Pinkfingers will mess you up. Big time. And he won’t even feel bad about it or nothing, so don’t you think about doing or saying whatever you were about to do or say to Pinkfingers. Just don’t. Because, in case you were too dim to pay attention the first time, he will seriously and legitimately mess you up. Without remorse, without fear of reprisal, without a shred of humanity or pity or restraint.
Don’t laugh. Stop it.
Pinkfingers is serious about this. He’ll do it. Guy’s gonna mess you up. Bigger than big time, even. Giant time. Gargantuan time. You get the idea. Or you better. Because otherwise, well, you know what happens otherwise.
Dethhöp needs a friend. Do you want to be his friend? That’d be great. So great. The best.
Seriously, thanks. He needs this. Especially after that last so-called buddy of his followed him down some hole and came out in thirteen pieces.
And then how they found his only other friend floating in the river, missing all his bones and organs, just a floppy wet sack of skin.
They’d been having so much fun together, too.
I mean, wow, this is terrific. So nice of you. He’s been really broken up since last year, when his school pal from way back fell asleep hanging upside-down from a tree branch, his body pale and stiff, his eyes wide open and white as soymilk. He’s still there, too, his feet bound in thick red sap that’s dripping down his legs and attracting just the biggest flies you’ve ever seen.
Anyway. Real nice of you. Guy can’t handle being so lonely. Makes him a little, you know, just a little crazy.
It’s a total cliché, to be sure, but Heatwheezy needs this wormhole in his head like he needs, well, like he needs a hole in the head.
Bad enough his combustible hairpiece won’t lay flat today and that he has to run this stupid meeting in an hour and his morning Peet’s was so bitter, but then to have this cosmic anomaly sprout from his temple? The worst.
Oh, and then the thing warps his blueberry scone to some far corner of the universe before issuing all kinds of galactically random garbage: jets of super heated dark matter, floating tendrils of primordial starsoup, a fleet of tiny alien warships, and this huge green hand that keeps slapping him across the face and slinking back through the singularity.
Wormhole? More like asshole.
After years of grip-fisted, rigid-fingered refusal to swing or twist or fall, to waffle or rock or bend, after a lifetime of straight-up, straight-ahead thinking and taking the unbending position, Fungalfist is suddenly seized by an urge to follow the arc of the sun. To spin and pitch, to twirl and drop and plunge, to give in, finally and at last and after all, to the gentle coaxing of gravity.
As you can imagine, that doesn’t work out so well.
Sporkface has it all. Friends. Rave reviews. Fancy watches. Fans and investors on every continent. A swingin’ pad. A sweet ride. A million followers. Sponsorship deals. Utensils who’ll bend to his every whim, who’ll do anything, anytime, for any reason.
Also, a side project with huge potential. A killer body. A clean bill of health. Powerful allies. Bouncy sneakers. And great skin.
If only he wasn’t so totally, so completely, so very very angry about everything else. If only he could enjoy it all, for even a single second, instead of fuming over this, and that, and the other thing that he cannot control. If only having it all meant that you did.
Lately, Languin’s been losing himself in lazy-boned lugubriousness, letting this litany of lackluster reviews and lean-hearted, mean-brained rejection, lashed in lockstep by the masses, lower his already land-level self-valuation. So. Let that be a lesson. Loser.
Squidgrizzle is always right by the phone when you call, always ready to go when you are, always there with a “yes” and an “oh, you bet!” no matter what foul adventure you ask him to join. He’s never said no, to anyone or anything, never thought for one minute that you’d take advantage of his earnest eager demeanor to get him to do something dirty, or illegal, or just plain wrong. If you ask, he’s on it, no questions, no hesitation, but always with that look over his shoulder to make sure you appreciate it, to be absolutely certain that his humiliating descent into the foggy bottom of morality brings happiness to your cruel, cruel heart.
Bunglecup never loses his cool, because he never had any in the first place.
All Flogbot9000 wants is to make you happy, to see you smile, to earn your praise and approval. It’s in his programming. But the real tragedy is that he has no idea what you like, and he will misread you and misfire and never ever, not once, get it right. And the more he fails the impress you, the harder he tries, and on and on, until the only thing that would, in fact, make either of you happy would be if he had an OFF switch. Which he doesn’t.
Blotz tries, but can’t. You name it, he aims and shoots and just can’t. Sing, surf, knit, fly, devour, speak French, teach his daughter algebra, bake a decent pie crust, play darts, comb his toes, juggle, forgive his mother, floss, leap, lean and laugh. Everything and anything, all of it, failure.
