Don’t burn, baby, don’t burn

Mr. and Mrs. Smithing Table

That’s a lot of work for a bit of rope

A fishing rod made of gold

Welcome to my crib

Stop hounding me

Be as still as a rock

That’s a moai statue… with shades

Why yes, I do want my glove to cause an explosion

Rocks and stones, brother

Get on the mushroom fever

Hold the line with overwhelming firepower

We can’t live without plastics even in a zombie apocalypse

This isn’t even my final form