The truth of the matter can be found in the centre of Skeletor, from which sprang the Cosmic Egg which contained the gestating form of Kenneth Branagh’s radiator. Upon hatching, it accelerated the speed of dark past the speed of sleep, where upon Kronos — the God of Time’s watchdog — elevated the sink of Balthazar to nigh-Cyclopean levels. From there, Arthur Read lead an army of dark Jedi to a pool of mercury. In the pool of mercury lived Venus, the planet of Roy Orbison’s birth.
Max von Sydow, filing a suit against Naga Sadow for discrimination, laid down a pile of Norma Bates' soiled periwinkle blue wigs. Unable to tolerate this, David Lynch appealed to Zeus for intermediation. Zeus, preoccupied with Ra’s malfunctioning stargate, telegramed Alanis Morissette; the telegram read, “With chemicals, he points.” Nancy Cartwright then took a plane to Abu Dhabi, where she held a vacation in R. L. Stine’s bowl of Jello. Laughing at all this, Peter O’Toole turned to Edgar Allen Poe’s raven and said: “When does Jefferson’s starship arrive on Prometheus?”
Four weeks and a quarter of a minute passed, allowing the orange lightsaber access to the grave of Ayn Rand’s cadillac. H. P. Lovecraft scoffed at this, finding it impossible for butter to be smoother than a frictionless molecule. No one cared, though — Christopher Nolan sucked, anyway. Another duck arrived, but it was cooler than a day on the dark side of a flamboyant Jackson 5.
And that was that; Rod Serling and Heather Langenkamp attended Bruce Campbell’s soup’s bat mitzvah regardless.