I Salute You, Long Stringy Meal

Hey, I know it's an unusual request. But I'm not asking you to spend a whole lot of time on it, and you're not losing any money. I'm just asking you to get down on your knees for five lousy minutes and thank almighty God for the stupefying miracle that is spaghetti. That's all. That's it. None of us ever do it, and let's face it, it's about time. Spaghetti. Spa-effin'-ghetti. A huge bowl of it costs what----thirty cents to make? And how many different kinds of pasta are there that are virtually the same damn cost? And what's sauce when it's on sale: two bucks a jar? My God, what a sly food. What a clutch player. How many nights has spaghetti saved your hide? You come home tired, bitter, surly, your head throbbing like George Foreman trying to punch his way out of a lemon, not in the mood to make anything complicated, despising the universe and all the creatures in it, and WHAM! There it is in the pantry, a ninety-nine cent box of pasta and a thing of Ragu, waiting patiently to leap into action. You dump the pasta in a pot and the sauce in another, and how much attention do you have to give it all? Um, like NONE. Go ahead, watch indoor soccer on cable while it's practically MAKING ITSELF. I know, I the pots can be sort of a chore. But I beg you, for just once in your life, just ONCE, try to see the forest for the trees, know what I'm saying? Can you understand, just for my sake, just to humor me for one damn minute, the flippin' miracle of miracles that is spaghetti? The Eternal Giver, The Food Without Flaw, The Zesty Hand That Offereth?

What's that you say? You don't even like spaghetti?

Oh....oh. That's weird. I mean, I specifically asked the escort service to send over a girl who likes spaghetti. Jeez, I'm sorry. Here I am going on and on like an idiot. Okay, so, I'll just take the sex then. Ha! Wait'll the guys at the batting cage hear about this one!