Filmore Johnson entered the arena to the sound of fans crushing the stadium floor. His arms were raised high, his eyes were dead set on his opponent, and his plate of leftovers rested on his strapped-on tray. Today was finally the day that he would prove himself in the Microwave Championships of Golden Fun Time.
“Johnson, place your tray!” the ref shouted at the top of his lungs. Still, his voice was barely audible above the screams of the crowds. “Set! GO!!!”
Filmore barely took time to look at his own work. His eyes darted left, now right, now up and down, and his hands became wild things that moved of their own accord. Soon his plate was ready. He set the microwave for one minute and thirty two seconds. Precision was as much of an art as the actual arrangement.
The crowd was ecstatic.
“Peas ON TOP of the mashed potatoes,” the announcer blurted into his mic. “We haven’t seen that kind of action since the days of Judy Moore! Look at the daring manner in which he sliced the Salisbury steak! The amazing, even astonishing decision not to use ALL of the shredded cheese! Let’s hope that’s intentional, folks!”
The microwave, after aeons collapsed into each other forming new universes as the clock forms seconds, finally beeped. Filmore brought his tray to the judges. One of them passed out after the first bite. The second went into a strange, ecstatic daze. The third flatlined as the tendrils of deliciousness reached down his esophagus and into his stomach.
“AMAZING!” the announcer shouted. “AMAZING! NOT ONE JUDGE LEFT STANDING! HE WINS! FILMORE WINS! FILMORE JOHNSON!!!”
Filmore bowed out with respect, as the paramedics rushed to the stage.