if godzilla were my father, i wouldn’t be a constant disappointment like this little clay-lump of shit, known only as minilla, the son of godzilla.

godzilla was a free-wheelin’ man, cruisin’ the countryside and chomping on electrical towers — it was the time of his life. the days were long, the women were lizards, and the sun was bright like a nuclear explosion mutating and enlarging everything it touched. then, one terrible autumn day, godzilla fucked yoda and that wee shit minilla was born.

if godzilla were my father, i wouldn’t have the voice of a donkey, like his ass of a son. are you kidding me?! you’re the son of fucking godzilla — at least have your voice be the proud whinney of a thoroughbred. what an embarassment…

if i were minilla, son of godzilla, i would step in front of my father’s nuclear breath of doom and bake myself into a crunchy, indistiguishable mound so that my father could regain his honor and confidence and take down king ghidorah. king ghidorah has three freakin’ heads that shoot lightning bolts! smoke rings and shame ain’t gonna stop his evil reign, as boxing-promoter mcgee would say.

so minilla, you might be “adorable” and all, but die.