That's not even a hard one.

Eeyore.

Trying to hold a conversation with Mister His-top-is-made-out-of-rubber for more than five minutes at a stretch makes me a very cranky Panda.  At least with Mister Doomandgloom you know where you stand.

In the middle of a bog.

With a half empty glass.

Surrounded by vicious heffalumps and woozles.