 Hey guys, it's Dr. Fittore, and today we're looking at SCP-41-D3N73-J. There isn't any objectionable material in this document, except that it sucks. So let's get started. Item Number SCP-41-D3N73-J Object Class Worst Special Containment Procedures I don't know, seriously, just whatever. They're in a room, they're not hurting anyone. I guess if one of them gets sassy, just boil it in water and be done with it. For real. I had them install a stove and a sink in the room just for that, cause there's no oversight in this department. Also, you're not supposed to eat them, but if you want to live life on the edge I'm not going to stop you. Description SCP-41-D3N73-J is a shelf of sapient boxes of pasta. All unfortunately capable of speech. There's linguine, capolini, mosticcioli, penny, probably spaghetti and angel hair too, I don't know. I got bored of listening to them and gave up checking each box. They all speak English in a frankly offensive and exaggerated Italian accent. It's pretty insulting, especially when you consider my parents were Italian immigrants. Yeah, thanks for assigning this one to me knowing that my mom died four months ago. Really cool. SCP-41-D3N73-J instances are not capable of movement and mostly spend their time arguing with each other in their loomy tunes-esque vernacular, which usually lacks any semblance of sense, continuity, or just general logic. I did some science and the result is that SCP-41-D3N73 is the dumbest goddamn thing we've ever contained. See the interview below. Tried to make the languages accurate as possible so the insensitivity really shines through. Interviewer, me, Dr. Fittore, interviewed a single box of reggaetoni. Hello, I'm Dr. Fittore, may I ask you a few questions? Oh my goodness, of course you may! Oh Jesus, yeah okay, what is your earliest memory? Let me think about that one, I think it was when my mom made me a big ol' spicy meatball. Oh, but maybe it wasn't when I'm a papa first that brought me to church. I was a very younger boy and I had just turned three years old and had to eat in my first cannoli. Okay, okay, so I'm just gonna rephrase the question a bit. Sounds good. Stop, just stop, stop it, I'ma not do anything. Why do you choose to be this way? What do you mean? Do you have free will? I, I, I don't, I don't really know, your accent is dropping. I don't, I don't, don't know what are you talking about? Did you care at all when I boiled your neighbor? Do you miss Rottini at all? My mom used to make a Rottini sometimes. No, no, the box of Rottini that was next to you, the one you used to have conversations with about Venice constantly, the one who wouldn't answer any of my questions and kept blathering about Mussolini so I emptied his contents into a pot of boiling water and now he doesn't seem to talk a soguda anymore. Uh, I'ma having an existential crisis. Sometimes I have a hard time with the notion that I'm ostensibly being paid $78 an hour to have conversations with things like you. I know what what do you mean, it's alike when I debaste no come out al dente. Oh god damn it, that's why, that's why they designated you 4-1-D. I can't believe they stupid sons of a, they did this to me, I can't, they put me in this place, they know I hate. Automatic Sensor, cause, angry, joke, hashy style mumbling. Unbelievable, some idiot probably thought that was hilarious, this place is run by a bunch of, a bunch of and lab coats with the ties too tight. Automatic Sensor, cause, even peshier mumbling. Mamma mia! Sounds detected, box of pasta hitting concrete wall. Automatic Sensor, cause, the peshiest of mumbling can be faintly heard. I'm gonna resign, I'm gonna go shove this pencil so far up, that it's gonna come out, they're gonna sit there writing bills with that, that's what's gonna happen to em. Addendum 1, so em, I know I shouldn't be writing anything here or touching anything, but one of those boxes of pasta fell on the floor and was screaming in broken Italian, and Dr. Fittori wasn't in his office, just a crude dummy he put together to make it look like he was asleep at his laptop. So I put the pasta box back on the shelf and it's just whimpering now about the trains running on time. Please don't fire me, signed Artie from Southeast Custodial Professionals. Thank you for listening. Site 42 studios and its staff are funded by viewers like you. Please become a patron or visit our merch store at the link in our bio to support our work. Secure, contain, protect.