Lindsey Abrams, being a vegetarian, didn’t care about ribs, but her parents, being constantly-at-each-other’s-throats, did. “You know how expensive those are? Twenty people here can’t share one rack of spare ribs, so some people will have to watch other people eat ribs.”

And then a gateway to hell opened in the old sandbox.
The rotting sandbox had been awaiting the daily arrival of the Jenson’s cat when a swirling portal of green plasma suddenly came into existence, and out spewed a minion of hell. It was embarrassingly short, with ugly, somber features, and resembled a bipedal horse that walked with a hunched perplexity, e.g. Mr. Magoo.

When Mrs. Abrams spotted the hell spawn, she screamed. She screamed so loud that the hell demon panicked and ran at her, pitchfork raised, legs stumping forward. Mrs. Abrams panicked and threw her stapler gun at the impending demon, which allowed her time to retreat to the safety of her house with Bob and Lindsey, and promptly dial 911.

The operator, though skeptical, humored her and agreed to send at least two squad cars. Meanwhile, more demons filed into the backyard. Most were tiny, horse and walrus-faced creatures, but an occasional succubus vulture shrieked forth and flew into the air, swooping large circles above the Golden Sunrise Estates. The foot soldiers, not quite tall enough to reach the lock on the six foot fence, were left dumbstruck as far as what to do next.

“What are they doing out there?” Lindsey asked, from the kitchen window.

“Get away from that window,” said Mrs. Abrams.

“They look stuck.”

Eventually enough demons had piled forth and the dim creatures were able to scale the wall by climbing atop one another in a sort of miniature-demon pyramid. They spilled over the fence and into the front yard where they marched north, towards the turnpike. From the second story of the Abrams house, they could see both directly into the portal, and out into the street, where the minions marched.

After no time at all, two police vehicles arrived with a shriek of their tires and a whir of their sirens, to confront the hell-mob. The officers rolled from their seats, dove behind cover of the cars, and, pistols raised, ordered the mob to halt. Instead of halting, the demons went ahead and exhaled a great inferno of flame from their tiny nostrils. The patrol cars ignited and with them all four officers.

News of the assault was relayed to the station, who alerted the precinct, who alerted the governor, who alerted the president, who quickly tuned into channel 4 news to watch from bird-eye-view as indeed an army of hell spawn marched past a McDonalds, setting fire to everything in their path. The only option the president could muster was to send in the National Guard.

“Be brave, men,” he said. “God help us.” And he meant it.
The Guard flew in, parachuted down, and subjected the hell fiends to the wrath of modern day warfare: assault rifles, RPGs, and stinger missiles, fired from Blackhawk helicopters. The demons, for whatever reason, had never encountered such long-ranged attacks, and quickly died.

Satan, observing from a monitor, and cheering his minions the way one cheers a college football team, took note of the loss, and would add additional funding into R&D.

O'Bama, glorified from the particularly easy victory, said, "Come back any time, Satan."

No one had died, but the clean-up was a mess.