"I'm afraid there's no cure for plasma scrambling," Bobby answered theatrically, rolling his eyes wildly for dramatic effect. "I'm fit to be served up as a plate of undead eggs now, and that's about it. Alas," he sighed, slapping his hand against his forehead and flopping over in a heap.
"Will you sing my eulogy? Something pretty, and not in English, so people don't know you're really going on about what a schmuck I was?"