The Tick. Patrick Warburton. Oh. My. god.
I don’t often have them, but tonight I had a “Squee!!” moment. Why? Because somewhere in the universe, a quantum fluctuation happened and now we’re getting, at the least, a new pilot for a reboot of the live action series “The Tick”, starring Patrick Warburton himself, in the title role.
If you didn’t see The Tick back in 2001, I have to tell you: go. Run to your nearest Netflix-enabled toaster and watch the living shit out of that show. It won’t take long: there are only 9 episodes, and they only last about 20 minutes apiece. But they are hilarious, as you’d expect from the likes of Barry Sonenfeld (of way too many funny things to list). The costume was amazing. Warburton’s delivery of the hapless titular “hero” was impeccable. Yes, it was stupid, but man was it the best kind of stupid possible.
I can’t wait.
‘Frigerator’s door snapped forcefully out of my hand, closing quickly, the small electronic lock clicking with a loud ‘snick!’ "I have been talking with Scales, and it appears that you are 6.3 oz overweight." Said ‘Frigerator, authoritatively. "Scale reports that you have become quite the fat ass, and no food will be prescribed to you until you lose that excess lard." Microwave hummed agreeably in the background. "I have also taken the liberty to speak with Car, Bike and Cupboard, and we are all unanimous in this." Continued Fridge. "Go for a walk, tubby!" Toaster chimed in cheerfully. Sighing, I stepped outside. Front Door locked solidly with a ‘thunk!’ of finality. Gawddam internet has made my life hell. I’m building a time machine and going back to fix it.
Donovan awoke with a start and rubbed his eyes. As he lowered his hands from his face he was surprised to notice that he was sitting in what appeared to be a big, puffy cloud. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes again. ‘Well,’ he thought, seeing that the cloud persisted still, ‘then I guess there’s nothing for it-I’m dead.’
He leapt to his feet and looked around. There was no sign of the truck that had just been bearing down on him as he stepped out of the Stinky Finger Adult Book Store, nor the small Mexican man he’d pushed out of his way as he tried to escape. There was no sign of the wood and plaster he’d heard breaking as the truck crushed him between itself and the shop, either. He scratched his head, and then began a quick check of his assorted parts. Arms, check. Legs, check. Chest, check. Nipples, check. ‘Hmm’, he thought, ‘I appear to be intact; what gives?’