Hydrogen: Urge to regurge, you say?
Trillaphon: The nag to gag?
Hydrogen: Yeah, you know, the hunger to chunder. The need to heave, the impetus to emesis.
Trillaphon: The gitup to spit up, the compulsion to do some expulsion, the kick to sick, the--
Hydrogen: OK, that's enough, we'll never top urge to 'gurge and you know it.
Trillaphon: It's just that it's going to take the world by storm and I want us to get in on some of that sick, nauselicious 'gurge urgin gag swag merch dirt.
Hydrogen: Moving on, I find myself wondering what Sean Astin lettered in here, exactly, aside from oddly poetic descriptions of human bodily functions.
Trillaphon: Something something taters precious.
Trillaphon: Seriously though, he looks like he's about to star in an all-doo wop Broadway revival of The Breakfast Club.
Hydrogen: Is it an alternate version of the Breakfast Club starring nothing but Lord of the Rings characters as teenagers? Because I'd watch that. Wise-cracking teenage Gandalf and his Fellowship of the Wedgie, stuck in Saturday detention by old man Sauron.
Trillaphon: And fried rats? Seriously? How could something like this happen under the watchful gaze of Comrade Colonel Lenin von Sanderstein?
Hydrogen: Don't know, don't wanna know.
Trillaphon: "Yeah, uhh, lemme get the #5 no lettuce, a #3 extra large with the coleslaw, and a 6-piece bucket of SATANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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