Izzy’s Quest for the Olympic Rings

I don't even know what he's supposed to be.
I don't even know what he's supposed to be.

If you have dreamed for your whole life, or even a small part of it, of controlling an anthropomorphized purple turd from a third person view so zoomed in and restricted that you pull at your collar to let you breathe more easily and enemies careen inward towards you like stinging insects in your peripheral vision, sort of brushing your ear (or the hairs on your ear) or buzzing at the edge of your audible range, but you’re unable to turn your head to change focus and it’s like everything except yourself is permanently trapped in your peripheral vision and you (the purple turd) continue to smile without affect or, one assumes, any kind of muscular structure seeing as how turds don’t have muscles or ligaments, so it’s very strange that he (you) maintain(s) this fixed smile, until you realize that if there is no facio-muscular structure to produce a smile then it isn’t a smile and is just the default affectless character of his (your) face, that he/you are trapped in this artificially cheerful rictus forever until the bludgeoning impact of some vaguely Greek enemy reconfigures your (his) expression into one resembling pain and woe, but it’s not authentic and is actually simply really just the configuration that happens to be produced by this ethnic impact, this gesture towards the Grecian history of the Olympics, which Olympics you are in some way saving or attending with your ambulatory purple turd (which is you), and this entire situation puts you in mind of the nature of your own (not the turd’s) facial structures and muscular responses and how different, exactly, your face is from a purple turd’s face really, since we are all just blocks of organic matter being reconfigured by external forces and besides, how far are we (those of us who are not, allegedly, purple or turds) from turds, given that we are pulsing blobs of flesh with fluids and juices leaking regularly into specially crafted receptacles or just onto ourselves, sometimes explosively, like sneezing into the crook of your elbow or drooling on your pillow kind of thing, except that none of us dwell (let alone actively participate) in some heroic world of abstract entities that allows us to, by engaging in vaguely genocidal activities against vaguely Greek antagonists, save the Olympics, or something, and so who is really the turd, or more to the point are we worse or less valuable than turds, especially purple ones, and where does a purple turd come from anyways, probably something to do with grapes, conjuring images of the California Raisins or whatever they were called and how they’re probably related to Izzy (you [the turd]), then this game is for you.

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