At first I thought, “A gun. Yeah, that’s the medicine there.” But these damn fingers are too fat to fit into a trigger. See? I can’t even do suicide right? Most other mascots would just, you know, “la-di-da BOOM!”? Get it done, right?

I can’t even do that right. I’m a failure at suicide. I can’t understate how badly this makes me want to die even worse. Have you ever really craved a meal, like Burger King’s Chicken Fries? I am just like that right now, but for death. And I can’t even do it right.

Hanging? LOOK AT ME! I don’t even have a neck to snap.

Hell, I don’t have any bones at all. I tried jumping, oh I did, and bounced for a block with everyone pointing and laughing. They thought I was being funny. (MY WHOLE LIFE AND YOU THOUGHT I WAS BEING FUNNY!!!). I don’t know if I have flubber or if I’m made of cork or have organs or whatever. That’s how pathetic I am. I don’t even know where to start when it comes to killing me.

If you want to help, here’s what you can do. Go find a steamroller. Steal it. Come back here, and let me lay down in front of it. Then, drive it over me until I stop talking. Until then, our conversation is over.