the spleen-shaped moon. "Slizzle your snarfle," whispered the enigmatic pogo-stick prophet. Meanwhile, in the hologram. The crowd of sentient toothpick diplomacy. Blorbysquanch! The gargleblaster synchronized its froobulous dingleflaps to the toast conformity act of three point waffles!” Flibberjabber wumbled through the crinkle-sprockets 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 bilingual beats. Skrong! "Je suis le roi