Happy Ramendan (Pastafarian)

Zim glared focusedly out the window at the pitiful Earth landscape flashing by beneath him. Had he actually paid attention in class rather than working on alien schemes, and had Ms. Bitters actually taught anything useful, and had Dib not distracted him at every possible moment with extraterrestrial accusations, Zim might have recognized the continent below as South America. Actually, he might not have anyways considering that it didn't have "SOUTH AMERICA" written across it in big bold letters like it does on all the good maps. (The maps LIEEEEE!! THEY LIE!! FILTHY EARTH MAPS!!)

Impatient to get on with conquering this pitiful hunk of space debris, Zim slammed his fist on the dashboard. "CAN'T THIS THING GO ANY FASTER?!" he demanded, his short attention span having canceled out his previous decision not to hurry things unduly. He scowled exaggeratedly at the speed readout. "Come ooooon!" the small Irken whined, his antennae flooping over. "Is a measly percentage of the speed of sound the fastest it can go?"

A message scrolled across the video screen where he'd called the Tallest before. To anyone else on the planet the text would have looked like chicken scratch (albeit by chickens with knowledge of the occult), but Zim was able to read his native script quite well. "Locked on cruise speed?!" he cried, his voice cracking in annoyance. He gritted his teeth and made several angry noises as his Pak began to smoke from the overload of stress. How had his ship gotten stuck on cruise?

"GAAAAAAAAHHHH!!" Zim yelled, whacking the console with both fists. A small tray unexpectedly popped out from beneath the dashboard, on top of which was a chocolate-frosted cupcake. The quasi-Invader stared blankly at the chemically-created treat, then clawed at his forehead. "GIR!! HE LOCKED IT IN!! Oh, that WORTHLESS android!" Turning back to the holographic keyboard, Zim scanned the options. "I need GIR's activation code to turn it OFF?" he protested, then tugged painfully on his long black antennae. "OOOOHHH, he makes me so MADDD!!"

At this new influx of unaccustomed energy, the alien's spotted Pak began to crackle and sizzle, then exploded completely. An electrical charge coursed through Zim's body, but it was just temporary as the auxiliary power circuits of the device kicked in and the Pak reassembled itself. Zim was still fuming, but the recharged databanks prevented the emotion from overwhelming him and the short Irken simply kicked back in his seat as the autopiloted steering wheel operated itself. As soon as he finished conquering the Earth, he would revoke GIR's rulership of the moon.

With a very irate would-be conquistador inside, the Voot Cruiser continued to zip southward to its historic destination.

And continued to zip southward.

And remained zipping southward.

And still zipped southward. Zim attacked the computer console again, and sparks played across his black gloves. "MUST I WAIT ALL OF ETERNITY TO CONQUER THIS DIRTY PLANET?!" he screamed. "It's been nearly two minutes!!"

The Voot Cruiser's computer banks, feeling that some self-preservation action was in order, released two long, metallic robot arms into the cockpit and tied its pilot up in them. At first Zim was surprised, then mildly annoyed, then began to actively kick and struggle against the cords. Not surprisingly, the explosive temper of the woefully short Irken got the better of him, and he began shouting Irken profanities at the machine.

We shall now pause for a lesson on intergalactic culture, brought to you directly from Megadodo Publications on Ursa Minor Beta. The Irken language is so similar to the language of "English" as to be nearly identical, through massive interference by interspatial wormholes and such other paradoxical oddities which can never be satisfactorily explained except to say that the Universe is an extremely improbable place and could only have evolved through Creation. (The theory of Unintelligent Design, as expounded upon in the religion of Pastafarianism, is an increasingly popular explanation throughout the Horsehead Nebula as well as many other localities.) However, their obscenities are different from those found on Earth (the home of the same silly "English language"), as they were spawned by the pop culture of a different planet. But because the systems of phonics are almost exactly the same, the rude slang sounds deceptively like many "English" terms.

"BINAFFLEK!!" Zim swore shrilly, wrenching his head away as the cords attempted to cover his mouth. The databanks were polite, and would rather not have their core data corrupted by vulgarities. "MIZTURKLEEHN! TRIKSRABBOT! KORNIECRISSMAZSPESHULZZ!!"

Cultural information regarding Irken language paraphrased from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, still marginally cheaper than The Encyclopedia Galactica and the preferred knowledge database of the Irken Empire.

With the product placement out of the way, the Voot Cruiser continued to zip placidly southwards with an incapacitated potty-mouthed Irken tied up in the control chair. About three or four hours afterwards, the view outside the Cruiser became one long stretch of white snow and ice, completely isolated and barren. From his awkward vantage point, Zim caught a glimpse of the landscape, remembered some itchy nagging thing Ms. Bitters had said about "ice caps" and deducted (surprisingly) that he had reached his destination.

"COMPUTER!!" he spat past the robotic cords, practically biting one as he struggled to be heard. "Computer, release the great ZIIIIIIIIM immediately! I have arrived at the 'South Pole'!"

There was a small whirr as the databanks thought this over, then the video screen extended towards Zim's face. He squinted his crimson eyes to look at it, and saw that there was a message printed on the screen.

" 'Do...you...promise...to...be...civil'," he muttered, reading the Irken characters aloud, then kicked angrily at the cords. "ZIM SHALL DO NO SUCH THING!! IT'S A STINKING EARTH CUSTOM TO HAVE WARS 'CIVILLY'! I AM AN IRKEN ELITE INVADER!! BOW BEFORE ZIIIIIIIM!!"

The computer refused to respond. Zim heaved a mighty groan, turning his head away from the console. "All right, ALL RIGHTTTT!!" he barked. "I'll buy that plasma TV upgrade system from Callnowia, ARE YOU HAPPY?!"

Apparently it was, since the cords holding Zim immediately retracted back into the console, dropping Zim in the pilot's seat. He rubbed his thin limbs gingerly, glowering at the video screen. "You're lucky I don't rearrange your pivotal programming with a CHIHUAHUA!" he threatened in an overly-loud voice, taking the ship off autopilot and gripping the steering wheel himself. The video screen lit up with another, sarcastic message, but Zim was too busy scoping out the land below to take notice.

"And a very 'merry Christmas' to you too."

With a dull roar, the Cruiser's backward thrusts rotated into a downwards angle and powered down, landing the purple spaceship neatly on top of a massive white drift. A raging, hostile wind blew huge snowflakes diagonally down on top of it, working diligently to try and bury the Voot Cruiser before it could lift off again. They were coming alarmingly close to succeeding.

Pushing back the pliant windshield bubble, Zim attempted to stand up and scout the area. However, the intense cold was more than his Pak could protect him from, and the snow that landed on him ate acidly away through his clothing and into his sensitive Irken skin. Screaming horribly from the pain, Zim retreated back into the Voot Cruiser and resealed the hatch.

"Vile Earth climates!!" he shouted, hissing sharply as he examined the tender patches on his head and arms. It didn't take long for his Pak to heal the wounds and regenerate his skin, but he would rather not feel pain and cold. (Well...that goes without saying.) Even inside the optimal Irken temperature of the Cruiser, Zim shivered. His Invader garb, a crimson vest with black leggings, may have been a sort of rudimentary armor, but they were rather thin. If his Pak couldn't regulate his temperature in this HIDEOUS environment, he would surely freeze before he could complete his mission.

With a grumble, Zim selected an option on the control console and studied the menu. Once he'd gone over all the choices, he emitted another throaty "HMMMM" and reluctantly pressed a button. Immediately another pair of robotic arms slithered out of the dashboard, one of them clutching something. Letting loose a deep groan, Zim lifted his own arms above his head as one of the robotic ones bodily picked up the Irken and dropped him into the brown fabric suit the other arm was holding. The robot arms retracted, and Zim finished climbing into the costume, zipping the front up and dropping the hood down over his head. He made a very dramatic show of not liking it.

"Much as it is DISPLEASING!! to be forced to such humanlike measures," he proclaimed to no one but himself, "I will be properly warm, shielded from the snow and perfectly disguised."

So saying, Zim clambered out of the Cruiser once more, but this time in a bear suit.

—There will now be a complimentary pause as some of the less sane Zim fans burst out laughing and/or squeal with joy.—

Still compulsively cringing to be near the toxic snow, Zim drew a small mechanical panel out of his pocket and activated it. He stared at the device for a while, looking at it upside-down, sideways, and pointing it in every direction imaginable. At length the panel beeped, and with a diabolical grin, Zim put it back in his (bear suit) pocket and clambered back inside the Voot Cruiser. Somewhat awkwardly, considering that the bear suit's hands didn't have fingers, he punched up another menu on the console and grasped the steering mechanism. Shaking off the snowdrifts like a massive dog, the Cruiser's thrusters restarted and blasted the small craft into the air. It hovered there for a moment, then made a decision and zipped off in a preprogrammed direction, the disclike Voot Carrier following magnetically behind it.

Somewhere far away, miles and miles beneath the Earth, was a living room. Not a very interesting one; the cavernous rock formations making up the roof and the stalagmites sticking up from the floor like stakes got tiresome after a while, as did the everlasting flames dancing destruction everywhere the eye could see. As well, the sounds of tortured souls screaming in pain became monotonous once you'd heard them day in and day out. Sigh.

Standing erect in the middle of the cavern, although there was no wall flanking it, was a doorframe around a coal-black door. Presently, a knock echoed through it. A flock of bats circumvented the doorway and flapped shrilly into the main room, and the doorknob turned as the door opened. Standing there was a sallow-skinned old woman, hunched over like a vulture and squinting disapprovingly through her thick glasses.

"Honey, I'm home," Ms. Bitters rasped, and the door shut of its own accord.

A man sitting in an armchair set into the rock wall looked up from his newspaper. His skin was red like a lobster's, and he wore a short goatee as well as two long white horns on top of his head. The man smiled with a tinge of dark humor. "Hello, Lucille," he said pleasantly. A forked tail sticking over the chair's arm twitched from side to side. "How was 'Skool'?"

Ms. Bitters shuffled "inside", her bun of silvery hair twitching almost as irritably as the rest of her. "Perfectly horrible," she muttered, heading towards a coffee machine set into the wall opposite the man. Before the scary teacher even touched the machine, a mug floated off a rack and filled itself up with black coffee before placing itself in Ms. Bitters's hands. "How're the underground classrooms?"

Another shrill scream split the air, and the man's smirk widened. "Just fine," he replied, and opened the paper again. "The children are potty-training Cerberus, but I don't think he's quite getting it...there're flames everywhere." He glanced at Ms. Bitters over the top of the newsprint. "Do you remember what day it is, Lucille?"

The old woman glared sharply at him. "It's a pointless and revolting holiday," she grumbled, shuffling across the room again. Another armchair magically appeared from the stone, and she sat down in it. "Besides, it originated with one of your many sworn enemies."

The man chuckled gutturally, shaking his head. "Ah, Lucille," he admonished in a smooth voice, reaching over to a nearby pillar of flame, "can I not circumvent those minor issues to please the one I love?" With that, he withdrew a small package from the fire and handed it to the teacher. " 'Merry Christmas', Lucille."

Still glaring suspiciously at him, Ms. Bitters took the package and unwrapped it. With a POOF of smoke, she held in her hands a long red pitchfork. Behind her glasses, Ms. Bitters's eyes widened. She gasped, then for the first time in centuries her eyes began to water. The man inclined his head towards the pitchfork. "If I recall, you preferred practical presents," he commented.

"Y-Yes," Ms. Bitters croaked, her voice grating in her constricted windpipe. She turned back to the man. "Thank you. And...'Merry Christmas', Beelzy."