Tonight, I bake-a da cookies. You like-a da cookies? I include a picture of some of the ingredients I used:
You will notice the slimy tentacles of my master creeping over and around the flour and sugar. I can not prevent the invasion of His Great and Grotesquely Alien Dimension from seeping into my kitchen. My mixing bowl summons forth the Shoggoth and Mi-Go like moths to the bright candle flame of my Master's terrible glory. MY soul is lost and yours soon will be.
Here you can see the shapeless mass, approaching horrific sentience:
I can barely contain it with three spoons. Thankfully, I have been granted a third tentacular appendage with which to stir my Master's newest assault on sanity. This caustic mixture consumed and annihilated my assistant's mixer. The motor could not long operate within a greater universe that includes a hexadecimal dimension of time and space and imploded, singeing my assistant greatly. It would not be the last wound suffered in the service of my Master.
I am not sure what this is, but it has no place in this contest:
Or does it?
Blue Girl, what is best in baking? I'll tell you: To roll your dough, see it spread before you, and hear the lamentations of the icing.
Some claim to be able to see Jesus in a corn chip or a tortilla, I see secret messages in the icing on my cookies:
What does it mean? The world may never know. My unknown and unknowable Master commanded that I prepare suitable vessels for His terrible confections:
Helob gives her/his/bird/spider's usual opinion: Needs More Crickets.
I predict the esteemed Judges of the Hallowed Holiday Bake-Off will react thusly: