Cortex Commander: Alright men, we're going for a jog! Battle stations! This is a critical situation. He's barely suited to FIFA marathons, let alone actual running.
Lieutenant Lungs: What should we do, sir?
CC: Activate asthma.
LL: But sir, that will just make him into a wheezy mess. He won't be able to breathe.
CC: Precisely, we need to make this as difficult as possible so that we can get back home ASAP. Legs?
Lance-Corporal Legs: Ready for duty, sir.
CC: Don't be. I need you to be the consistency of jelly that's been left out in the sun. A flaccid sock. Like a microwaved cucumber, alright?
 |
| Let this limp prick be your inspiration. |
Legs: Aye aye, sir.
CC: Arms! Where are you?
Admiral Arms: What do you need, sir?
CC: Have you ever seen a half inflated wacky waving tube man?
AA: Can't say that I have sir.
CC: Envision it. Do it. Major Metabalism!
MM: Sir?
CC: Divert all remaining energy to the face. Make him as red and immobile as a weathered post box.
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| Like this, but squatter and more crimson. |
CC: Turn up the heat. I want him gushing sweat like a leaky Niagra Falls.
Brigadier Brain: Anything I can do, Commander?
CC: Remind him that no matter how much he runs, he can't outrun the foul inevitable spectre of death.
BB: Is that all, sir?
CC: If there's anything left, you can start drafting a shitty blog post about how terrible he is at exercise.
BB: Done and done, sir.
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