A priest, a rabbi, and a hot dog vendor… no, wait.
An Irishman, an Italian, and a black guy were walking through the desert when…
Damn it. Hold on.
Two cloned presidents, a regenerated queen, a fallen god, a cyborg, and a suddenly very self-conscious human female, sat in a bar.
No, it was a diner. Yeah. They were sitting in a diner.
Two cloned presidents, a queen, a god, a cyborg, and a suddenly self-conscious young woman were all sitting in a diner when in walked… in walked…
Shit. Wait. They had names.
OK, got it.
Chester A. Arthur XVII, William H. Taft XLII, Queen Victoria XXX, Thor, Mark, and a suddenly very self-conscious Catrina were all sitting in a diner when in walked a sentient piece of string.
The diner host got up and stopped the string before it could go any further.
“Sorry, buddy,” he said, pointing his thumb at a sign that read “No Strings Allowed.”
“What the hell,” said the string.
“Diner rules,” said the host, shrugging and ushering the string back outside. “Nothing I can do about it.”
Mark, bristling at both the obvious racism and the economic stupidity of the gesture, called out to the man from the table.
“Man, you can’t do that. He’s got just as much right…”
“Look,” said the host, putting up his hands, “it’s not my rule. The owner, he’s crazy strict about it and I need this job. I can’t do anything about it.”
It was at this point that the string walked back in.
“Buddy,” said the exasperated diner employee, “you gotta go. Please. If my boss sees you in here…”
“Look, I just want a cup of coffee,” said the piece of string. “I can take it to go.”
“Sorry, but I can’t…”
“Oh, come on, that’s bullshit,” said Mark. “You can get him a damn cup of coffee.”
“Fuck, man, would you keep it…”
The owner of the restaurant emerged loudly from the kitchen.
“What’s going on out…”
The large, balding, diner-owning bigot, spotting the string-man, stopped mid-sentence.
“You got three seconds to get out of here, string.”
“Why the hell should I?” said the string.
“Because I own this diner and I can refuse anyone or any… thing that I want.”
“Fuck you, asshole, I haven’t…”
“Fuck me? Fuck you, you…”
“Hold up, guys, hold up,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I’ve got this.”
The cloned president got up from the table and, placing his arm around the sentient fabric cord, walked it toward the door.
“Oh, come on, Chester,” said Catrina, “you can’t seriously be…”
“I said I’ve got it, don’t worry,” continued Chester A. Arthur XVII, walking outside with the string.
“Told you he was a douchebag,” said Thor under his breath.
“I heard that,” said Queen Victoria XXX.
“Oh,” said Thor. “Uh, what I meant was…”
Thor never got to explain what he actually meant. No one cared. By this point, Mark had removed himself from the table and begun verbally accosting the diner owner. All eyes in the diner—robotic, organic, or otherwise—were on them.
“That string has every right…”
“I don’t give a shit about its rights, or your opinion, or…”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Chester A. Arthur XVII, “but my friend here would like a cup of coffee.”
The sentient piece of string strode up next to Chester A. Arthur, looped and twisted around on itself, with its hair messed up and raveled out.
“Oh, you got some balls,” said the diner owner, pushing Mark aside and approaching the president and the string. “Let me spell this out for you. There are no strings allowed in the diner. And you are a string, aren’t you?”
“No,” said the string confidently. “I’m a frayed knot.”