Blue Canvas, you had me at Michael Nolan.
Captain Hartoon: now there was a walrus of a man who always knew which way the wind was blowing. Standing six feet high, worth at least three stories (tall tales to be sure) and smelling faintly of cherry cordial, the good Captain could always be relied upon for turning the tables at precisely the least opportune moment, which was a sure sign of trouble for anybody who dared to cross him.
We never could understand his fondness for innertubes, or his near-crazed need to visit Florida in February, but that was just part of the old lobster's charm, don't you see? Whatever you do, just don't ask him about the gingerbread man, not if you value your rabbit's foot life.
Why? WHY?!?! For the love of Ezra Pound, need we spell it out for you? You read the papers when it all fell down like a Titanic deck of cards, we all did. The poor Captain just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, that's all, you can't blame him for that. It could have been worse: at least it was a Chrysler that he was strapped to, half-naked on that fateful day. Can you imagine being submitted to that kind of public embarassment yourself? No, praise God and pass me the artichokes, it could have been far, far worse.
Here he comes now! Oh dear, he's wearing his social trousers. He's always so much more gregarious in them. This won't end well ... no, this won't end well at all ...