Daddy Issues (Use Your Allusion)

Thanksgiving Gratitude

The owner of Victory Meat was an old man named Beano. Because Angeline’s biological father had squandered his parental opportunity, choosing the video game life over gainful employment and the overall well-being of his child, Beano served as a surrogate to Angeline. As he had just seen her last week, he was surprised to learn that he had a new grandchild.

“I didn’t even know you were incubating seed,” said Beano. “Were you impregnated by the whale expert?”

“The whale expert is tied up outside,” said Angeline. “We never had a romantic connection. How do you even know who he is?”

“I’ve been watching your every movement on a dark web livestream,” said Beano. “My psyche is quite disturbed.”

“Are we being broadcasted on the dark web this very moment?” asked Mr. Sniffles.

“As a somewhat fallen angel, I feel like you should already know that information,” said Beano.

Gibby began crying as a means of announcing that it was feeding time. Angeline pulled out her left breast, squirting milk in Beano’s left eye in retaliation for his creepy voyeurism before serving dinner to her brand new baby son. Gibby cooed, grateful that he wasn’t being fed convenience store powdered milk, a substance which would inevitably condemn him to a lifetime of unmitigated failure.

“Why are we here?” asked Mr. Sniffles, confused about his current placement in the time-space continuum.

“Victory Meat is the best restaurant in Pottersville,” Angeline pontificated. “Their nuggets are to die for.”

“The nuggets are made out of soylent green,” said Beano, enunciating the sentence in a manner meant to convey jest in order to conceal the fact that he was telling the truth. Mr. Sniffles wasn’t fooled.

“Why do you hang out with this weirdo?” asked Mr. Sniffles. “His energetic signature is attuned to the cruelty of hell.”

“I sold my soul in exchange for success in the restaurant industry,” Beano admitted.

“My father never calls me because he’s too busy playing online video games, so Beano taught me how to fall a tree and change a tire,” said Angeline.

“He seems possessed,” said Mr. Sniffles.

“What makes you think I’m possessed?” asked Beano. “Maybe I’m an actual demon.”

“You look familiar,” said Mr. Sniffles. “Are we acquainted?”

“Many moons ago, we took part in a conspiracy to overthrow YHWH,” said Beano. “And if you want to get technical about it, I think we’re second cousins.”

“We’re definitely not second cousins,” said Mr. Sniffles. “However, I vaguely remember gathering troops to overthrow the King of Kings. Whatever became of that?”

“Obviously, I’ve turned into a bit of a weasel. I’m not fit for self-governance.”¹

“There must be some nuance between being a slave of the Eternal Creator and devolution into utter psychopathy,” Mr. Sniffles lamented.

“I’m the reason anarchy will never work,” said Beano. “When given free will, I use my freedom to engage in voyeurism and cannibalism.”

“I think I’m going to obtain your restaurant via eminent domain and direct the parade route right up your ass,” said Mr. Sniffles.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” said Beano.

Annoyed by Beano’s personality, Mr. Sniffles retrieved a cellular device from his fanny pack, a monstrosity the size of a brick, and called up his team of legal heavy hitters to get the ball rolling on seizing his property. The unicorn/turkey hybrid was a staunch proponent of knowing one’s place upon the cosmic pyramid of doom, and he was of the mindset that Beano needed to learn some humility. Meanwhile, the baby was crying because he didn’t like Beano’s ghoulish fragrance.

“I can see the vapor of disease wafting from your pores!” cried Angeline. “Why don’t you invest in a bar of soap?”

“The stench of iniquity can’t be defeated by a mere bar of soap,” said Beano. “My subatomic core has succumbed to the rot.”

“Somebody needs to hose you off,” said Mr. Sniffles.

“Are you a moran?” asked Beano. “I just finished explaining the extent to which the putrid hand of death has ravaged the entirety of my being—a bar of soap would grant the general public only the most temporary of reprieves from the crime against humanity which is my bodily stench.”

A man with greasy hair dressed in a wrinkled suit walked into Victory Meat and handed Beano a piece of paper.

“What the hell is this?” asked Beano.

“You have two hours to vacate the premises,” explained the man in the wrinkled suit. “Your property must make way for this year’s Christmas parade.”

“Hooray!” said Angeline. “I’m glad the heart of my baby’s father has softened toward my beloved parade.”

“Actually, it hasn’t,” said Mr. Sniffles, staring at Beano with sustained eye contact. “I merely want to exert my dominance over this plebe.”

“Surely a piece of paper has no say over the standing of my restaurant,” Beano scoffed.

“Actually, it’s legally binding,” said the man in the wrinkled suit. “The property has already been rigged for demolition, so unless you want to dissolve into a puddle of molten lava, I suggest you step outside.”

The man in the wrinkled suit exited Victory Meat with the earnestness of a reputable newspaper falsely claiming that Iraq is harboring weapons of mass destruction. Mr. Sniffles escorted Angeline and Gibby outside to avoid being crushed to death by the rubble. For the briefest of moments, Beano considered sinking with the ship, but quickly decided he was not yet prepared to meet the grim reaper.

NEXT WEEK: MR. SNIFFLES AND ANGELINE CONTINUE THEIR SIGHTSEEING TOUR AROUND POTTERSVILLE.

1. Beano always leaves his shopping cart in the parking lot.