To the Artist's Page     To our home page

To James Cho's previous piece

The Funeral of David Yummy
or
How I Learned to Love Hamburgers

The whole scene was horrible. Horrible I tell you. I've just returned, and all I can say is, it's horrible. Madness magnified 1000% could not match the decrepit evil that I have witnessed. I need a drink. Please be patient while I down a shot of Bourbon. Ahh, the sweet burn of Jim Beam always does the trick (in fact a Coke just isn't a Coke without the tangy zip of bourbon).

Now, where was I? Ah yes, I was going to recount the horrible madness I witnessed today. Well, my name is James Simpleton. I work for LINNYL which stands for Liberal Ideas Now Not Years Later. We perform basic fundraising and grassroots organizing in the name of American liberalism. Today, Saturday, my boss sent me to the funeral of this millionaire, David Yummy. I really wasn't paying attention to the directions because I didn't like the idea of working on Saturday. Something about how he was a big donator, and that I am to report on his funeral for our monthly newsletter.

Well, I woke up early Saturday and headed to the funeral at the National Cathedral. Having lived in DC for only five years, it was my first visit. After walking through the main entrance, I found myself in a small room bearing no real distinction. I suppose during the week, this room houses the various information stands for Cathedral tours. Connecting to the insignificant room is the main room. Huge stone pillars the size of redwoods, well, not the mammoth redwoods you see in pictures but the medium-sized ones, divided the main room into three sections: left, right and center. The pillars, with rings carved into them at five foot increments, stretched to the ceiling; and that tan stone ceiling arched in an artful design that resembled a sparkling spider web sprawled across the ceiling. I was mesmerized. Encircling the room were stain-glass windows so beautiful it appeared God had beamed a rainbow into the window and painted the glasses himself. At the end of the room maybe one-hundred fifty feet back laid an open casket and a wood podium. Behind that stood a gigantic wall of flowers at least twenty feet high. I could tell from the spidery ceiling stretching past the flowered wall that there was more to the Cathedral. What was behind that wall is still a mystery to me. I must admit, the whole scene was breathtaking, inspiring even, but it was a little too religious for my tastes.

So there I was at that funeral, and let me tell you, this place was packed. At least four hundred people packed the center section. And not with regular old people, either. High class to the max here. Wow. I'm talking glittery jewelry, sleek suede outfits, hats with feathers, and this is just on the pets! I couldn't even begin to describe what the people wore. Funny, though, no matter how expensive the clothes, it still couldn't hide the rolls of blubber on these rich beasts. I'm talking arms on women as thick as telephone poles and guys with huge, bulging bellies like they were carrying a seven month old child.

Noticing my purple sweat pants and Jimmy Buffet concert T-shirt clashed with the pets at this funeral, I choose a seat hidden in the corner of the back row next to a curious gent. He wore parachute pants and a pinstripe shirt with suspenders, and dangling from the suspenders were dozens of buttons with strange sayings like "Honk If You Love Hamburgers," and "America Works Best When We Say Meat Eaters Yes!" and "Make Ribs, Not War." His skin was pale like he'd lived in a bunker for a year without sunlight. His oily black hair was brushed to one side, and he wore the silliest, rectangle mustache underneath his nose.

"Is this seat taken?" I asked.

The strange man responded, "No, it is not taken. Please do not let your fears overwhelm your urge to occupy this vacant seat." His cordial nature would have eased my apprehensions if it weren't for his beady black pupils which sat like bullets in his blood shot eyes.

"Thank you. My name is James Simpleton."

"Greetings, my name is Solomon Yummy."

"Yummy, eh? Are you related to the deceased?"

"Yes, I am David's bastard son. My original name is Solomon Temple. I took the Yummy name out of spite."

"Spite?"

"Yes, spite. Spite for my philandering father. You know, spite is a wonderful thing. You never run out of it. If you ever need a raison d'ętre, find spite in your life. It's much better than Jesus. No annoying rules to live by."

"I'm sorry. Why are you spiteful again?"

"You know of my biological father?"

"I am actually here to cover his funeral. I work for LINNYL, Liberal Ideas Now-"

"Yes, yes, I am well aware of your conservative organization."

"No, no, you didn't hear me. It stands for Liberal-"

"Conservative!" he screamed, and his eyes flared, his lips trembled, and his finger shot like an arrow through the air and landed centimeters from my nose.

"Okay," and I yielded to his fury. "Anyway, my boss sent me here to report on your father's funeral."

He eased back into his seat. "My father was a very powerful man. Too powerful, and you know what people say about power."

"That is corrupts?"

"No. What kind of an idiot would say that?"

"Well, I don't know. I guess I've heard it used now and then."

"Fool. Power is abrupt. Not corrupt, abrupt. Look at my father, my loving, harmless father, lying in the gentle solitude that death brings. You know, you should really be more sensitive."

"I'm sorry."

"On behalf of the Yummy family, I accept your apology. Now, we were discussing the origin of my spite. It stems from my intense hatred of my father. He is a loathsome brute. A maniacal warlord. I despised his existence and hate his memory."

"Excuse me?"

"You see, my father built his empire on snack cakes. You've eaten them, I'm sure. They come in ninety-two different varieties: yellow sponge filled with cream, chocolate cupcake filled with cream, cream filled oatmeal, fudge brownies-"

"You needn't name all ninety-two. I'm aware of them."

"Anyway, he loved his snack cakes. He loved them more than anything else in this world. More than his wife, more than his children, more than my mother who was his dominatrix. He intended to marry my mother, but then the snack cakes got in the way."

"When you say 'got in the way,' you mean of course that he devoted his time towards his work instead of his S&M fantasies which upset your mother, don't you?"

"No, I mean he loved his snack cakes so much that they overtook my mother's place in his sexual fantasies."

"You mean …"

"Yes. He had intercourse with his snack cakes."

"How can that be possible?"

"He baked extra large cakes."

"That's disgusting."

"Disgusting, eh? The yellow sponge cake was his favorite. It's known as The Winkie. Many times he would tell my mother how pleasing the cream filling felt. At first he'd incorporate the Winkies into his S&M sessions with my mother. It wasn't long before my mother's whips and chains became a distraction to what he truly desired. Yes, it was the Winkie and only the Winkie, and after filling the yellow sponge cake with his own special filling, he ate it. Now what do you think of that?"

"I think your father is a nut bag. No offense."

"None taken. He is a nut bag. But not for eating his own jissom. Jissom is actually good for you."

"What?"

"That's right Jim!" and he pulled from his pocket a plastic bottle with the words "Yummy Jissom" written in bold, black letters across the front of it. Proudly displaying his bottle in both hands like he was in a TV commercial, he continued his speech with a beaming smile. "What we're talking about is jissom, nature's own body conditioner. You can use it for any part of your body: your hair, your face, your hands, your legs. It's fantastic. And you know what else it's good for?"

"No, Solomon, what else is it good for?"

"Sunburn, Jim. Sunburn. The natural proteins and minerals in jissom is great for healing and rebuilding burnt skin. And Yummy Jissom is 100% all natural human jissom. We don't use any of that cheap, imitation bull jissom that's going around these days. It's great!" and he opened the cap and squirted a glob of jissom in his hands and rubbed it all over his face. "Personally, I love to use it right after shaving. It cools as it conditions my facial skin. Now I know what you're thinking, Jim. You're thinking, 'Solomon, I'm a white supremacist, and there is absolutely no way I'm spreading a nigger or a kike or a chink or any other inferior race's jissom on my body.' Well, not to worry Jim because you can order ethnic specific jissom at no extra charge. That's right, Jim. You can order 'Aryans Only Jissom' at no extra charge. And if you don't care or are an avid integrationist, you can order our own multiracial jissom, made from the semen of men all across the world. Buy it as an intimate gift to yourself or your wife, or as a pick-me-up for a friend, neighbor, son or daughter; and the best thing about it is you can buy it for only $19.95. That's right, Jim, $19.95!"

"Your daughter? Have you no soul?"

"Hey, I'm only trying to make a buck. It's the American way for Christ's sake! Besides, it's not like dear old dad gave me any money. I sell Yummy Jissom on the side to make a few extra bucks. My real job is as general manager of Hitler's House of Beef."

"What?"

He leaned towards me as if to tell me a secret. "You mean to tell me you haven't heard of the world famous restaurant, Hitler's House of Beef?"

"Hitler as in Adolph Hitler? No!"

He leaned back in disgust. "Jim, let me tell you something. Hitler's House of Beef serves the finest aged, prime cut beef in America at prices you and I can afford; and unlike other steak houses, we specialize in fun dining, not fine dining. You see Jim, eating out shouldn't only be about sitting down, ordering drinks and food, eating you meal, paying your bill, and then leaving."

"What else is there?"

"Jim, what we do is put the X back into eating X-perience. When you come to Hitler's House of Beef, the first thing you do when you meet our friendly host is remove all jewelry from your body. You and your family's jewelry goes into a specially marked box for safe keeping. And don't worry, you'll get your jewelry back on your way out. Next, you're forced to wait in our 'Family Means Fun Ghetto Room' where Warsaw the Clown entertains the women and children at one end of the room while dear old dad manufactures tools for our kitchen at the other end. You see, it's like arts and craft day at camp and most importantly, it's fun for the whole family!

"Well, after your mandatory stay in the 'Family Means Fun Ghetto Room,' our host will seat you in one of our many dining halls. My personal favorite is the 'Boxcar Room' where fun and excitement awaits that lucky family as our exclusive mood lighting and specially adjusted air circulation vents along with the soothing sounds of railroad travel ease your family into a fantastically fun dining experience they'll never forget."

"You are a sick man. I can't believe you're telling me this."

"But Jim, everyone knows you can't have a super-fun dining experience without super-fun service. That's why we dress our blond hair, blue eyed servers in super-fun uniforms identical to the one I'm wearing. Red and black pinstripes, suspenders, and super-neat buttons. Not only dressed for flair, our super-knowledgeable, super-fun servers will guide you through our exceptional menu featuring 'Himmler's Heavenly Hamburgers.' They are our world famous, half pound burger grilled to perfection and topped with fixings just the way the old leader of the SS would have liked them: well done with lettuce. And here's the fun part! You don't have to choose how you want your burger. We do all the thinking for you. They're prepared the same way every time with Heinrich's own love and maniacal perfection. Or if you want to get a little bit messy, sink your teeth into 'Rommell's Award Winning Beef Ribs.' You heard it straight the source, Jim. We serve only 100% all beef ribs out of respect for our Jewish and Muslim clientele. And these succulent ribs are smoked for over six hours so that the meat virtually falls off the bone. Finally, we smother our ribs with our super special, super secret barbecue sauce.

And you know what, Jim? Legend has it that Rommell first created his barbecue sauce during the North African campaign. Yup, when supplies were running low and with Patton on his tail, he whipped up this barbecue sauce for his troops to boost morale. And you know what he used for the base of his sauce? You guessed right, Jim. He used axel grease. Not to worry. We don't use axel grease in our sauce; but we do use the same herbs and spices. Can't you just taste the flavor, Jim? Mmm, mmm, good."

"I'm speechless."

"So are our patrons who decide to sink their teeth into our 'S'uper 'S'teak menu. You see, Jim, when it comes down to it, we slaughter the finest breed of bulls, cows, and steers on the planet. And I'm not being prejudiced either. At our exclusive 'beef farm,' we raise and reproduce only the most genetically superior cows, bulls, and steers on the planet. Any animal that's weak, small, or just plain doesn't look tasty enough is immediately executed by our specially trained 'beef farmers.' And don't worry about the weak ones suffering. They die quietly and painlessly in our unique gassing chambers. Heck, Jim, the cows don't even know they're going to be put to sleep. Thanks to computer animation, the gassing chamber looks like a quiet, peaceful, grazing field. And then the next thing they know, they are resting in an eternal slumber and shipped to your nearest Supermarket. Meanwhile, the superior cattle live on and reproduce until its time for them to donate their tender, flavorful meat to our restaurant. And if you want my opinion on which cut to order, I would suggest the Berlin Strip. It's out of this world."

"I hate you."

"Well, we certainly don't hate vegetarians here at the House of Beef. To the contrary, any vegetarian is specially escorted into our shower room where we 'shower' them with an all-you-can-eat buffet of over 100 vegetarian dishes. I tell you what, you're one of the lucky ones if we take you to the shower room."

"How the hell can you justify turning the most horrific and murderous period in the 20^th Century into a theme restaurant. You're a madman!"

"Jim, insightful entrepreneurs do it all the time. Every day, a new company cashes in on reinterpreting history and social studies in general by adding a few dashes of fun into the recipe. Take for example the Old West of American folklore. Why, have your ever played Cowboys and Indians with an authentic bow and arrow set or a pistol and cowboy hat? Did you Jim? Or did you ever visit a simulated Old West town with saloons and a stage-coach ride? Did you ever think about the men, women, and children who died on both sides-red and white-in the war of westward expansion that largely goes unnoticed as a real war at all in high school history textbooks? When you were eating Buffalo Burgers in Wall Drug, South Dakota, did you ever think about the thousands of Native Americans who died trying to defend a way of life granted to them in countless broken treaties; who died as prisoners of war on reservations when their captives knowingly gave them blankets infected with small pox; who had their culture deconstructed and poisoned through endless bottles of whiskey sold to them by their captors until all that's left of their culture is a silly mascot dressed in authentic Indian clothes, leading thousands of faithful fans in a Tomahawk Chop cheer for the Braves, Redskins, or Indians. Did you ever think of that, Jim? Or course you didn't. Who would when the Old West is marketed so darn well by the victors in a fun-for-the-whole-family package! We're no different. We're only first."

"You can't compare the Holocaust to that."

"Oh really? Maybe that's because our restaurant hasn't yet become ingrained into the norms of American commercial society. But that's fine. It'll happen. Heck, Jim, maybe you'd feel more comfortable eating at a 1950's theme diner. Would you like that, Mr. Simpleton? Would you like to revisit a time when America was young and innocent, and white males enjoyed first-class status while blacks were left to struggle as second class citizens in segregated cities and towns without laws or law enforcement authorities to protect them against random acts of violence like lynching from the Ku Klux Klan? A time when women were forced from a fleeting moment of independence during WWII and thrown back into their homes where white males subjected them to an isolated and unfulfilling existence as robotic housewives? Or maybe a Medieval restaurant would be more to your liking. Yes, a restaurant which romanticizes a time when feudal lords exercised unchecked power against millions of starving peasants who were legally tied to the land."

"You're blowing everything way out of proportion."

"Am I? Well maybe I'm simply following the lead of the multibillion dollar tourist industry which markets their romanticized images of history or culture to the consumer who's more than willing to buy a liberty bell or a confederate flag or an Indian headdress or an Amish quilt. If you wish to get all moral on me, Mr. Simpleton, then I must remind you that nearly every culture unless they are 100% homogenous has persecuted a minority group. Certainly the Jews have been on the proverbial short end of the stick for thousands of years and my heart truly does go out to them. In fact I am a staunch supporter of Israel. Nevertheless, every majority oppresses the minority, Mr. Simpleton. If they didn't, then they would cease to be the majority. The Nazis, those magnificently efficient German bastards, just did it better than anyone else. And you being an American, well, you've certainly done your fair share of persecuting, now haven't you?

"But I hold no bitter resentments because I've learned that the bottom line in America is the dollar. If they buy it, then they justify it. Ah, America. Where culture equals a pair of blue jeans, a Big Mac, and a can of Coke. I simply adore America! And in the end, Mr. Simpleton, we at the House of Beef understand the monstrosities of the Third Reich. Even though they raised Germany to its greatest political and territorial heights, they committed some heinous acts. That's why Jews, Gypsies, communists, homosexuals, and the physically and mentally handicapped receive a 10% discount with every check, no matter how many are in the party. You heard it here first, Jim. If you bring in ten, that equals a 100% discount. You bring in ten Jews; or ten communists; or five Jews and five homosexuals; or two Jews, five gypsies, and three retards and you get a 100% discount. Now that's what I call reparations!"

I couldn't believe what this horrible man spewed from his repulsive mouth. Of course he was wrong for the plain and simple fact that turning the Nazi regime into a theme restaurant was morally wrong. Plain and simple. I turned away from the bastard and repelled his pleas for conversation until at last, the funeral began.

A sweaty, middle-aged man in an uninspiring black suit stood before a sparkling oak podium at the front of the room. His monotone voice nearly put me asleep. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Edgar King-James. I am the executor of Mr. Yummy's estate, and I will be conducting the funeral services for the deceased. This man, this great man, needs no introduction. He was simply the king of the snack cake industry. Through his envious power and wealth, he spent his life improving the lives of others less fortunate than him. The viewing of the body will now begin. Please follow the directions of the snack cake mascots so that we can proceed in an orderly fashion."

Emerging from behind the great wall of flowers were four, and I kid you not, four men dressed in cartoon costumes of Yummy Snack Cakes. You know, the kind you see at amusement parks or sporting events. There was the Cream Filled Oatmeal Man, the Cream Filled Chocolate Cupcake Man, the Fudge Brownie Man, and the Donut Stix Man. Each snack cake mascot artfully orchestrated entire aisles to rise and march into compact lines where they could see Mr. Yummy's body. The whole process moved so efficiently that I assumed it must have been rehearsed. And the look of corporate determination on the faces of our traffic cops! No funny business whatsoever.

My aisle in the back of the room was the last to go. When the Fudge Brownie Man arrived, we rose in unison and formed an obedient line. Onwards we marched to the right of the pillars and down the aisle separating us and the empty section to our right. Being on the end of our aisle, I led the way. Turning the final corner of the front aisle, the body came into view. I stopped dead in my tracks. I rubbed my eyes thinking the image lying in the coffin was a mirage. It wasn't. I inched closer. The Cream Filled Chocolate Cupcake Man stood beside the casket and waved frantically at me to step forward. I couldn't. The image in the coffin paralyzed me. I felt a nudge in my back. It was Solomon.

"Let's go. You don't want to piss off the Cream Filled Chocolate Cupcake Man. He can get real nasty."

I mustered all of my courage and took another step forward, then another, and another until I stood over-top the coffin. My eyes peered down to examine what really lay before me. It was a giant, six foot long Winkie! Still in its plastic wrapper, that yellow sponge cake appeared moist and delicious; at the ends of the Winkie, traces of cream hinted at the sweet pleasures awaiting deep inside. Written in rich red letters on the front of the plastic wrapper was the company logo, "Yummy's Winkie." Was this a joke? Was the multibillionaire snack cake tycoon still alive?

I felt a warm glove squeeze my left shoulder. I turned my head to see. It was Chocolate Cupcake Man glaring at me. His gripped tightened. Without hesitation or word, I returned to my seat.

When everyone else returned to their seat, the lights dimmed to a forest darkness. A mechanical buzzing sound cut through the darkness and elevated my anxieties. Whoosh! A lightning flood of lights exploded from a giant, thirty foot projection screen. I realized the buzzing sound was the screen being lowered from high atop the Cathedral's ceiling. My eyes adjusted, and a bald, wrinkled man wearing a starch white apron and nothing else stood behind a kitchen counter on the screen. Soft bulges of fat hung from his cheeks, chin, arms, and breasts. That's correct. His apron could not quite cover his man boobs.

"Hello, my friends." He spoke in a gentle, grandfatherly tone. "I regret to inform you that I am dead." He smiled as if fully confident he existed in a blissful afterlife. "I'm pleased you all could join me in the breathtaking surroundings of the Washington National Cathedral. Knowing that Mr. King-James always follows directions to the most minute detail, you all have now viewed my body. Yes, this is my body, buried in the sweet, delicious cream filling of my best-selling snack cake, The Winkie. Poetic, isn't it?

Well, I suppose I am obligated to explain my unconventional burial. As my testicular cancer became terminal, I started contemplating my life and what it's meant. Sure, there were the charities and many benefits I hosted, but these altruistic acts don't necessarily define who I am. Then it hit me right as the anesthesiologist placed the gas mask on my face during the operation that removed my genitals. The world will always remember me for one thing: my snack cakes. Why not be buried in my favorite, and also the world's favorite snack cake, The Winkie. So what you see before your eyes is 500 pounds of mouth watering yellow sponge cake. Like every Winkie, the middle was hollowed out, and upon my death I was inserted into The Winkie. Then they covered my body with our rich, cream filling and vacuum sealed me in this specially designed Winkie wrapper. Finally, scientists zapped me and The Winkie with radiation to kill any pesky microorganisms eating my dead flesh. After today, you can all see my body on display at the Yummy World Museum located next to the Yummy World Amusement Park, so mom, dad, bring your kids on down to Yummy World where it's fun for the whole family. No rush, though. A Winkie has a shelf life of 2.3 million years, so we should be around for a very long time." The audience chuckled.

"Before I conclude, I'd like to extend my hand of generosity one last time to those less fortunate than me. As many of you may already know, Yummy Snack Cakes Corporation has for the last thirty years waged a war against world hunger. As part of our overall campaign, we ship millions of assorted snack cakes every year to famine infested areas of the world like Africa, North Korea, Albania, the former Soviet Union, and Southeast DC. We lose money every year on the endeavor, and never did I care. What's important is to get Winkies, Zing Zings, Yo-Yo's, and the 89 other Yummy Snack Cakes to the starving mouths that need them." The audience applauded hysterically. A fat woman sitting next me even started to cry.

"So as I fade off into death's descending sunset, Mr. King-James has organized one last charitable act for me. He has gathered starving people from Kenya, Albania, North Korea, Siberia, and Anacostia and brought them all here today to feast under God's house on a free buffet of Yummy Snack Cakes. Mascots, bring in the hungry!"

A loud clang erupted from the doors behind us and in marched the hungriest men my eyes have ever seen. Their hands and feet were chained together so that they marched in a single file line. Their loincloths, which were draped around their bony waists, dangled in the air like sails on a mast. Their stomachs swelled from intestinal infections, and their skin seemed glued to their bones. Saliva dripped from their teeth, and in their boiling eyes, I sensed madness. With each step they took, they did not breathe. Instead, they grunted. All together, this horribly pitiful lot totaled thirty starving souls.

Through the audience's nervous confusion rose Mr. Yummy's voice once again. "And to ensure these hungry creatures receive the same satisfaction my snack cakes give me every time I eat them, I instructed Mr. King-James to lock each one in a room decorated with images of our tempting snack cakes and to feed them half-eaten Kentucky Fried Chicken bones for one month. Now they'll really know what finger lickin' good means!"

A thick uneasiness rustled through the room. The mascots, with whips in hand, funneled the starving madmen to the front of the room. The piercing crack of the mascot's whips seemed to trigger an obedient fear in the starving men. From behind the wall of flowers came the Fudge Brownie Man and the Donut Stix Man. Together, they wheeled out the buffet table still covered by a sheet and parked it in front of Mr. Yummy's body. The rich aroma of freshly baked Yummy Snack Cakes filled the room and made the starving men more restless. More cracks of the whip. From my seat in the back of the room, I could see the starving men flash the fangs in their mouth, and some of them were so driven mad from hunger that they clawed at their bodies and faces, drawing sickening streams of blood from their flesh.

"Now let them eat cake!" announced Mr. Yummy, and Chocolate Cupcake Man unchained the pack while Fudge Brownie Man unveiled the buffet of snack cakes. As it turned out, this move was a mistake.

Upon seeing the table of snack cakes, madness, the kind of madness God reserves only for battle, intoxicated the wretched pack of starving men. Clearly driven insane by their month-long captivity, they pounced on the table of snack cakes, devouring the buffet within seconds.

Then, an angry, choral growl overwhelmed the room. Their breathing sounded painful, like they needed an inhaler or something. The pack slowly filtered away from the table. There was no more food on the buffet table, yet they craved more. Seeing the gigantic, moist yellow sponge cake lying helplessly in its casket, they attacked Mr. Yummy's Winkie. They tore it and Mr. Yummy's cold, radiated body to pieces within seconds. (I guess the Yummy World Museum will now need another display.)

At this point the sugar from the snack cakes must have shot to their brains like an addict sniffing coke. Their gnawing hunger and hyperactivity dictated more food. The next logical food source of course became the mascots dressed in snack cake costumes. Oh, those giant, life-size snack cake mascots must have looked awfully tempting to the pack of scavenging hounds, so carefully and with great stealth, the pack of starving men encircled the snack cake mascots and Mr. King-James. Bravely, the four of them stood their ground protecting their boss and cracked their whips. They were no match. Now that the pack was free and loose, they no longer feared the mascots or their whips; and in the blink of an eye, the pack lunged and engulfed the four courageous mascots and Mr. King-James, and the initial struggle quickly crumbled into a large mound of growling, blood thirsty flesh, and screams of pain as I have never heard before-screams of ravenous teeth tearing into arms, face, stomach, and ass-pierced through the Cathedral that day and chilled my spine; and as members of the pack broke from the pile, I spied bones, entrails, and undigested rags of the mascots' costumes marinating in a pool of blood on the Cathedral's newly polished floor.

The next few minutes passed like a spark of electricity. The pack, with sugar still pumping wildly in their raging bodies, had tasted blood and human flesh and wanted more. The next logical feeding step became us, the audience. Why we had not escaped earlier I cannot comment on. I suppose the initial shock and awe of true, uncensored horror froze our wicked curiosity too long. In any event the people in the first few rows crept closer to the aisles with every menacing step the crazed pack took until a paranoid burst of slow moving flesh sparked chaos in the Cathedral. Immediately, the poor overweight souls in the first few rows went down without a fight. Why hadn't they resisted? I suppose they were too accustomed to having their lawyers fight for them and were unskilled in the art of self-defense. Obviously, their lawyers were not present.

Meanwhile, all of the fat men and women in the back of the room dashed to the door at once. Their disorganized panic cost them their lives for they pushed open the doors only to wedge their oversized bodies in the doorway. Their selfish greed for survival had motivated them to be the first one out. Unfortunately, no doorway can ever be wide enough for all of that blubber running through at once. A dozen or so madmen broke from the pack when they noticed the doorway jam and raced to the scene where they tore into the backs and asses of their helpless, immobile prey.

At some point during the feeding frenzy, the pack of cannibals ceased killing for hunger and killed for the simple sake of killing. I suppose it was the sport of it all. You know, seeing how many aristocrats one can take down because I saw those starving men leap through the air and take down countless prey by tearing into the their jugular veins. Once on the ground and dead, the insatiable predators would lick the blood and track down another prey in the frantic circus of screams.

Luckily for me, Solomon saved my life. He grabbed a poodle from the aisle in front of us and heaved that dog threw the stain-glass window to our immediate right. (Incidentally, that particular window was commemorated for Charles Warren, some famous public servant I've never heard of.) That poor little dog flew through the air like a cloud caught in the jet stream and smashed through the window. Then, he grabbed a gigantic, shrieking fat lady and snapped her neck with the flick of his wrists. Together, we dragged the overweight hippo to the window and used her large mass as a step-ladder to elevate us through the window and to our safety.

Once outside, I thanked Solomon. "You saved my life. I don't know how to repay you."

"Payback is unnecessary. Now run off and save yourself before they find us."

And then he was gone, running down Wisconsin Avenue with all the grace of an antelope across the wild wilderness of Africa. I too ran away. Behind me were the terrible screams of fat, rich people being eaten alive by altruism gone horribly, horribly wrong.

There. I've confessed horrors no mortal man should ever know. Do what you want with my tale. Disregard it as the unbelievable ramblings of a disillusioned idealist if you want. I don't care. Nothing matters to me anymore. Except the conspicuous rumblings of my stomach. I do believe all that cannibalism has forged a nasty craving for a hamburger. I think I'll try out the place where Solomon works. Yes, I think I'll get a burger at the House of Beef.

To the top of this page