(Editor’s Note: This article was slipped in a folder underneath the Campus Times’ door under the cover of night. We know as much as you do, and encourage consulting the internet for more information.) 

You thought you could run. You thought you could hide. 

You buried any thought of him back in the 1980s, didn’t you? Back when you found out his organ-painted outsides matched his organ-painted insides? 

You went home to your spouse, covered the memories in dirt and put his colorful body in an unmarked grave. 

You thought you could stop him. You thought you could bring his madness to an end. 

Fool. Blithering idiot. You thought you could murder the superhero of health? Murder the minstrel of medicine? Hang the herald of hygiene?? Slim Goodbody is the bane of worlds, and the conqueror of hearts and minds. He is enshrouded in fear, mystery, and a 4000 dollar costume.

His skin is impenetrable, his abs are irresistible, and his wrath inescapable. Only his godly visage could navigate such complex roles: appearing twice a week on “Captain Kangaroo” between the years of 1976 and 1981 (being the year in which Slim Goodbody absorbed the Captain’s soul), and a Radio Shack commercial in the 2014 Super Bowl. 

Let me make something painfully clear to you. Do you know how healthy Slim Goodbody is? Every morning that man wakes up and eats a doctor, to keep the apples away. He invented the Hippocratic oath just so that he could violate it. He locked his cytoplasm in a prison, and you best believe he is the powerhouse of his mitochondria’s cell. 

Slim Goodbody fucking photosynthesizes. He is hell on earth, terror incarnate; the fifth horseman of the apocalypse. 

And he knows what you did. 

And you know what he’s going to do. 

So hide your fruits. Hide your veggies. 

Cuz Slim Goodbody is back, motherfuckers.



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