Y'know, I thought that meeting this morning would NEVER END!
Tell me about it.
Why do they bother creative types like us with all that gobbledygook?
On and on, bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla, bla bla bla bla bla bla,
bla bla bla bla bla. Bla. Blblblbla.
Yeah, I asked the guy beside me to kill me, but he was dead already!
I mean, just slap a Space Ghost logo on it and it'll sell like hotcakes!
Slap it on a drum of toxic waste! Watch them boys fly out the door.
Yep! It'll make millions!
Case closed. Here's a letter from Nat Whitehill, age eleven, from Gig Harbor,
"Dear Space Ghost, I'm a huge fan. You have the funniest show on any planet
in the whole universe. How did you get so funny?"
You know, when I was a little bitty tiny little ghostling, a magic fairy
-and asked me if I would like to be a funny guy.
You big fat LIAR!
Here's a joke. A guy walks into a restaurant. A horse. A horse walks into
an ice cream parlor. And he sees a talking dog. No wait, wrong joke. He sees
a horse with a really long face. No, this guy is the horse, and he asks the
pizza man, who says "What's that?" No, "Why do you have such a big face?"
"a long face." To the horse. In the barber shop. Ha ha, get it? Ha ha ha
ha ha ha, eh heh heh heh heh heh, a-ha.
(The background music, which had been slowing as Space Ghost was trying to
tell the joke, stops, leaving the sound of the wind blowing and crickets