YUM sings your hum.

We, the Young Ultraviolet Magi (formerly the Wilson High School Marching Band Dropouts), have taken your city with power chords and grapes. Your protests are but the buzzing of flies trapped in candle wax.

Watch and learn as our lead singer, Big Boogie Mama, tapes the YUM Manifesto on the doors of Foul-Mart.

"You can't do that," shouts the supervisor, a stiff in shopkeeper stripes. "That space is for announcing our amazing bargains and specials to our loyal Foul-Mart customers."

Her mighty hands waving a conductor's wand and a boat horn, Big Boogie Mama laughs. "Check out point one," she sings. "Change the channel, change your head."

She toots the horn and the Foul-Mart bends, expands. Trees supplant concrete pillars; shelves of cardboard clothes are replaced by cornucopias. Shoppers push carts of chopped wood filled with squirrels that throw nuts at shaggy fauns sleeping behind rocks of cheese. Flower-smashed nymphs and willow-dance dryads tease the male shoppers with honey-thick voices of yesteryouth.

Peaking on the groove, we make our stage in the bedding department. Jumpy Joe, Marvalicious Marvin, and I, Drummer Dog, back up Mama as she sings and jumps on the beds. We crunch the air with an A Flat Minor Chicken with Mushroom Soup Casserole Boogie. Several heads explode but everyone else chants, "YUM-hum!" Down in front, a woman steals a flower from a nymph and agitates the molecules into a mosh pit fit. Several clerks disappear into it, shouting back that they've found the Tomb of the Unknown Bargain Pharaoh on the other side.

The manager tries to dance but worry shreds his borrowed blue suede shoes. "You're all in trouble," he wails. "The district supervisor is coming today."

Too late. A dryad and her enslaved humans have already sacrificed the D.S. on a mock Danish modern altar dedicated to the terrible shopping gods. A god, taking the form of a giant shoe on sale for $9.99, noshes on the D.S., shoelaces twisting around the man's neck. Blood drips a thin red trickle like the powered strawberry lemonade in aisle ten.

"Not tasty," rumbles the god. "Too much gristle and aspartame."

The people cheer and dance. Another city is liberated.

So hold on to your hair, boils and grills: the Magi tour is coming to your town next. Put up whatever shields you like, but it won't stop us.

YUM sings your hum.