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This is a human. This one is something called a Canadian. Part French. Part maple syrup. He’s weirdly obsessed with ice hockey and snowmobiles and semi-erotic lumberjack fan fiction. Has a well-worn Tim Hortons loyalty card in his Velcro wallet. He says “aboot” instead of “about” and gets really, really upset when you point it out, claiming you’re hearing things and that it’s a harmful stereotype. It’s not a stereotype, and that’s exactly how it sounds. He has a relative who was trampled to death by a moose. You get the idea.
Participation trophy, snowflakes, blah, blah, blah. God, I sound like an old dude about to ruin the day of a Cracker Barrel waitress.
“Yes, Carl,” the potion bottle said, his voice deep and demonic. “Drink me. Drink me deep. Put me inside of you.” “What the shit?” I asked as Donut hissed. “That’s how you know it’s a good potion,” Mordecai said, grinning.
“You can judge someone based on how they talk about the dead.”
The little girl gave me a chilling smile. “I shouldn’t have to think about killing outworlders? Why shouldn’t I? Have they stopped thinking about trying to kill me?”
You ever see those Pepé Le Pew cartoons? You know, the ones where they taught kids that rape was funny, especially when it was French people doing it to cats?
It takes a certain amount of desperation before people finally stop caring about their immediate futures and start to look at the long term.
“In the eternal words of my mulleted friend, Holger. You done stuck your pecker in the wrong beehive.”
I HAVE A SONG FOR YOU. MY FRIEND LIL WAYNE WROTE IT. IT’S ABOUT WIENERS.”
When Big Things happen on such a large scale, it’s easy to forget sometimes that these Big Things are also happening to the little things in the world.
