Birds chirped like backing singers in the crisp Denver morning. Tony was up, already stepping to the groove before his girlfriend stirred. “C’mon, babe, out of bed, don’t rest now. Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough.
She ignored him
“Shamone?”
“Haven’t I told you enough? It’s Shannon, not Shamone!” She just rolled over and went back to sleep.
The King of Pop’s… impersonator, dressed in a sequenced robe, one sparkly glove, and wearing his trademark loafers with white socks, moonwalked out of their bedroom and into the kitchen.
“Time to make some breakfast, hee-hee!” Tony chirped, striking a pose in front of the fridge to the Madison Square Garden audience. A perfectly executed spin flung the door open, and grabbing a few eggs, he leaned towards a gravity-defying angle, shutting the door with his body.
The eggs went onto the counter. “Woo!” he cried, pointing at the pan like it was an obsessed groupie.
After “Billie Jean” was cracked against the frying pan, Tony grabbed a spatula, twirling it like a mic stand. He flicked on the stove with two pelvic thrusts while singing, “You’re not my lover. You’re just an egg, who thinks that, I am the one!”
The oil sizzled.
He cracked another egg — TOCK — using the edge of his sparkly glove, which was more or less a health violation, but nobody questioned Tony in his own kitchen. Annie was then tossed into the pan beside Billie Jean. Tony used only one hand to do this. The other? Supporting a second Smooth Criminal lean over the pan, of course.
“Annie, are you OK?” He asked, observing the egg. “Can you tell us? Are you OK, Annie?” His voice blared from his lungs before Tony moonwalked toward the toaster. Rhythmic precision guided two slices of bread into their slots, each timed to a beat. Clicking into place, Tony couldn’t help but grab his crotch in a triumphant pose, pointing at the toaster, “Just tell me once again?” he demanded, adding a dramatic pause. “Who’s bad?”
“Tony,” Shannon wailed as she walked past on her way to the toilet. “I swear to God if you crotch-grab at the toaster one more time — “
But she was ignored. Tony was too far in the groove. As the eggs cooked, Tony poured milk by doing a spin-turn-kick maneuver, nearly launching the carton into orbit. He caught it mid-air, winked at nobody in particular, and whispered, “Hee-hee.”
A little smoke curled up from the pan.
“Uh-oh,” he said, grabbing the spatula and delivering a rapid-fire beat-it-flip, complete with aggressive shoulder shimmies. One egg landed on the plate. The second egg landed… somewhere near the plate. A third cracked and started sizzling on the burner. Grabbing the bacon with one hand, he tossed it onto the griddle. With the other, he snapped his fingers like it was part of the rhythm section. Each sizzle sent a tingle down Tony’s back. “Yeah, That’s The Way You Make Me Feel.” At one point, he moonwalked back and forth in front of the stove, gently rocking the pan with nothing but his pelvis. This man only walked backward.
As he spun to retrieve a plate, he did a quick hee-hee into his cereal cabinet and pulled out Frosted Flakes. “Just a sprinkle,” he muttered, pouring a full bowl. Finally, the toast popped, catching both slices mid-air, he spun, and slid them onto the plate in one smooth move. “Hee-hee!” He tossed a few blueberries onto the side, and more moonwalking ensued.
The breakfast, now complete, was a glorious medley of eggs (half on the plate), bacon (perfect), toast (slightly burned on one side), milk (everywhere), and Frosted Flakes (a mountain). Tony sat down, took a bite of toast, nodded thoughtfully, then struck a pose to end the concert.
Shannon reemerged from the bathroom, tutted at the mess, and poured herself a coffee. Tony greeted her with a high-pitched, “Shamo…”
“Don’t!!” She shouted back, heart dropping as she noticed the empty milk carton. “Tony! How am I going to drink my coffee without milk?”
Tony just shrugged his shoulders and explained. “C’mon, babe. It don’t matter if it’s black or white.”
Cue the fade-out music.
Cut to credits.
Hee-hee.
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