I spilled some pinto beans on the kitchen floor this morning. I missed a few when I cleaned them up and my wife later stepped on them, slipped to the floor, and hurt her foot.
“Do that again and it’ll be Beanogeddon,” she said.
“At least it won’t be a Pintapocalypse,” I quipped.
“Beanogeddon would be worse for you.”
“A Pentapocalypse would be a total disaster for both of us. I’m not talking about the revelatory aspects of the word here, just the common meaning that it’s taken on. Meanwhile, Beanogeddon would just be a big fight.”
“A Pentapocalypse would be me falling again and breaking something. Yes, a disaster. Beanogeddon would go more like this.”
“Ow! Hey! Lay off!”
“You’re on Mount Megiddo, Babe. Get those dukes up. It’s the end of the world.”
“Ouch! Stop it! Ok! Ok!”
“Beanogeddon is over,” my wife said. “The good guys won.”