Existential O's

They wandered the aisles like monks in a fluorescent monastery.

Warhol, in monochrome black, sunglasses obscuring his eyes against the sterile supermarket light, dragged his feet past shelves of boxes in primary colors packed tight.

“A shrine to forgotten mornings,” Dalí murmured beside him. His mustard-yellow suit flared like a torch in the artificial glow, his mustache curling toward the heavens like antennae.

Warhol didn’t reply. He adjusted his shades and gestured to a box of Rice Crispies. “I painted that once,” he said. “Or maybe I meant to. Or maybe it painted me.”

The aisles were infinite. They turned corner after corner, but every passage opened to another corridor of loops, flakes, puffs, pops, charms, and marshmallows.

“This place,” said Warhol, “do you shop here often?”

Dalí raised an eyebrow. “I do. It’s the variety.”

“Choice,” said Warhol, deadpan. “Endless, edible choice.”

“You see,” Warhol continued, waving his hand across the color scape, “we’re all expected to perform identity now. You are not Dalí. You are what you eat—Fruity Pebbles or Raisin Bran. Irony or sincerity. Sugar rush or self-denial.”

Dalí plucked a box of "Frosted Narcissism" from a shelf.

“Mon cher Andy, the cereal is not real,” he said, twirling the box like a magician. “It is the illusion of nourishment—a sweetened void. And we, in choosing, become the void ourselves. What madness! Delicious!”

Dalí bowed theatrically. “I seek the Holy Spoon,” he said, “which stirs the milk of meaning in the bowl of time.”

Warhol shrugged. “I’m just looking for something I haven’t already seen.”

A cart rolled past them, unmanned, filled with boxes labeled: Regret, Limited Edition. The characters on the box wept marshmallow tears.

They turned into another aisle. This one was older somehow. Dust settled gently on “Colonial Crunch” and “Post-Postmodern Puffs.” Warhol paused before a cereal named “Retro Realms.” The box art was from 1983.

“I remember this one,” he said. “They canceled it because people couldn’t decide if it was authentic or ironic.”

Dalí leaned closer, peering at the mascot—a wide-eyed, vaporwave raccoon caught mid-dance. “Ah,” he said, “nostalgia.”

“Time doesn’t move anymore,” Warhol muttered. “There is no 'then' and 'now.' Only 'now' repeated endlessly. Every cereal tries to be your first bite again. But that bite has no time. Just taste. Just choice.”

Dalí clutched his chest dramatically. “A tragedy without plot!”

“A snack without hunger,” Warhol replied.

They passed “Existential O’s,” whose box declared: You are the milk. You are the bowl. You are the hunger and the regret.

A long line of robotic shoppers snaked toward a distant checkout line that never moved.

“How long have we been here?” Dalí asked.

“Since breakfast,” Warhol answered.

As they walked, the mascots began to speak. Not aloud, but in how advertisements speak—subliminally, with confident cheer.

“Don’t you want to be happy?” they sang. “Don’t you want to be you—but better, crunchier, with a prize inside?”

“I don’t even like cereal,” Dalí whispered.

Then, the toucan sang from the next aisle over: “You don’t like cereal. But you like the idea of liking cereal.”

Dalí froze. He turned slowly to face the toucan, who had become more lifelike, animated with uncanny fluidity.

“Tell me, bird,” Dalí hissed, “am I mad, or is this place mad?”

The toucan shrugged. “Who can say? We all chose to come here. And you keep choosing, don’t you?”

The toucan cackled—a noise like a slide whistle drowning in champagne.

“You two speak of time and meaning, but neither of you understand