To the Popes’ Hot Baths, near Viterbo, on a perfect day for soaking; overcast, drizzly, cold wind. There was a goodly lot of steam rising from the surface, but not enough to obscure the delights of carefully plucked male eyebrows and a fair amount of ink.
While lazing about in the water, moving hither and yon to optimize our exposure to the very hot stuff spouting into the pool, The Squeeze and I mused on the fact that Pastafarians must sit idly by while Christians give stuff up for Lent and Jews make merry at Purim prior to the deprivations of Passover. She’d previously come up with the notion of being utterly noodled after a day at the baths. And thus was born the rite of Al Dente.
Pastafarians may oblige themselves to take a hot soak as often as they require. Time of soaking is indeterminate, but it is essential to reach a noodle-like consistency, at least mentally, and thus achieve oneness with the FSM and vibrate with the Meatball.
The the sun came out, and we were treated to some excellent cloud action before emerging, sated, to face the coming week.