squealed, shutting my eyes with excitement. That shut her up for all about two minutes as we approached my house. She had a puzzled look on her face, and finally, she pulled out her phone to Google something.

    “You’re okay with having this weird, looking THING as your God? I mean, come on, it’s a ‘Flying Spaghetti Monster’ for Christ’s sake, Marie!” Catherine shouted. I hushed her, putting my hand over her mouth and whispering, “Chill, or you’re going to wake up the neighborhood!” She blushed, covering her own mouth as I took my hand off it. I looked around, left and right, a few times before taking her shoulders in my hand. “Okay, how about you stay over for a sleepover, and we’ll discuss it inside over some nachos and cheese?” That seemed to pique her interest as she jumped for joy while following me into my building. 

We got upstairs into my bedroom, laying out all the snacks we could find, which included said nachos, Cheeto puffs, Ruffles chips with french onion dip, and multiple sodas. Of course, I made her some canned spaghetti to start off with because why not? If I was going to tell her all about my new religion, I was going to need her to get a taste of how amazing it really is.

    I set the steaming bowl of canned spaghetti in front of her. It was a humble, pre-mixed offering, but in my eyes, it was an appetizer to enlightenment. "Behold," I declared with a dramatic sweep of my arm, "The Sacred Swirl. Partake, and let the noodly goodness wash over your soul." Catherine stared down at the orange mess, then back up at me. Her expression was a perfect blend of alarm and confusion. "Marie, this isn't a sleepover. This is an intervention for your sanity. And why does this spaghetti look like it’s been pre-chewed?" She made a disgusted face.

    "Blasphemy!" I whispered, turning away from her and crossing my arms. "This is a necessary step. Now, take a bite. You can't truly appreciate the Flying Spaghetti Monster until you've tasted the bounty of his holiness.” 

    She sighed, grabbed a fork, and tentatively scooped up a few strands. She chewed slowly, her eyes closed in deep, conflicted concentration. "Okay, it's... canned. But fine, you've got my attention. Now, spill. What is this, actually? Is it a cult? Did someone in the philosophy department convince you to do this for a grade?"

    Catherine's eyes finally lost their panic and narrowed into skeptical curiosity. "Satire? Like a long, committed prank?"

    "Exactly! Our God is the Flying Spaghetti Monster, who created the universe after a few too many beers. He was created by Bobby Henderson in protest in 2005 against the Kansas State Board of Education. Our afterlife has a beer volcano, isn’t that crazy? Our holy days are all Fridays, and our main religious garment is a colander on our heads."

    Catherine choked on her canned spaghetti. "A colander? You wear a pasta strainer to church?"