Who Ordered the 8 Foot Tall Cereal Demon?

The 8 foot Frankenberry demon saw Tom Arnold and snarled. 

“Arnold! You think you and St Michael are any match for me?”

Tom Arnold shook his head with a smile.  “Oh, Frank,” he lamented.  “You stupid, arrogant,  pink sonofabitch.”

The Frankenberry demon moved toward the table and roared.  Tom Arnold calmly scooped a handful of oatmeal from another table, walked up, and smacked the cereal monster on the ass with it. 

“Oh, CURSE YOU TOM ARNOLD! And curse you all!! My strawberry-flavored evil will not lie dormant forever!”

The garish, scary, vaguely gay entity floated into a green cloud and was absorbed back into Lindsay’s bowl.  The lights un-dimmed, and their fellow Denny’s patrons started to come out of their stupor.

Kelly Vision spoke, “Madame Teal?”

Madame Teal stood up, fired up her eyes, and modified the memories of the bewildered, somewhat frightened masses. 

Everybody went back to eating, except for Lindsay, whose bowl of cereal was in charcoaly ruins. 

Tom Arnold consoled Lindsay. “Yeah, anything with fiber is like pure antimatter to Frankenberry.  If you learned anything from rehab, it’s that you shouldn’t mix.”

Kelly Vision shook her head.  “You mean, we needed Holy Water and sacred fart-fire to smite Cheneymonster and his minions, and you just smack Frankenberry demon on the ass with some oatmeal and he’s done?”

Tom Arnold looked at Kelly quizically.  “Well, duh! Frankenberry is a kids cereal cartoon character gone bad.   The other is the very embodiment of all that’s creepy and offensive to Heaven.  You don’t have to resort to Michaelean fart-fire for every little cereal monster.  Would you call Max von Sydow to take out Boo Berry?”

He took a long swallow of coffee. All at once, the lights re-dimmed, fog swirled on the gravy-stained carpet, and the sounds of “Also Sprach Zarathustra” came through the Denny’s Muzak speakers.

Tom Arnold did a spit take with his coffee. “Oh, SHIT! Who summoned The Immortals??”

Everyone looked around, before their eyes finally settled on The Stranger, who was trying to be inconspicuous as he chewed up a Pez.

There was a flash of light and blue smoke, and there they were, The Immortals: Elvis Presley, Babe Ruth, Bob “The Hippie Painter Guy” Ross, and Keith Richards.

Babe Ruth spoke: “Hello, kid.  Where’s the fire? Please tell me you had a good reason to drag me away from the Afterworld! I had a hot dame, a bottle of good hooch, and a black Cuban cigar the size of a baby’s leg.  What gives?”

The Stranger made a face of contrition.

“I regret that I ruined your fun after death.

I chewed up the Pez to fight onion breath.”

Elvis spoke up: “Well, while we’re here, may as well eat.”  He looked toward the formerly persnickety, currently memory-modified and very confused waitress.  “Darlin’? Bring me a country-fried steak, with four eggs scrambled with cheese and Demerol, hash browns, biscuits, and three big bowls of country gravy.”  He paused.  “Oh, and that bacon the Gucci handbag is eating looks good, so wrangle me up a couple sides of bacon too, and a Pepsi.”

The glassy-eyed waitress wrote down The King’s order. “Anyone else?”

Bob “The Hippie Painter Guy” Ross ordered a bowl of granola with almond milk, and a green tea with honey.  Babe Ruth ordered a whole ham, a jar of mayonaise, a red velvet cake, and coffee.  The waitress turned to Keith Richards.  “Sir?”

“Kl;ajsf woeij eakljjasddwbb,mbg heh-heh-heh. Msmane abdbab.  *cough-cough-cough* black.”

Babe Ruth spoke up. “English kid can’t talk right.  He just wants a Hershey bar with almonds, a quart of ginger ale, and a fifth of Rebel Yell.”

“And black coffee?”

“No, lady.  Just what I told you.”

“I heard him say `black?'”

“Yeah, apparently that’s wasted British guy for `with Almonds.'”

The waitress withdrew with her notepad.

Babe Ruth lit a giant black Cuban cigar, and exhaled a giant plume into the rarified Denny’s air. 

“So, you kids got rid of Cheneymonster?”

Ginger Sister looked at The Babe.  “Yes.  May I ask a question?”

“Go right ahead toots.”

“Okay, I get that you’re Babe Ruth, and I get that the guy dumping butter pats and sugar packets into his Pepsi is Elvis.  But Keith Richards is still alive, so why is he here?”

“Ah, hell, honey.  That weird English kid has died at least 400 times since I croaked back in ’48,” the Babe said. “He’s died so many times, he just slips back and forth.  He must not be playin’ tonight, since he’s here.”

“Um.  Okay.  And the Hippie Painter Guy?”

Bob Ross looked up, sipped his green tea, and smiled.

“I don’t know, baby,” Elvis started.  “When you get to the Afterworld, they give you a coolness aptitude test.  The little hippie scored off the charts. When The Lord gets stressed, He watches `The Joy of Painting’ reruns on PBS.”

“I’m just delighted to be here,” Bob Ross added.  “The trees outside are so lovely, and this tea is just perfect.”

Babe Ruth smacked Bob Ross on the back.  “The kid can paint.  The Boss gave him free rein over sunsets, and I gotta admit, he’s great.”

“Such colors! Cadmium red, and burnt umber, and lavender, and…”

“He goes on about the colors though.”

An anemic-looking, hemp-swaddled, Birkenstock-shod man arose from his seat and came over to the table.  “Do you MIND? This is a NO-SMOKING establishment, you fat cretin.”

“Oh, man,” Elvis said, “You shouldn’t have said that.”  Babe Ruth picked up his 52oz hickory bat and swatted the whiner into non-being.

“Heh-heh-heh! Medadpfm abda bewien vodadn nlwp Hahahaha,” observed Keith Richards.

“You said it, kid,” replied The Bambino, picking up his ham.


5 Responses to “Who Ordered the 8 Foot Tall Cereal Demon?”

  1. I am perhaps overly delighted about the appearance of Bob Ross. God has a good eye.

    • I, too, was shocked and pleasantly surprised to see him among The Immortals. Well deserved. Happy Thanksgiving, LT. 🙂

  2. Country fried bacon with a bowl of dipping country white pepper gravy! Oh yeah!!!

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