Writing Prompt: What the heck happened here?

I decided to try and get back into the groove of doing writing prompts. Found one from Writer's Digest, and it is as follows:

To get the story straight, Dave, we think, has become a chicken. Just the worst of luck with that guy. Tom is claiming he married the futon that’s now covered in yogurt, Carl is on the chandelier with the dog and you just walked in after getting groceries. What the heck happened here?

...uh.....ooooookaaay...well, here goes something...

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                When I stepped inside with my groceries, I stopped short at the doorway when I saw Carl sitting on the chandelier. Something about this didn’t register correctly in my mind as a natural or normal occurrence.  I watched him dangling his legs and cradling his pet Chihuahua in his hands.

                With a nod of his head, Carl greeted, “Sup?”

                A number of specific questions materialized in my mind: how did he get up there with his dog? Why did he get up there? And when? It all came out of my mouth in a big hustle of words, “When what how did you why are you with your dog what the fff—“

                “It’s no big deal, I get a good view from up here.”

                “A view of what?”

                “The wedding.”

                “What wedding?”

                “The one that happened just now while you were gone.”

                “What? Right here in the entrance-way? Who got married?”

                “Tom. Can you believe it finally happened?”

                “I didn’t know Tom was engaged to anyone. Still, how…” I gestured up at him, still struggling to ascertain the line of thinking that would lead Carl to hoist himself on the chandelier.

                Looking around, Carl wondered aloud, “How did I get up here? Hey, do you mind taking my dog for me?”

                Holding up my hands, I showed off the big bag of groceries and said, “My hands are a little—“

                Without much forethought, Carl beamed and said, “Here, yo quiero Taco Bell.” He then let the poor mutt go, yipping all the way down.

                I had no choice but to abandon the groceries and catch the dog. With an agitated sigh, I let the dog down on the floor and snapped at Carl, “Come on, that commercial’s like fifteen years old now. Do you even know what that phrase means?”

                “Nope. Thanks for catching Ricky Martin for me.”

                As much as I wanted to chide Carl for the naming conventions of his dog and his seeming obsession with everything from the late 90s, I stared at the spilled groceries on the floor with even more distress. With a sigh, I started gathering up the food.

                In the midst of gathering everything up, I questioned Carl on even more pressing matters, “So, who did Tom marry…just now?”

                “Well…”

                Carl’s hesitation didn’t help make this any less weird, so I just asked, “Is Tom here?”

                “Yep.”

                “Good, I’ll just ask him.” Carl never was a good source of critical information anyway.

                Once I got all the groceries back into their bags, I carried them to the kitchen and started the tedious task of transferring it all into the fridge. I opened the fridge and was shocked to find it stuffed with beer. I had to take fifty bottles out to fit in the food with actual nutritional value.

                When I pulled out some packets of chicken breast to put in, I heard Dave clearing his throat behind me. I turned and beheld a live chicken staring at me. Defying all the commonly-held beliefs I had regarding chickens, this one opened its beak and spoke in Dave’s voice, “So...was that chicken parts I saw you put in the fridge?”

                “Yeah.” Realizing that I was addressing a talking chicken, I sputtered, “What…what…how…what?”

                “Oh yeah, about my body. Total freak accident at the lab today. Remember that mutagen I was writing my paper on? Well, I decided to go through the procedure to see what would happen. One thing kinda led to the other…”

                “So, what, you mutated into a chicken?”

                “Unfortunately, yes. It’s nothing like the original formula, which was supposed to make me shoot fire out of my eyes. So, now that I’m a chicken, there has to be some changes. I can’t abide by us eating…that. I mean, that’s a piece of breast from one of my kind. What kind of sick f*cker eats dead breasts?”

                “Look, just because you’re a chicken now doesn’t mean the rest of us humans can’t enjoy chicken!”

                “You don’t see me eating a dead human!”

                “Well, no, that’s murder.”

                “So is that!” Dave pecked his head in the direction of the fridge. “This is so offensive in so many ways.”

                “Dave, you’re an animal now. Humans eat animals. You of all people should understand the finer details of how the food chain works. It’s nature.”

                “Oh no, we live in a manmade world now, and I’m living proof that we can play God. If I can become a chicken, we can find alternate forms of sustenance. I’m campaigning for everyone to become a total vegan, and no more chickens are to be killed!” Dave suddenly darted out of the kitchen in a flurry of flapping wings and feathers.

                Once the groceries were properly stowed in the fridge, I sought out Tom to ascertain what was really going on with him. I found him in one of the rooms, lying on a futon covered completely in a thick white mess. It took me a moment to realize that it was all yogurt, and not the other kind of white material that suddenly came to mind.

                Once again, a myriad of questions manifested in my mouth and came out in a jumbled mess, “So…what…who…I heard, what?”

                “It’s true, all of it,” Tom said.

                “So, who is the lucky gal?”

                “Dude, you’re looking at her,” Tom gestured at the mess around him. “Say hello to the lovely lady Futonco.”

                “Futo…what? You married the mattress?”

                “Hey, she’s a futon, and don’t you forget about it!”

                “It’s not even a real person!”

                “Oh no, she’s more than that to me. She’s so soft, and she understands me,” Tom started swirling the yogurt in gentle circles all over the futon…or his wife, rather.

                I had the sudden image of having Tom and the futon standing at the doorway with a priest. I had my doubts that the state would make this a legal marriage, but then again, this is California. With a sigh, I decided to just accept it all, and focus on the one last mystery in front of me. “What’s with all the yogurt?”

                “Oh…it’s a thing between us. I guess you could call it a fetish. Futonco loves it. Oh yes, you like it when I do this, don’t you, my little cotton wonder…” Tom started smearing the yogurt all over the place. It felt too awkward to linger.

                At that moment, I made the conscious decision to ditch Omega-Mu-Gamma and find a new fraternity.