From my family's old Milanese print of the Liber Pastafarius, circa 1512, translated from the original Pig Latin into English and then into Japanese and then into Serbo-Croation, back to Japanese, then to French, then to the dead tongue of the dire race known to history only as the Otet, then to Russian, then to International Sign Language and then back to English, which as everyone knows makes it the purest and most correct version of this tale available. It was written by the great prophet Guido the Mad, known best for living his last days in a cave while suffering from what would eventually be determined to be syphilis:
Chapter 1: And upon this paper are words
Twas the blessed year in which the cattle of the fields did stop getting boils. Twas also the year that the author of this divine work, this most blessed of texts, this feat of great greatness, this shimmering light in the darkness, this thundering sound in the heavens, this mountainous range of mountains standing tally over lesser hills and some valleys and a river, this mighty work in which you have betaken, this author was stricken with a pox upon his groin. This pox was perhaps given unto him by a lady of the streets of Rome. This lady of the streets of Rome, much to the author's astonishment and dismay, was perhaps not a lady at all. But in fairness, she did possess a great work ethic, and did not watch the hourglass whilst she was under the author's employ. Indeed, despite the burning and redness, despite the itching and swelling, the author doth highly recommend the services of the lady should thou ever find thineself stuck in Rome and without company.
During the blessed year aforementioned in some detail, an event took place. This event did not take place in Rome. Rather, it did take place in the north, full of trees. For although the people of the north are known to be loud and unbearable after an honest night of holy drinking, not all of their achievements should be ignored. Indeed, although His ways are unknown to us, it is apparent that their boisterous nature has been punished greatly by Him.  For He has given unto them harsh winters and terrible foodstuffs.
Born into that land thirty five years prior was a baby of middling looks and remarkable intellect. This baby was known as Geinhardt Womponimus. It can and should be inferred that some of His heaping punishments upon the brutal north are also in response to the names given to children there. Geinhardt Womponimus, whom bathed rarely and was Blessed by His Noodly Touch to randomly fall upon the floor and spasm violently with the shivers and shakes, was greatly alone. Nary a woman would come near him. Nor would men whom love men. Nor the beasts in the fields or the plants of the earths. So Geinhardt did inhabit the cellar of his parents' meager domicile. And he did collect pamphlets of sheepskin detailing heroes of the Crusades whom were touched Especial. And he did listen to progressive chorals. And he did pleasure himself often and with great vigor. RAmen.
Chapter 2: Womponimus the learned
Although it had appeared to all that Womponimus was destined to die in some conflict or of some malady, He had other plans. He granted unto Womponimus a gift of understanding of the arts of alchemy. Indeed, many of the children of the local lords did pick upon him and forced him to finish their studies for them so that they could go a-courting. But he did not mind, for he had nothing better to do. When he was but twelve he did create a spread made of the foul oil of vegetables which tasted similar enough to proper butter. When he was fifteen he was given an unflattering nickname. When he was sixteen he won a regional alchemy Faire, for this was His wishes for him. And yet he still could not get a date. Not a one. For he was repulsive in all ways. And his name was Womponimus, which did not help him.
He did graduate at the top of his academy's class, and he was given the opportunity to study further at a school filled with great alchemist like himself. And he did study hard, for there was little else to do. It was not school in which charming women were to be seen near. It was, by all accounts, a Suasage-fest. There he learned all of the important things that would be used by His Noodly Goodness, the Great One of the Sky and the Sea and Earth and the Etc., for whatever He wanted to use Wamponimus for. Upon graduation, Womponimus did return to his parent's homestead. And his father worked two occupations to reduce the debt of alchemy school for him so that one day he might leave. This led to the early death of his father, for that was His will. For He is cruel and kind, and His Noodly Touch is both a healing salve and a poisoned dagger. He may care not for the suffering of the people, unless those people also rob ships which sail upon the high seas. Womponimus did not plunder loot, so He appeared indifferent. But perhaps He was not. The ways of the Flying Spaghetti Monster are as unknowable as mathematics. Perhaps he was both at the same time. It is really hard to say.
And He did not appear to Womponimus, for He chose not to. Womponimus also lost his mother, whose womanly weakness did not allow her to endure. Now there was no one to cook for him. And he was in no shape to take care of his own basic needs. So a-searching for a bride he did go. He failed. But he did not give up, for he was getting sick of eating salads every day. For in all of his years of alchemy, he did not learn how to prepare one dish of edible food. So he made salads out of random fruits and vegetables, and some were very delicious. But that was no way to live.
Chapter 3: Aether Dogs
Geinhardt continued to live in the cellar of his parents' shack after their passing. it did not occur to him to move upstairs. His hunger grew until one day he did venture out into the sunlight to scream unto the heavens.
"Oh You!", Geinhardt did cry out in a whiny and nasally voice. "Please, won't you give me someone to cook for me and clean my garments and my cellar? It is truly starting to stench down there!"
But He did not respond to Womponimus, for He was busy. Or perhaps He was just acting busy in order to avoid Womponimus.
So Womponimus did trade his collection of sheepskin stories for a dog and some lumber. Womponimus did plan to use the lumber as the start of a fire to cook the dog, but the dog was small and loud. And he did find himself loving the dog, for she did tolerate him, and he named her Atilla. And he did laugh at his own cleverness, for Atilla was very much non-threatening. This made Atilla very different from her namesake, which was comical to him. So he came up with an alternative plan, one much better in his own mind.
He did use the lumber to build a great catapult. And he did use his schooling to fashion an engine of steam to give the seige weapon more power. And he did fashion crude explosive powder to make the catapult even better. For he knew that He loved fire and explosions. Or he did believe so, at least.
It took many weeks, but he did finish his machine. And into the machine he did place Atilla. "Fine," he did cry out, "I will trade you this dog, my most prized possession, for some beef or even pork!" And he did take the ensuing silence as a sign of understanding and acceptance. And so he resolved to pull the levers and to send the tiny dog into the Aether, where it could keep Him company so that He would give Womponimus at least some pork. And he did pull the levers. But although the steam engine did steam and the powder did ignite and the catapult did swing, the dog did not rise forth. Nay, she did not. Instead, Geinhardt's great invention, his one true achievement in life, did explode outward, and did take the life of both dog and man. For this was as He wished, and His Noodly Appendage had touched the machine, unbeknownst to Womponimus. For He does love explosions. He loves them dearly, more than humans or dogs. More than bluebirds even, or pine trees. More than snow.
And blessed is the person whom understands this, for this is something worth understanding. He will not feed us, for although He is both all-powerful and all-delicious, He does not care. And should we ever present unto Him an opportunity to explode us, He will take it. For He loves the fire and the light and the concussive blast far more than He loves us. As well He should, for all of those things are great. RAmen.