I read a letter in Penthouse Magazine that started like this cake: “I was walking past a government-run beet farm when this lithe, sexy woman in a spacesuit started crawling through the field towards me.” I sleep with that column folded under my pillow. The missus keeps trying to destroy it, but I have many, many copies.
It’s a cake. With a crashed spaceship, a spacewoman, and a field of beets.
