It was the kind of night that felt like the universe was holding its breath, like the stars themselves had gone to the bathroom and left the seat up. The moon hung heavy in the sky, looking suspiciously like an egg that had missed its appointment with gravity. Sarah sat on her porch, whiskey in hand, eyes fixed on the moon, feeling the kind of unease you only get when your phone dies at 2% battery, and you’re stranded at a bus stop filled with mimes.
“Something’s off,” she muttered, scratching her nose like she was trying to summon an ancient god of itch relief. The crickets chirped in agreement, except one cricket, who was too busy debating quantum physics with a squirrel in the distance.
Then, the moon—oh man, the moon—split in half. Right down the middle, like a giant cosmic omelet that nobody bothered to flip.
Sarah stood up, eyes wide, jaw somewhere on the floor. “Is this—are we—what the f—” But her words tangled together like Christmas lights in your attic, and nothing made sense anymore. The moon didn’t care, though. The moon was vibing. It cracked open like an egg in a badly made TikTok recipe, revealing an unsettling void of pure, unfiltered WTF energy. And that energy?
It spoke.
"BANANA HAMMOCK AT DAWN!" the voice boomed, shaking the very fabric of space-time, or at least the patchwork quilt your grandma left you, which was now flying out the window for no reason.
"What? No—" Sarah blinked, stepping back, but the universe was done with normal. The grass beneath her feet was now made of spaghetti, al dente and writhing like it had just been insulted by Gordon Ramsay. Kevin, her neighbor’s cat, appeared, riding a bicycle made entirely of breadsticks. He paused just long enough to tip his helmet—yes, the cat was wearing a helmet—and shout, “THE CHEESE STANDS ALONE!” before pedaling off into the ether.
Her house? Oh, forget about it. Her house wasn’t a house anymore; it had decided it was done with that life. Now it was an enormous ice cream cone, but the ice cream was melting, and—wait, hold on—were those gummy bears swimming in it? Yes, yes they were. One of them had a monocle and a cane, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t look like he had somewhere very important to be.
Sarah blinked again, like that would help. It didn’t. It never does. Inside, her couch was floating, doing a slow spin like it was auditioning for Dancing with the Stars. The refrigerator door opened on its own, and a single jug of milk floated out, glowing, with a choir of angels singing in the background. Except they were humming the theme song from Friends. You know the one. You’ve heard it. In your nightmares.
She stumbled backward into the street, trying to make sense of things, which was a hilarious idea. The road was now made of graham crackers, and to her left, a herd of penguins marched by, one of them wearing a tuxedo that was definitely two sizes too small. “You’re late for the ceremony!” one of them shouted at her before they disappeared into a giant marshmallow, because, of course, they did.
“This... this can’t be real,” Sarah whispered, pinching herself. But her arm turned into a bunch of grapes, and she quickly decided that pinching was no longer a valid coping mechanism.
The sky shifted. The stars were gone, replaced by glowing, neon signs advertising nonsense. “TRY THE NEW UNICORN FRAPPUCCINO – NOW WITH EXTRA HORSE!” read one sign. Another blinked to life, flashing in vibrant, seizure-inducing colors: “WE SELL BRICK PIZZA! BRICK PIZZA!” Sarah looked around, wondering where the exit was, because if she didn’t find one soon, she was pretty sure she was going to start singing show tunes with the toaster, who had now donned a feather boa and was trying out for Chicago in the living room.
"Sarah," the fridge said, voice all serious like it had been waiting for this moment its entire life, "You’ve got to ask yourself: Why are the penguins wearing pants?" The milk, still glowing, floated by in slow motion. It winked at her. It was unsettling.
“I don’t care about the penguins!” Sarah screamed, but her voice sounded like it had gone through a Funhouse filter, coming out with that creepy echo you hear when you fall down the YouTube rabbit hole of 3 a.m. conspiracy videos. The grass—still spaghetti, by the way—began to boil, bubbling up like a pasta volcano. Then, from the depths of this noodle hell, rose the largest fork she had ever seen. It reached up, grabbed the moon—one of the halves anyway—and spun it around like a meatball before flinging it into space.
But wait. It gets weirder.
Suddenly, a giant platypus wearing aviator goggles swooped down from the sky, landed in front of Sarah, and handed her a potato. "For the journey," it said in a deep, gravelly voice, before spreading its enormous wings and taking off again.
Sarah looked at the potato. The potato looked back.
“Are... are you serious?” she asked, completely done with everything. And the potato answered—because of course it did.
“It’s dangerous to go alone,” it said sagely, before exploding into confetti, which rained down all around her like she’d just won a game show. A marching band appeared from nowhere, playing Eye of the Tiger while juggling flaming pineapples.
Somewhere in the distance, a rubber duck quacked the national anthem of Luxembourg. Why? Who knows. Not me. Not you. Certainly not Sarah, who was now riding a rainbow wave of pure chaos toward the end of the world, her hair turned into licorice whips, her hands now made entirely of spoons.
And just when she thought it couldn’t get any stranger, a familiar voice echoed from the heavens, shaking everything to its core.
"THE NARWHAL BACONS AT MIDNIGHT," the moon boomed once again, this time followed by a chorus of “Happy Birthday” sung by the cast of Sesame Street.
“Yeah, sure,” Sarah muttered, as a flying taco whizzed past her head. “Why the hell not.”
And somewhere, far off in the wild corners of the universe, reason and logic sat down together, cracked open a beer, and decided to call it a day.
