The microwave oven was humming as big Mr. M. approached it. As he neared this wondrous glowing humming box his visage was reflected by the glass front panel beneath which soft marshmallow could be seen floating on a mug of warming chocolate.
The explosion, rather than the usual 'ding', and the subsequent mushroom cloud was quite a surprise to Mr. Munchmallo. As much as it was to the residents of the small remote hypertechnologically advanced civilisation-in-a-village he occupied on his microwave's plane of existence.
Upon questioning the only phrases our tacky hero uttered repeatedly were: "BROWN! TROUSER! HANDLEBAR!" and "MARSHMALLOWGOOD! CRUNCHY! URANIUM!". From this we can only guess what Mr. Munchmallo had been up to and what was going on in his head. Or kitchen. (The composition of Susan's stairs has yet to be detonated).