Then Dagathor of Romulon smote that blackened weasel nestled betwixt his steel-caps and that eternal bane of gravity known to the wandering men of Smurbelforg as Earth; those warriors that had usurped his jovial tenor through the pummeling of spatulas upon knock-off Tupperware. With every blow of rubber upon plastic, he set forth a cry of, "Bah! Erveuwueh! Stand before me and bow; for I am the promised kurbl of Endelore. The Eternal Turd of yore!" Stampeded upon by those merciless curs, their thrashing arms a flurry of glinting sparks as light from the Star of Ricardo rode upon their polished wristwatches like fashionable, metallic mares on some distant plain. "Stand off," he gurgled as they set upon him like weevils upon a Norwegian flatmate's large array of dried foods, each blow a cumulative contribution to the encephalopathic demise that had become his destiny.
Standing ovation stuff, right there.
P.S. Didn't know that, no. Surprising.
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