Wabasso Triangle
A Concise History of Pasta
It should not have happened, but one thing is certain: it did happen. Defying all known rules of grammar and positively dripping with clichés, the Wabasso Triangle has struck again.
Anthony Chianti, Licensed Private Eye and Indian River Community Pasta Detective, reporting:
It was Monday. Another perfectly ordinary Monday. I spent the afternoon at the beach in response to a rumor that some illicit Liberian Linguini had been washed up. OK, the rumor was in 1983, but you have to make sure.
Back at the office, things were looking grim. My desk was piled high. I mean, like, stuff was backed up to the point where I now had sixteen unfinished crosswords and no end in sight.
The pressure was too much – I grabbed last Thursday’s paper and practically ran out the door. Little did I know that, thanks to the Wabasso Triangle, this would be an evening to remember.
As I swung into Dr Pepperoni’s parking lot, the car died. Not again. I cranked it – yur, yur, yuuur, yuuuuur, but nothing. It hasn’t run properly since I put on that Nascar bumper sticker: “We’ll never forget you, Dale Eckerd.”
And, whoa, it’s incredibly bright out there. I put my sunglasses on – perhaps it’s some new parking lot security. The car wobbled and lifted straight up. I looked out the driver’s window, and then down – that must be Sebastian, fast getting smaller. There was a “Whoop, Whoop.” followed by a loud thump on the roof as we stopped.
Looming straight ahead was a huge loading bay. Years of Pasta Detective training paid off as I instinctively knew this wasn’t Dr. Pepperoni’s parking lot.
I came to, still groggy, and found myself strapped to a large table and surrounded by bug-eyed teenagers with green hair. Something was wrong somewhere, and for once it wasn’t Detective Inspector “Raving” Ravioli of the Serious Pasta Crimes Squad breathing down my neck.
“Let me outta here!” I wriggled.
“Rethistance is fertile!” Three of them spoke at once.
“Rethistance?” I queried.
“Yeth, apparently, ith fertile!” They tilted their heads from thide to thide and warbled.
A lab-coated greeny came in the door, “The genetic material confirms our remote DNA scan, but we have bad news – bonehead Earthling broke our brain probe!”
“Then we must interrogate the thuthpect.”
“OK, thuthpect, what did you do with it?”
“Huh?”
“Mitherable Earthling thuthpect – what did you do with our landing thite?”
“Do with what?”
“Thilly, you know what we talk about.”
“I have no idea who you are or what you want.” I took the fifth.
“Earthling thcum report no knowledge of landing thite,” They mumbled among themselves in a high-pitched warble, “And no one here can repair Ronco Brain Probe…”
“OK, thuthpect, Earthling, here is propothal: We tell you our thide of the story if you tell us your thide of the story. Also, we tell you answers, like 17 Across, ‘Former Italian Bigwig’, is ‘MUTHOLINI’, do we have a deal?”
I nodded – these guys are pretty smart.
“But firth we need to know what ‘Extrovert’ mean?”
“Extrovert? Er, you mean like an outgoing personality…?”
“OK, that make thense,” they warbled and nodded to each other, “We think maybe ‘Extrovert’ is French for ‘Bright Green’ so we pretty offended reading Mr. Freud,” they said, pointing to their pea-green perms.
A gray-haired bug stepped forward, “OK, Earthling thuthpect. This hithtory of what happen: After we build prototype stone landing thite for our mothership we move location and build new, better landing thite.”
“Warble, warble,” they all said together.
“New landing thite in place you call… warble? OK, new landing thite in place you call ‘Thithily’. And you have Thithilian genes…”
“Huh? These are Wranglers… ?”
“No thtupid, we can tell from your thmelly DNA that Thithily is where your people come from. So, what you do with landing thite? Huh?”
“Warble, warble,” they said, excitedly.
“I don’t know what you mean by landing thite,” I tried to defend myself.
“Landing thite really big – look like wide big thircle made out of advanced geopolymer material. Some bits stick up and some bits sit on top. We call landing thite… warble? OK, in your ridiculouth language landing thite called ‘Henge’.
“We try wood, but wood rot quickly on your wet planet. Then we try stone, build stone henge, but it too ugly – it look like style of décor we call: ‘Early Government Repo’. Also, it too damn cold, so we relocate landing thite to Thithily.
“Then we try new contemporary design using advanced and very thpensive geopolymer composite material we call ‘Pathta’.
“So, we call landing thite ‘Pathta-Henge’. Now you know what we talk about, so what you do with landing thite?”
“Pastahenge? You made a UFO landing site out of Pasta?”
Scale Model of Original Pastahenge
“Sure we did, new material last longer and it look killer – better than old stone prototype. Only, when we come back, new award-winning Pastahenge design gone. Last report said thtupid locals eat entire landing thite, but we don’t believe as no one eat advanced geopolymer materials like Pasta. For a start, way too thpensive. Also, stick to teeth.”
“Let me get this straight – you built a flying saucer landing site, a great big circle like Stonehenge, only in Sicily, and made out of pasta, and now you want it back?”
“Too right we want it back, buthter, we still making paymenth on construction material. You think Pathta grow on treeth?”
“Hang on, when did you build this?”
“Warble – warble? OK, thuthpect, in your years we build Pastahenge 7,000 BC.
“I remember it well: we finish around teatime on a Thaturday afternoon. Then we land Mothership on Pastahenge with terrific thunset backdrop and hand out crayons for coloring competition. I came second, but only because Tiramithu cheated, otherwise I won fair and thquare.”
“We do not cheat!”
“Yeth you do!”
Suddenly, the whole mass of skinny aliens divided in half and took up position behind two of the elders.
“No we don’t, nyah, nyah!”
Before I knew what was happening, the place erupted with green hair and skinny arms and legs flying everywhere. I wriggled my right arm free and unstrapped myself. They were so busy fighting I slipped off the table and out of the room.
At the end of the corridor was the dock with my faithful 76 Buick Testudo, unguarded. I pulled several levers until the car started to move, just allowing me time to jump in as it accelerated backwards.
The bright lights came on again and I watched out the window as we were gently lowered onto the roof of Dr. Pepperoni’s Fine Italian Dining and Package Lounge.
“Nithe landing, Earthling Thcum!” said the green-haired guy in the back seat, “Oh yeth, I claim Pretty-kewl Athylum!”
Well, amazing but true, and it can only have happened here.
And thath about it for thith month’th update from the Wabatho Triangle.
Anthony Chianti, Indian River Community Pasta Detective, signing off.
Bed 14, Psychiatric Ward, Indian River Memorial Hospital.