Transformations
by Michael A. Kechula
Though I'd
injected 783 different liquid compounds into
the moldy clump of mashed potatoes in a Petrie
dish, it refused to transform into a
brontosaurus embryo.
“You
dirty sonovabitch! I’ve given you $35,735
worth of the purest compounds in existence. Why
don’t you respond?”
Something my sainted
mother used to say popped into my mind,
“Spaghetti is the staff of life. When all
fails, try spaghetti.”
Racing to the
kitchen, I grabbed three strands from
yesterday’s dinner and pressed them into the
moldy potatoes. I left one strand trailing
outside like a fuse. Lighting it with the Bunsen
burner, I ran for cover and hid under my
bombproof desk.
Nothing
happened. Dammit! Maybe Mom had been speaking
cryptically. Had she meant something deeply
metaphysical?
Then I
realized spaghetti included marinara sauce which
had near-magical properties.
“Sauce is
the lifeblood of spaghetti,” I mumbled.
“That’s why it’s red.
Lifeblood…lifeblood…lifeblood.”
Using a
syringe, I drew 100cc of marinara, slammed the
syringe into the mashed potatoes, and pressed the
plunger. Suddenly, the clump emitted a sigh
like a contented lover. Eureka!
I couldn’t
sleep for three days. Not after making the most
amazing discovery in the universe. Miraculously,
the moldy potatoes had transmogrified into
lasagna.
When I
injected more sauce into the lasagna, it sighed
again. Then it emitted something that sounded
like a greeting in Italian.
I pressed my
stethoscope against the lasagna’s top layer.
My lord! A regular heartbeat! I’d just
created the world’s first living lasagna!
Before
collapsing from exhaustion, I put the Petrie dish
and it’s precious contents into the freezer
to retard further transformations.
Eighteen hours
later, I woke refreshed. As my mind cleared, I
remembered I’d created one of the wonders of
the world. Yanking open the freezer door to gaze
upon my fabulous creation, I found it covered
with thick frost. Worse, I couldn’t find a
heartbeat.
Chiseling an
opening through the frost and noodle topping, I
gave the lasagna mouth-to-mouth. No response.
Placing it on the lab table, I pressed paddles
against the lasagna and yelled, “Clear!”
Though a million volts surged through my creation,
it didn't stir.
Racing to the
kitchen, I grabbed the saucepot and dumped the
contents over the lasagna. In seconds, it sighed
and said something in Italian.
The lasagna
didn’t transform into a brontosaurus embryo,
as I’d calculated. Instead, it sprouted long
strands of black hair on one end. Then feet and
shapely legs on the other. This was followed by
buttocks and abdomen. Before long, it turned into
a magnificent woman.
Unfortunately,
she was only large enough to fit in the Petrie
dish.
Instead of
being glad she was alive, she started bitching in
Italian about her minuscule stature. She never
stopped nagging.
To shut her up,
I put her in the freezer. By the time I removed
her, she was forever silenced.
Next time I
conduct this experiment, I’ll use half a ton
of moldy mashed potatoes, and a hundred gallons
of marinara.
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