🚀 go-pugleaf

The rotovator, in such a state of disuse that it couldn't be operated,
made Grimace to feel reproached for his complicity in allowing things
to arrive at the state they had reached.  Grimace bobbled slightly up
and down, unable to do much more because of the girth which had only
gotten worth since he had been forcibly retired, and muttered "How was
I supposed to know?"  All the objects in this area of McDonaldland also
seemed to ask the same question: Where were you, Grimace?  The styrofoam
bridge seemed to convulse with anger, and the painted sunset which hung
over the path he'd been walking, remaining always 20 feet from Grimace's
back, burned it's cancerous ire into his purple back.  Grimace moved
faster, now, though blindly; his eyes burned from the lack of moisture
as he had allowed the tears to fall freely, and the area beneath his
mouth, where the chin would be if his head had muscles to move it
separately from his body, was cracked and chipped a deep indigo from
the paths the tears had taken.  It's not my fault, he thought, a meek
attempt to reassure himself, they told me I wouldn't be needed as much
as they were ceasing their flavour-of-the-month shakes ... the choice
they had given him was even now so distasteful that he raised one of
his too-short-arms straight up in the air and attempted to wave away
the memory.  He was aware that gravel was flying before him, and he
thought for a moment they had found him, but, upon looking, he saw
the flying fillets.  "Hurry!" they shouted at him, and, for the first
time in many days' time, Grimace allowed himself to feel somewhat safe.

Then, reaching the top of the hill, he could see over it, down into
the rivulet below where a orange mass flowed imperceptively, he suddenly
knew what that smell had been, and he stopped, hit full force by the
sudden realization of why the Clown had not been allowed to call them
%milk%-shakes for so many years...