Grumpy Porridge

In my homeland, I was a big-giant rockstar with "Grumpy Porridge." We played the rollerrocking musics in giant stone boxes. Many small ones would provide economic sustenance to stand in front of us and fall down rhythmically. After the sounds had been eaten, we would have to dance the whole way to our hotel rooms, impersonating soul pioneers "The Jackson Five", to evade the thigh-hungry lady fans. Once our flautist, Olav, fell behind and was found several days later, naked, baked into a jello mold. He has not been able to wheeze since. His family fears for the children.

These days, I am still baking many yelps, though Grumpy Porridge was unable to come to the American States of Happy Freedom with me. They have moved on without me, and while this eviscerates my optical glands counter-clockwise, I wish them many shinings, with the exception of Glarm. He is a birthing cactus.