Should I take the spacecake?

signed,
Chello
Leeuwarden, Friesland, The Netherlands

Dear Chello,

"ROB!" I declaimed overly-loudly on the Monday morn. "MY ARDENT WISHES HAVE COME TRUE! I HAVE FINALLY RECEIVED A MAILING FROM THE NETHERWORLD!"

Rob, cleanly-shaven and not bearing the marks of the "Hanging-Over" sipped his coffee and chuckled. "Lord A., check that shit again. Sure it doesn't say 'The Netherlands'? That's like, a country near Holland or whatever. It's where danishes come from." He sipped his coffee again, his own personal "mug" momentarily eclipsed behind the oversized plastic souvenir mug, this last reading Auto Show 1997. "And Hamlet. And that hazelnut spread stuff, Nutella?"

A quick googling revealed that we were both somewhat incorrect, and while this did somewhat dash my own personal hopes for contact from a Dimension Between, I was somewhat buoyed that feculent and insagacious Rob was, for all intents and purposes, wronger. For me to be incorrect in an assumption and Rob to be in the right? Unthinkable, and thus annoying when it occurs.

"THEN PERHAPS YOU CAN ANSWER ME THIS, ROB: WHAT IS THE SPACECAKE?" I intended to increased the volume a mere 10% in the final clause—for effect— but my tentacle (the seventh, if you must know) slid roughly and so did "crank it up" to deafening levels. I did not apologize.

Rob mopped coffee off his shirt, his face, his khaki trousers. "Christ, Lord A." He shook his freshly-washed head. "Whatever. I'm used to this razzle-dazzle now; don't gotta front. So, yeah, spacecake? It's basically a big-ass pot brownie that your cousin—my cousin, err, one's cousin—swears will get you absolutely muffin-headed but you eat it—one eats it—and just spends like all Labor Day puking all over Hart Plaza."

Rob was lost in thought, but I could sense he had more to say. His jaw works as if chewing cud when he still has more to add to any given conversation. I waited.

"Except, wait, did you say this cat was writing from the Netherlands? Shit, they have legal shit there." He held up a hand, forestalling my query. "And by 'shit' I mean 'drugs.' Spacecake there is a real thing, like a pot brownie laced with hallucinogens. He's probably sitting in a cafe looking at a giant buffet and texting us from there with this question. I used to go with this chick, like, maybe ten years ago? I dunno. It's, like, 2011, so . . . Anyway, she was crashing with some friends in a flat in, like, Madrid, I think, and her roommate was this total closet stoner with, like, heaping suitcases full of edibles from Amsterdam." Rob attempted to sip his coffee, occluding his mug with his mug, only to realize that the latter was empty. He frowned with the former. "So one day this chick gets, like, a mad case of the I-Need-Sugars—she was like that, whatchacall . . . hypoanemic, or whatever—and so she knows this roommate hides food in her room. Chips, cookies, whatever. And so she sneaks into her roommate's private stash and sees all these pristine individually wrapped baked goods with writing in them in Amsterdam-ish, or whatever—Danish, I guess—and she just fuckin' gobbles down three muffin-sized spacecakes."

"ARE THEY SO NAMED BECAUSE THEY ARE UTILIZED BY ASTRONAUTS? LIKE AND UNTO THE ASTRONAUT, HIS ICE CREAM?"

Rob shook his head. "They're named like that cause of hippies. Anyways, this girl eats three pounds of spacecake and then spends days just trapped in a hallucinatory-"

"ROB!" I interrupted. His stories, they do meander.

He frowned and glanced at me. "I thought we talked about this interrupt-"

"ROB!" He natters on. "BRING ME A SPACECAKE! I CANNOT ANSWER THIS GENTLEMAN IN GOOD FAITH WITHOUT PERFORMING MY DUE DILIGENCE; RECALL THE QUERY ABOUT SKINNING CATS? AND THE OTHER ABOUT ACQUIRING THE PUSSIES?"

Rob blanched. "Y-yeah?" he cautiously offered.

"SHODDY RESEARCH, BOTH; WE RECALL THAT UNPLEASANTNESS.""Listen, dude, one: This is a terrible idea. Two: but yeah, whatever. I know a guy just got back from the 'Dam who collects this kind of shit like they was Pokemons." He removed his cell pone from his trousers. "And I'm sick to fuck of trying to keep you from doing dumbass shit, only so you can bitch me out and, like, set feral robo-vermin to fuck with me and then do it anyway, and it all ends up being shit I've gotta clean up. Fuck it; have it your way. Gimme a day."

And, so I did, as did he. Readers, Petitioner Chello, I regret what happened next.

Rob did bring the spacecake from his connection, Dirty Steve. [Note: origin of nickname unconfirmed. Needs more research, due diligence, &c.] And I did consume it on the emptiest of stomachs, despite Rob's measured warnings.

I am, at this time, required to publicly announce the following:

HENCEFORWARD I WILL NOT DISCARD ROB MILLER'S LEARNÉD ADVICE OUT OF HAND WITHOUT FIRST TRANSFERRING $50 TO HIM VIA PAYPAL, IN ORDER TO INSURE AGAINST HIS FUTURE COSTS—BOTH FISCAL AND PSYCHOLOGICAL—IN DEALING WITH SAID FAILURE ON MY PART AFTER THE FACT.

It was unpleasant, both in the consuming—as the cake was oversweetened, and tasted somewhat of incinerated paper goods and shoe leather—and in its effect. Words failed me and I lost nearly an entire day's worth of time, memory, productivity. When I again woke to myself the lab was empty and my pressurized tank was full of crudely hand-drawn and enumerated Notes to Self. I replicate this notes here, for edification.

The first note, labeled 1, reads: "NOTE TO SELF: I IMAGINED SPACECAKE WOULD FEEL LIKE THIS," And is written on the back of this drawing.

Note 2 continues the abridged sentence, "BUT IT FELT LIKE THIS" and accompanies this drawing.

According to Rob, as the day wore on, my skills decreased markedly. Apparently with speech failing me, I attempted to communicate to Rob with these drawings (which are labelled 3, 3.1, and D, respectively).

[Rob notes: "Yeah, it took us a long time to get this one worked out. Like, you were really, really fucking lathered on this issue. Seriously. For reals; Panda Chow Garden was very serious that they are not delivering to the office again after the shit you were yelling at their delivery dude. Like, they'll drop off at the front desk downstairs, but no elevator. She said that, she said 'No Elevator!', then she called me "fucknozzle," and then she said, I think, 'POW!" and basically hung up."]

And I summed up my feelings with this final drawing, "numbered": ℵ_ℵ.

Chello, sir, I regret my tardiness in replying to you. I must say this: Do not take the spacecake unless you wish a day like I have had. There is no space and the cake is a lie. It is a fiendish trap of the Dutch to ensnare the minds and souls of visitors. Just say no.

I Remain Corporeal,
(for now,)
The Giant Squid
Editor-in-Chief
PMjA