Nicolas Cage
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Breakfast was ruined. Nicholas cage sat with his milk saturated Lucky Charms, and he wept. They were the tears of a man who, after a long life of mediocrity, lived only for the perfect bowl of breakfast cereal.
"Elmo be damned!" he screamed, throwing the disgusting mush, raped of its glorious marshmallow charms, against the wall. The bowl shattered. The glistening porcelain bowl shards reminded him of his former credibility as an actor, the milk reminding him of the liquid smooth success of his career.
He sat in the kitchen, wearing nothing but his lime-green Crocs, his aged genitals hanging sadly upon the wooden IKEA chair "Look at me!," he cried to the heavens. "I'm nothing but a joke! My hair looks like a bird! I'm the least likely actor in the world to ever play Superman!"
Nick's life, his career, his mental state, were all in ruins. He strolled though his Hollywood mansion, reflecting on his long career, each of his ridiculous career choices flashing though his brain. Truly, he was the prodigal son of mediocrity.
"My bathroom," Nicholas Cage said aloud, to no one," My bathroom, is my true Fortress of Solitude..." He sat upon his golden toilet, and was reminded of all the horrible movies he had done to pay for it. "I'M NO GHOSTRIDER, NO SUPERMAN, NO HERO," he lamented, as a wicked poo shot forth from his illegitimately famous sphincter. "I'm nothing but a joke..."
The wiping over, Nicholas Cage knew his next move. He returned to the kitchen, furiously baking, like some sort of dude possessed by that guy from Iron Chef. It was a recipe of fish, tears, and sorrow.
The peanut-crusted trout was done. Nick sat at his marble table, a fine glass of wine at his side, and dined. Each bite was a delight. Each bite was an inch towards demise.
With the meal consumed, Nicholas rose from his chair, exited his mansion, and made his way to the tool shed in his backyard. Rummaging through his tools, he found what he wanted: the old shovel that had once been sold to him by Billy Mays, for $19.95, plus shipping and handling.
Nick dug and dug. Each shovelful of exhumed dirt reminded him of a wasted opportunity not to totally be a joke of an actor. After a solid hour, the hole was done. Nick looked long and hard at it, it's enveloping, earthy confines. The time was now.
"I am the blue waffle, the god who failed. I am the personification of failure, the epitome of mediocrity. I am a lost soul, the prodigal son of acting. May god have mercy upon my soul."
Upon the edge of the hole, Nicholas Cage produced a Single Action Army revolver from his belt. He raised it to his temple, the cool steel feeling at home upon his head. His finger crept to the trigger, as a lone tear ran down his face.
Nicholas Cage pulled the trigger. The firing pin was struck, igniting the gunpowder, propelling a slug of lead, penetrating bone and grey matter. The gun fell from his hands, hitting the soft earth. His body, life snuffed from it, fell forward into the hole.
Everything was silent, beautiful, and at peace. The heavens smiled. Fate switched to the right path.
Looking down upon his body, the profundity of and afterlife swirling in his head, Nicholas Cage had but one thought. It bored into his brain, causing his spirit to cry out in ecstasy.
"I LIEK CHOCOLATE MILK"
