Suessian starcasting

Everthing's happy underground.  The other day I was making fun of something and I said "Hey this piano solo reminds me that time Rachel Rayman was making mustard spinach soup with quail eggs."  And you know what?  It really did.  The point in all of this kitncaboodle is that you can't expect something to happen that cannot happen.  A great man once said "No matter how the wind howls, the mountain cannot bow to it."  And that is my groove, the rhythym in which I live my life, my pattern of behavior.  And just because I skip out on my choir performance to collect odds and ends doesn't mean that I'm some kind of noble ill-tempered beast.  I can still metaphorically rescue the little girl from her terrible aunt who is after a huge diamond.  Metaphorically of course.  It doesn't take a dalmation to tell me what I should do.  I can still return to the lands of my forefathers and take back my pride and my rock from the enemy who has betrayed my kin to a pack of hyenas.  And even though I was made fun of for my huge ears and pink psychadelic visions, I can paint with all the colors of the wind with the best of them.  No fox in human clothing is going to steal my riches and give them to the other poor animals in human clothing, so just put that pea shooter down.  Esmerelda is a tramp.