Prep time.
We’re going to that dark pocket of nothingness where all of the demand for Big Green performances floats in a vacuum like a cork in a bathtub.
Crunchy soup.
I saw one of our number drop a few chicklets in the soup cauldron - that should add a little tooth.
Picture imperfect.
Marvin says he had to go broke to get that camera…. he had to go broke the department store window, that is.
Dropping stuff.
Marvin (my personal robot assistant) has mustered a small army of robots to do his bidding. (And me to help.)
Root cellar blues.
Something happened to Marvin down there… something no human should ever experience.
Saving something.
We are perpetually faced with these complications, these Gordian knots, these Rubic Cubes, these Junior Jumbles, these Uncle Art’s Funland spot-the-differences cartoons.
Down the hole.
I guess it’s just part of the narrative of mad science. WHY MUST THEY DESTROY THEMSELVES AND ALL THAT THEY LOVE?
Fully confused.
Bad temper creates a penumbra of mystery around the umbra of famousness. That’s the stuff we need, for sure.
Making noises.
I would post images Marvin and Tubey sent via their cell phones, but you would hardly believe your own eyes if you saw them.
Who’s Teller?
There are better ways to spend our time, to be sure, and we’ve been trying to find them (blindfolded, with oven mitts on both hands).