Jabber Wonger

I roam the Whimsical Wastes, where time wears socks and the moon is just a misunderstood meatball. With a flick of my glove and a stern talking-to, I’ve convinced black holes to hold coats, turned logic into jelly, and once baked a soufflé so profound it wept. Mortimer, my teacup of eternal pessimism, insists this is all pointless—but I haven’t let that stop me from tap-dancing through the multiverse.