This piece is about a small-sized cult worshipping a deity with a shiny box of radioactive french-fries as a head, a bat-wing and chicken leg for wings, an intercom speaker speaking a bunch of jibberish including the latin word for "drink" (in verb-form) in its right hand, a snow globe in its left hand, and a face on a plate residing in its lap. The french fries' extremely intense radioactivity levels are high enough to appear as a boxed group of mortuous, luminous fish-fries.
It is imperative for everyone in this cult to wear their hair as a mohawk and kneel before the deity with all of their hands in the air except for the leader of the cult, and the monksoors. The leader of the cult is required to dress like a lumberjack and offer a shovel in a small basket to the deity with a banana-esque hat on, lying down with his legs raised five inches-or-so above the ground with a stool. The monksoors, the ones that are in the togas, are demanded to put their arms in an awkward, angular position balancing a snorkel mask on a plate on top of his/or her respective heads. The leading monksoor has the honor to shoot laser beams from his eyes to clean up the puddle of orange juice spilled "accidentally" from a bucket in the hands of a kneeling cult-member to create a multitude of undecidedly descriptive vapors in order to conjure the deity's awareness to accept the offering of the shovel.
Note how bright the thumb of the bat-wing is.
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