*wakes up and turns on my giant complicated yet charming series of rube goldberg machines that make my breakfast but i mess up the combination and get scorching hot eggs tossed in my face*
Pretty fucked up to see people uncritically reblogging this when OP’s automated hedge-trimmer rendered all my topiaries cubist as well as slicing my belt in two, causing my pants to fall down and reveal a whimsically-patterned pair of boxer shorts
So we’re just supposed to row 36 barrels of gunpowder down the Thames, sneak it into this rented cellar, wait for Parliament to open, then I creep back in, light the fuse, run away and blow up the King, and all without getting caught?