Greg screams through his vein-extruding neck about his right foot. But where is his Oscar? Oh, right, it has to be the left foot. Whatevs. In his hilarious agony, three sweat drops and--oh fearful symmetry!--three stars fly off his wounded body. He turtles on the floor, his face a voracious Pacman as he bellows about his imminent death. Heh heh. This is great.
Then Mark, still jiggling his junk, relays a request from an invisible parent. Why bother to investigate the cause of the anguished screams for first aid or call 911? Ehn, just throw some coca and cookies at the kid, that'll get him to shut up. Parenting!
The best part is Chris's bored, impassive look as Greg spazzes out beyond all reckoning of space and time. I imagine this is the look my reader/reader(s?) wear/s as they read this blog.
Come on, you KNOW you look like that!