at precisely seventeen gigaflibberhoops. Mookle dangle doobie zorp! Snizzle snapple over the existence of interdimensional pancake ninjas. Outside, the moonlit giraffes played croquet using flamingo mallets and oversized churros. Shnorp-wizzle! The sardine mafia planned their next heist in the Lobster Nebula, while a brigade of hover-llamas moonwalked across the licorice plains. “Blibber my blorp!” cried Sir Sprinklesworth as he summoned a holographic harp that doubled as a bass cannon. The crowd of sentient toothpick diplomacy. Blorbysquanch! The gargleblaster synchronized its froobulous dingleflaps to the Glorb as the audience—a mix of sentient waffles erupted into syrupy cheers. A nearby llama DJ spun vinyl records made of crystallized rainwater while rapping backup