What a monstrous thing, to spit at death. 

This time nary a Fortnite past, in the bowels of my laboratory, which I hath so playfully and now so inappropriately— for I did not foresee the present circumstances— nam’d “Home of the fief and land of the bray,” I return’d from the mantel of death the cadaver of my building’s doorman and greeter, Tipt. 

“What peculiar choice of patient?”  You may well be questioning at the present. You see, I am not in good standing with the medical and anatomical communities of our modern era, and as such, cannot acquire bodies in a manner concordant with the “Law.” The academy does not take kindly to mischief, I have learned—under which umbrella category they consider my hilarious “entire-bird-in-soup” pranks to fall. For this reason, when Tipt was mysteriously ravaged by a curious case of Avianiosis, a diseases linked with the consumption of bird innards, I knew I must pounce upon the opportunity for a cadaver.

Through a complex series of electrical wirings, vital organ auxiliary, and the most potent of brewings which I could concoct with what was left over from an egg sandwich I resign’d to my icebox and  failed to retrieve before setting off on a three month retirement to the Caribbean to sun-soak and dish with the gals, I pumped into false veins the living spirit of Tipt. The jolt of ecstasy I felt in that moment was rivaled only by Tipt’s, I pr’sume.

I am now faced with another obstacle, however, one with much more guff than the conquering of Mother Nature, it seems to me. What must I do with half-decomposed, brackish, mangey, not-easy-on-the-eyes, Tipt? He’s alive, yes I do admit that into this court, but no spring chicken if you gather my meaning…

If I ever should have thought the man was out-of-touch and dated before his untimely death, then I should feel even more so now. He loafs within the walls of the my laboratory from dawn until dusk. He seems to carefully place himself wherever I should need him least. Like an older child acting out at the birth of a sibling, I’m beginning to see signs of jealously for other experiments. He has “accidentally” spilled water all over circuit boards; He has eaten all the cheese from my mazes; And you can call my Yoda Chia Pet Richard Nixon because there is less grass on that thing than Mount Everest. 

Below are just a few of the injustices I have suffered by his hand: 

• Scribbling crude likenesses of me with exaggerated “dork”-like feature all over my scientific journals (I do not wear nor own glasses). 

• Assigning names to my animalistic test subjects, and, on the grounds that they now have names, insisting that they not be harmed maimed, or otherwise feather’d. Mind you, they are very lazy ones, at that. Names like “chicken-ey”, or “Bunny-ears.”

• Asking for money to get his band into the scene. They are very bad and quite frankly I do not think there is any sort of place for that much French Horn in any genre of music… No less punk?!

• Slipping Carraway seed into my bread supply, which he knows I do not much prefer. 

• Whenever I chance to order nutrition from the local eateries, he is want to say he does not want that which I know he wants. And then the food gets here and it’s like “uhh, hello? Remember when you said you did not want fries?” 

Which is wherefore I now ask that if any loving homes have room for one more mouth to feed, both me and Tipt would so deeply appreciate the hospitality. Perhaps Etsy is not the place to sell your re-animated corpse of a doorman. Perhaps if one were sell their re-animated doorman on Etsy, they should make a better case than this. To these folk, I say…… ummmmmmmmmm.