An hour ago, Mom, Dad, Junior, and Junior Jr. had pulled into the lot of God’s Non-Sacrilegious House of Chocolate (motto: “Where a kid can be a chocolate!) to get some dessert. Dad ordered the “Lethal Fudge Injection” and Mom asked for “one Chocolate Holocaust, please”. Junior got the “Pie” and Junior Jr. was told repeatedly by his elders that he was not allowed to have dessert here as he was too young, and GN-SHoC had a reputation for turning customers into diabetics overnight. I mean, they were still customers, so it was a pretty lousy magic trick, but they were then also diabetics.
Junior Jr. watched his father happily insert an unclean needle filled with some brown colloid into his vein. Then, Junior Jr. saw Dad actually begin eating his dessert. He watched as his Mom committed genocide on the Chocolate Holocaust (imagine a Kit-Kat bar but larger, with a thicker chocolate
coating, and shaped like a swastika). Most horribly, Junior Jr. watched Junior. Eat. the. Pie. There was really no reason for me to break up that sentence into several smaller ones, but I can do whatever the hell I want, can’t I?
Junior Jr. then began to cry, hoping that at least his tears would contain enough sodium content to sate him, but unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. To Junior Jr.’s horror, he saw his parents and older brother throw out the remnants of their desserts, despite their remaining half-portions.
“Children in Africa are starving, you know!” Junior Jr. said as he noticed his relatives drop their food in the trash.
“They are?” asked Junior in shock. Junior then ran from the table and out of the door. That was the last anyone had seen of him since that day. I secretly suspect he had been looking for a tenuous excuse to escape that family for his whole life, and found one in that moment.
“Uh-oh,” said Dad, reaching down to pinch one of Junior Jr.’s many cheeks (he was quite a malformed child). “Sounds like somebody’s not appreciating their relative privilege based on the social class they were born into. Let’s look at some of the games, shall we?”
Junior Jr. and Dad left to stroll by the games. I don’t know what Mom was doing at that time. I’m not really that omniscient. Pretend she was reading a book or something.
Anyway, Junior Jr. and Dad strolled by the Chocarcade, which had many games, such as: Pac-Man: Chocolate Edition; Pong: Chocolate Edition and Street Fighter: Chocolate Edition. These games were all created when the arcade companies were struggling to appeal to a wider demographic. Unfortunately, all these games were deemed “racially insensitive” by “experts” who “know” a thing “or” two about “video” games.
They passed a game in which children were supposed to throw a Himhe’s chocolate bar through a hoop. They then walked past a game similar to Move Move Uprising, but the floor panels were replaced with pudding. Then, they strolled by a fun game for adults in which men gathered up money in a pile, soaked it in gasoline, and lit it aflame. It was called “Stock Market”.
Junior Jr. wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. There was malted milk ball billiards and Tootsie Roll minigolf (arguably one of the few things Tootsie Rolls are actually good for). Junior Jr. was so overwhelmed by this shocking amount of opportunity coupled with disorienting lights and scary noises that he passed out.
Junior Jr. never woke up from that coma. I secretly suspect he had been searching for some flimsy reason to pass out for his whole life, and now presented with one, finally took the opportunity.
Mom and Dad left the House of Chocolate now liberated from the burden of providing for their children and lived happily ever after.
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