I Don't Even.

I once had a large cat. This cat of mine was belligerent and loved to watch the show Jeopardy to gain mad knowledge.
One day I noticed my cat leaning against a large weather worn tree looking tepidly outwards, towards the heavens.  I threw a rock at him, but he remained unmoved, an impervious fortress of fur and dandruff. As I strode towards my pet I noticed something in the sky, upon further scrutiny I realized what this object was. It was a monster made of glimmering noodles and the most savory meatballs. This was it, I had met the Flying Spaghetti Monster, the quintessence of all noodles, the overlord of pasta, and the founder of Italy.
It descended upon my backyard with the adroit of twelve gymnasts. When it neared the ground it meticulously scanned my yard looking for a plate on which to finally rest. It decided that it would just make a plate from my ivory trunk fence. The plate was a perfectly stretched canvas for it to lay upon and make its art.
While I watched the benevolent being make itself comfortable I wondered why it was here. However, my time of thought was cut short by the loud burst of noise as it addressed me, extolling my good behavior and reminding me to remain amicable to all sorts of noodles, and the like. All the while it spoke to me my cat had been feasting his eyes upon this large mass of  nutrition. Finally, he could take it no longer and halted the looking and began to feast ravenously upon it. The noodles wrapped together like snakes forming a severe grimace. It is not feasible for MY cat to eat all of that italian snack-age I thought to myself. What I did not know was that my feline was once an annual competitor of the Nathans hot dog eating contest.
He made quick work of the monster, and proceeded his feast with a long slumber, known as a food coma.

R.I.P. Mr. Trebek the kitty cat.