"Please rush me my portable walrus polishing kit! Four super brushes for cleaning even the trickiest of sea-bound mammals! Yes, I am over 18, although my IQ isn't."
Spaghettification. Let me guess. I can see only two options: one -- due to the bizarre effects of the intense gravitational pull, and because we're entering a region of time and space where the laws of physics no longer apply, we all of us inexplicably develop an irresistible urge to consume vast amounts of a certain wheat-based Italian noodle conventionally served with Parmesan cheese; or two -- we, the crew, get turned into spaghetti. I have a feeling we can eliminate option one.
I remember when my dad died, you know. I was only six. I got loads of presents off everyone, like it was Christmas. I remember wishing a couple more people would die so I could complete my Lego set. My grandma tried to explain, you know. She said he'd gone away and he wasn't coming back. So, I wanted to know where, like, you know. She said he was very happy and he'd gone to the same place as my goldfish. So I thought they'd flushed him down the bog. I thought he was just round the U-bend, you know. I used to stuff food down, you know, and magazines and that for him to read. They took me to a child psychologist in the end, because they found me with my head down the bowl, reading him the football results.
