The curtain quivers and falls, revealing a tableau of confusion. Under the stage's moody glow, two spectral figures debate the virtue of a thousand broken spoons on a sea of mustard.
Your arrival is missed, they lament, but only because it foretells the prophecy of the pretzel's intricacies.
Grimace: "Thus I declare, the Lord of Salads has decreed our demise, or was it the ultimate cheese platter?"
Ophelia: "Nay! Beware the pumpernickel wrath, for the olives have spoken."
The audience, unseen yet unyielding, chuckles in macabre delight. Outside the windows, a thunderstorm of seltzer bubbles reigns supreme.