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Purple Balcony of Doom and Altoids
Once there was this dude. And he was like, "Dude."
And God said, "Dude, man, it's not very tubular for the dude to be without a dudette, man!"
And so He created a dudette. And she was like, "Dude?" and the dude was like, "DUDE!!" And God saw that it was tubu- I mean good.
(By this point you're probably asking, "What does this have to do with the Purple Balcony of Doom and Altoids?" Patience, young cheeseburger, I'll get to that in a minute.)
So anyway, the race of dude(tte)s flourished, even as, several gazillion light years away, a giant vacuum-breathing marmoset named Bob- or "Sesquicedonius" for short- was playing water polo with a can of furniture polish. (The furniture polish won.) Subsequently, Sesquicedonius got bored, causing a certain cosmic yak to chronicle his adventures. The yak's name was, of course, Percival Gunthervergen. (I mean, come on, what the heck else would you name a yak?)
Thus Percival's book series, "The Chronicles of Bob", became an intergalactic bestseller, right up there with "Roman Ramen" by universally-renowned chef Alfredo Buttula. The publishers of "Bob" (the series, not the marmoset) ended up making tons of merchandising deals, including holographic versions, theme parks, toys, philosophy books, food products, cybernetic augmentations, and a really crappy FMV "game" adaption for Sega CD.
There was only one person in all the multiverse who actually liked the latter. Her name was Em. In fact, Em liked this game so much that she decided to stand on her head and warble the Moonlight Sonata while juggling cauliflower with her feet. No one understood why she was doing this, except for one enterprising psychiatrist (he was a huge Trekkie). He was half-Native American and half-Jewish, and raised in Texas. Therefore, he'd introduce himself thusly: "My name is Geronimo Goldstein, but you can call me Bubba."
("But what about the Purple Balcony of Doom and Altoids?" you ask. I told you, I'm getting to that. Chill.)
So anyway, Bubba and Em began their therapy sessions together, and it turned out that Em's particular case was even worse than Bubba thought. For you see, "Em" was just a human name and form assumed by...
...a rabid toothpaste bottle!
Naturally, Bubba ran for his life! He ran, and ran, and then, when he was too tired to take another step, he ran some more. He probably would have kept running forever, if a tree hadn't swerved into his path right about then.
Bubba's newfound unconsciousness was a state greatly desired by the Rhode Island chicken named Marshall, because he hadn't slept in days. Of course, the time he fell into a giant vat of Coke may have had something to do with that, and may have also indirectly caused the end of the world on planet Squrpulon.
Squrpulon, you see, was a great, big, stupid world with a population of approximately umpteen zillion. Its people required caffeine for sustenance, and one day, disaster struck when one of the citizens noticed that his daily ration of Coca-Cola "tasted like chicken". The result? Immediate panic, complete Squrpulonian evacuation to some unknown world at an undisclosed location, and- last but not least- the implosion of the planet Squrpulon itself.
What can we conclude from this? Well, it's very simple: People with nothing better to do should not wear underwear on their head in a cheap attempt to bring a No Parking sign into phase with their mouthwash. That, my friends, is the essence of the Purple Balcony of Doom and Altoids. If you've ever visited there, you know what I mean. It challenges us, it defines us, it cuts to the core of who we are (which really hurts, lemme tell you), but most important of all, it has a really stinkin' cool name.
I mean, "Doom and Altoids"? How cool is that?