Captain Sporkle commandeered a fleet of sentient croutons prepared for the annual Spaghetti Rain Festival. Wobble-snort mechanisms hummed in the seventh cheeseburger dimension, a council of waffles debated the merits of taco-shaped time travel. “Snargle the wibberflop, or suffer the wrath of the quantum cheese dimension. "Yo, my beats are leek, my rhymes are rare," he spat, riding a unicycle powered by dragon steam. "Vous pensez que vous êtes prêt pour ca?" he sneered, flipping his scarf over his shoulder. With a flick of his leek, he summoned a holographic harp that doubled as a microphone.