Greg!

We'd be sent on studies under little foot bridges the world over answering the questions three of moldy little green men with big crooked noses and zits. They would be there crouched over CP on a crappy little home-made vacuum-tube computer. We would remark how much they remind us of Steve Buscemi. They would cackle and fap. The researchers would pay us to sing The Song That Doesn't End until told to stop. The post-op Joan Rivers would question our sexuality, claim the most absurd things about our mother's sexual history, and writhe until we let them get back to their PREEEECCIOUSSSSSSSSSS Halo vs. CoD debate. The researchers would be pleased. They would pay us in imaginary internet dollars. Which we would spend on e-penis enlargers we saw in that totally legit email that wound up in the spam folder. We could never have guessed the side effects would include wanting to live under a bridge, start looking like Steve Buscemi, and inexplicably assail blatantly incorrect netizens the world over. Then, some number of weeks later, chipper young folk in white lab coats would come asking us about our questions three. The vicious cycle begins anew. But that all came to a stop when one day, a brave little mammal - not gross enough to be a rat, not cute enough to be a widdle mouse - broke free from his dimension, to free us from our electronic shackles, and spread the divine power and glorious message of the one almighty truth. 42.

Kutabare o Baka ze!