Ker'mit inspired me.
"Ey yo bro," rumbled one kroxigor to another as they plunged their long rods into the refreshingly yielding warmth of their appointed task.
"What's diggin, broseph?" Queried the other kroxigor as he thrust deeper with his tool, bringing about a sharp hiss as he hit rock bottom.
"Well, Brometheus," the first kroxigor, who had the name of Brahxigor, mused, "Isn't the job we have, like, totally brotacular?"
"Absolutely tubular, my dudesicle," Brometheus replied as he extracted his turgid instrument from the hot, wet morass. "It's completely turnt that we get to perform such a satisfying activity for the benefit of the broletariat."
"Bro," Brahx replied as he grabbed a giant hammer and hammered the molten sword his partner had pulled out of the lava forge into shape. "This job is so specific that it couldn't ever be unintentionally mistaken for something else by the means of deliberate, excessively vague description."
"Wow man, you've really been working on your bromenclature."
Sta'tler: Why does everyone keep doing this terrible gag?
Wal'dorf: Because they like watching us suffer!
Sta'tler: Well if they
really wanted us to suffer they'd do that awful thes-
"Yeah dude, I've been reading the thesaurus on my lunch breaks."
Wal'dorf: Talk about tempting fate!
-Purge The Parasite: Hexoatl and Qotlpetl: 1 Hexoatl Action/Krog-Gar and 1 Qotlpetl Action/Chakax.
To the tune of O Fortuna
Sta'tler: Quick! Get the earplugs!
Wal'dorf: WHAT?
Sta'tler: I
said, get the earplugs!
Wal'dorf: I CAN'T HEAR YOU BECAUSE I TURNED MY HEARING AIDS OFF!
Sta'tler: Oh, that works too.
Oh, dinosaur!
Big dinosaur!
Kroq-Gar riding carnosaur!
There were some bugs
Outside the walls
Then Kroq-Gar went with Chakax
They bro-fisted
Neither missed it
They raised up saurus legions
Also some skinks
None of them blinked
They all mounted dinosaurs
Then they rode forth
All swole of course
And readied all their weapons
(song reaches crescendo)
THEN THEY KILLED SHIT
A LOT OF IT
THEY CRUSHED PARASITE BABIES
A GROKONIB
COVERED IN LIMBS
FOUGHT BACK BUT CHAKAX MULCHED IT
KROQ-GAR STABBED THINGS
GRYMLOQ ATE WINGS
AND SAVED SOME TO FRY LATER
AYACMANIK
MORE LIKE PICNIC
THEIR HOMES GOT BURNED DOWN AND THEN MADE INTO QUICHES
Wal'dorf: I think it's over.
Sta'tler: WHAT DID YOU SAY?
Wal'dorf: I SAID, THE TERRIBLE SONG IS OVER!
Sta'tler: Sheesh, there's no need to shout bro. You're making my ears hurt.
Wal'dorf: But we're puppets, so the only reason your ears could hurt...
Sta'tler: Is because of a terrible song!
DOH-ho-ho-ho-hoh!
"Alright boyz, where'z we landing?" Inquired Chilled Erector, the head boss of the F.O.R.T.N.I.T.E. (Fight On Real Tuff Nobz In Tin 'Eadz) warband. He gestured to the bark and dung-paint map of the battleground behind him, which illustrated a number of tactically important locations to seize in order to overcome the other competing bosses. His pointy stick slipped as the air squig they were waiting to jump out of suffered a bout of indigestion, poking a hole in the canvas. "Whoops."
"I wuz finkin Killy Kamp, boss," replied Johnny Nick, his non-copyrighted underling. This suggestion drew a rabble of outrage from the rest of his boyz.
"I wanted ta do Tanky Tanks!"
"No, Finky Fortress iz betta!"
"You git! Grot Gassing Groundz is da best fer loot!"
This quickly degenerated into a massive brawl which punctured the fart sack of the blimp squig, sending them all crashing down to their deaths.
Wal'dorf: This seems familiar.
Sta'tler: Of course it does! Don't you remember getting trapped inside a third-rate theatre every week?
Wal'dorf: Yes, but I've been trying really hard to forget!
Sta'tler: A shame they forgot to include the only part worth remembering though.
"Degenerate creatures," intoned the skink priest Ref'rens, who was watching this whole debacle through a really good telescope from Itza.
Wal'dorf: This skink has potential!
DOH-ho-ho-ho-hoh!
Squinty strained really really hard. His boyz cheered him on, shouting slogans that were either encouraging or abusive. Either way they worked, and with only one passed kidney stone, his spell worked and he regrew his other eye. "Wazoo," he screamed. "I kan do dis now!"
He spun around in a circle and fired warp lasers out of his eyes, incinerating the junglebrush around him. "Follow me, boyz," he bellowed as he zoomed into the jungle depths. "We'z gonna follow dem hints dat da GM - dat's Gork and Mork - been givin' me!"
Seven months later he suddenly stopped, feeling something wrong. A scaled figure elegantly jumped down from a branch and removed its hood. "Hello there," it said in a British accent. Squinty felt something strange well up from within his very soul. He attempted to contain it, but it refused to be concealed, and burst out of his throat in a hefty exclamation."
"G E N E R A L K E N O-"
He was interrupted as his head exploded because it got shot, by a gun. The chameleon skinks had made sure they still had the high ground.
The orks prove their inferiority once more, and also Squinty clearly had not heard the tragedy of Boss Penguin the Wise.
Wal'dorf: I think I'm getting PTSD.
Sta'tler: What, from that time you picked up a bomb and blew yourself up?
Wal'dorf: No, from the penguin.
-Dispel Mind Fog: Mazdamundi, Eight 3rd Generation Slann, Thirty 4th Gens, Thirteen 5th Generation Slann.
-Unleash the Serpent: Teninhuan and Ten 5th Generation Slann.
"Alright dawg, I've had about enough of this," said the mind fog in a billion slithering languages that had never existed. "You better get back in my belly or I'm gonna put you on timeout so hard!"
"You can't tell us what to do anymore, Mr. Unspeakableblightuponreality'sinnumerableangles," said the slann. "You were 15 minutes late to our battle so we're within our legal right to leave!"
The fog daemon recoiled in pain from this mighty wound that had been dealt to it, but came back swinging. "Well I just invented daylight savings time again, so I was actually a day early!"
"Isn't it like an hour or something," the slann retorted.
"No one actually knows, you know that as well as I. I wrote it into the laws of physics just now with my daemon powers," said the mind fog. "Apples fall, bears shit in the woods, and everyone accidentally puts the wrong number in the year when you set the clocks back. Not recognizing that is illegal, so you're under arrest!"
"Aaah," yelled the slann with a yelp, but it was only pretend. They were playing a devious trick on the fog daemon, and just before it hauled them off to the slammer, it was enacted.
Mazdamundi popped up behind the fog daemon and tapped it on the shoulder. "I need you to stop harrassing my several hundred brother-sons or I'm gonna get disgruntled," he said froggily.
"Too bad, old man," the mind fog chortled. "I'm sorry, but these boys are going away for a long time! In my stomach. I'm going to eat them."
"Hi Sorry, I'm Dad," Mazdamundi replied, and the mind fog wailed in horror as it realized its fatal mistake.
"Noooooooooo," it yelled as its body began swelling up with explosive force, before it exploded in a giant pile of confetti.
Ap-parent-ly that was all it took to kill the Mind Fog, who knew?
Wal'dorf: What kind of garbage writer wrote those trashy puns?
Sta'tler: It's even worse than Fozzie!
Wal'dorf: And that's saying something!
Sta'tler: Something!
Doh-ho-ho-ho-Hoh!
"Brrrat! Tat-a-tat tat! Skip a pop hippity bob clop flop-a-dop bippidy pop!"
The sacred incantation was intoned seventy-four times by the slann pursuing the cause of bigger explosions, headed by B'g Shaaq, who had an affinity for this sort of thing. They were trying to solve the ultimate riddle of what constituted a gun: How did you turn the bullet into a laser when it got fired, so that it could punch through like a bullet, but also zap like a laser?
The answer took many years of ceaseless research to uncover, but figure it out they did.
"Be A Bullshit Wizard," intoned a random slann without a name or bolded text. "That is the answer my formula has given."
"Well, good thing that's our hat."
Wal'dorf: Now he's ripping off Cinderella! And other references that Mathematicae couldn't identify!
Sta'tler: So many beautiful childhood memories, ruined!
Wal'dorf: At least he hasn't tried to use Monty Python yet.
Sta'tler: I'm mildly impressed at his restraint.
"Hi, I wanted your advice," Stabby the saurus asked the store clerk skink, who brightened up at the question. "Of course, sir! We here at the Lizardmen Gallery of Stabby Things To Maim And Kill The Enemies Of The Old Ones With are always happy to help."
"Well, I ride a cold one, see, and I was wondering whether a sword or halberd would be a better choice for racking up a better kill combo?"
The skink stroked its mustache that it had grown for situations like these with magic. "Ah, wise question. I would give you the advice that my slann master gave me when he accidentally tapped into an extradimensional network called the Internet during his meditations - por que no los dos?"
"Wise words," said Stabby. "I have no idea what they mean, but I'll take both of them and also a gun for my cold one because we have those now."
"Good choice," said the skink, and gave him a coupon for a free picture so he could pose with his cool new gear.
Sta'tler: WOW! What a shocking lack of restraint!
Wal'dorf: No one could have expected that!
Sta'tler: Except us of course!
Wal'dorf: And that's because we wrote this
after we saw the script!
Doh-ho-ho-ho-Hoh!
"GET OUT OF THE POOL," yelled a slann, and a sulky voice echoed out of the spawning cavern.
"Okay sort-of dad," groused the new Chamon skink priest, and walked out with his head hung low.
"Hey, pick your chin up," the slann admonished. "This is out of character, you're supposed to be robotic. Keep it up and Xantalos will probably rewrite this whole section."
"Meep morp," said the robot skink priest, and robot-walked off.
Wal'dorf: Rewrite the section my foot! He oughta rewrite the whole update!
Sta'tler: But then we'd have to sit through the whole thing again!
The skink chiefs across the empire cackled in glee as the hordes of damnable dinosaurs were driven into the spawning pits. Consistent population growth, they shrieked! No longer would they have to painstakingly have to track the fluctuating brood numbers of every species! It would be all one easy-to-tabulate number forever, increasing only when they built new pools!
Their bureaucratic powers grew tenfold with this monumental achievement, which outclassed anything the lizardmen had ever done by many orders of magnitude. The ability of unrestricted skink chiefs to file paperwork was unlike anything the universe had ever seen, and the gods of Chaos trembled in their domains at the thought that their tangled sheets of unit numbers might someday too be audited so severely.
"Ah ha ha ha ha," cackled Bureaucratus, the oldest skink to exist, as lightning shot out of his scales. "No more dinosaur population tracking! All glory to the GM!"
Wal'dorf: His laugh needs some work.
Sta'tler: Here, let's show him how it's done.
Doh-ho-ho-ho-Hoh!
Sta'tler: This quest is awful.
Wal'dorf: Terrible!
Sta'tler: Disgusting!
Wal'dorf: See you next week?
Sta'tler: Only if he actually makes an update!
Doh-ho-ho-ho-Hoh!