(... and, uhm, sobell's strong hint that this would be a better place for the self-absorbed exhibits of my imaginary troupe. In my own defense, I had not really intended it to be a thing -- it just sorta got outta hand.)
Previously on imaginary finger-puppet summation ...
Michael: Dude, where's my car?
Mahone: How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?
Chuck: A woodchuck would chuck no amount of wood cuz your guy is standing right here.
Mahone: Wheeler, making with the wheeling and wheel!
Linc: Stand aside, li'l bro, for I am as reckless as thou art anal and we both know you always win at rock-paper-scissors.
Michael's car: *Ka-BOOM!*
Linc: Well, that killed my buzz. Got anymore cayenne?
Nika: All out. Maybe you could get a prescription from your doctor.
Michael: Wow, let's not talk about that and get this Sar- I mean: this show on the road.
Bellick: What ho!
Linc: Bro, your sorta-wife is totally gonna turn on us.
Michael: Ooooohhhhmmm, don't be silly, sadly distrustful fraternal one. Women are much better co-conspirators than men. Once you explain to them in a polite and logical manner that your 10 056 step plan (with branching contingency structure) is in the enlightened best interest of everyone following it and no one need resort to unseemly violence, they become very motivated and resourceful in doing your every bidding. Now, breath in. Breath out. Ooooohhhmmmmm...
Bellick: Sara. OD. Neener.
Michael: *VICIOUS KICK TO FACE* *Meltdown*
Sara: I am in no way connected to you in any way, shape or form, you hot mastermind ... I mean: you manipulative bastard!
Nika: You'll never love meeeeee!
Linc: Michael, you doofus, how many times do I have to explain this to you: It's. Not. Your. Mad. Planning. Skillz. That. Motivates. The. Fairer. Sex. To. Do. Your. Every. Bidding. Got it?
Michael: Does not compute. Bye, Nika! Hope we can still be totally platonic help-mates.
Linc: *sigh* Just get in the car.
(The T-Bag puppet goes on the middle finger.)
"Lance": Every girl needs a gay best-friend! We can go shopping together, cook sumptuous meals and talk about skeezy, manipulative, fatally attractive boys.
Mahone: Minions, from now on, I only hear the magic S-word ... and WHO ARE YOU CALLING A GENIUS WHACK JOB?
Tech-Minion: Uhm ... Scofield, sir?
T-Bag: Yarg, me saucy lad, I be huntin' boo-tay and you will be of ass-sis-tee-nay-tion.
Tweener: And this is different from Fox River how?
C-Note: *complain-fu* *hax0r-fu* *splash!*
"Lance": Am I being too probing? My partner, Danny, always said-- erm, says I'm too probing. Gosh, I miss him ... when he travels *sniff*. Anyone you miss?
Sara: Why don't you just redesign my mail arrangement and I'll be right back, m'kay?
Gov. Tancredi: Honey, your rebelliously idealistic ways are giving me an ulcer.
Sara: No, dad -- that's just a late-life onset of scruples.
Sucre: I object! *vamanos!*
Mahone's birdbath: *ripple* Nope, no fugitives here! Now take your chill pills and run along.
Michael: ... and some floss and a loofa.
Michael: Silence, karmic burden. The only thing I want to hear from you is the exact location of that silo ... OR I WILL PERSONALLY PERFORM A MAP-ECTOMY USING ONLY A LEMON ZESTER AND AN ANCHOVY!
Kim: I'm Madame President's right hand now. You've been demoted to her left little toe.
Linc: Life skills -- I'm just sayin'.
Michael: You're so cool.
Jeanette: This is all awfully inconvenient and dubi-- He-llo, salty pectoral goodness! Dig away, boys, you certainly seem to know what you're doing.
C-Note: Wash, rinse, repeat, snowflake.
Haywire: Oh-pah! Oooo, windmill-y. Come, Sancho, away!
Jeanette: *Writhe* *giggle* *verbally castrate*
Mahone: Freeze, punk. The only thing I want to hear from you is the exact location of Scofield ... OR I WILL PERSONALLY PERFORM A 411-ECTOMY USING ONLY A BULLET AND AN ANCHOVY!
(The Michael finger-puppet refuses to be on the same hand as the others -- I can't imagine why.)
Michael: I can do this! I can make this work just as long as ...
Linc: Sorry, bro, but my need to selflessly risk life and limb for the sake of my flesh and blood outweighs your geeky little desire to prove that your Plan-fu is the greatest.
Michael: ... nobody ...
Kim: Pfft! Like anyone's going to notice that we're offing whole families connected to the same case.
Kellerman: Stay away from my BFF Sar-- I mean, leave this to the original White House Family "Planner", you evil little git.
Michael: ... does ...
Mahone: Nothing personal, kid, but go postal on one fugitive lowlife, and you become some shadowy conspiracy's butt-monkey for life. *BANG!*
Michael: ... anything ...
Sucre: Sorry, compadres, but me and Maricruz, we have a love based on mutual respect and ill gotten gains acquired at gunpoint and I need to re-establish that.
Michael: ... stupid.
(For maximum authenticity, dip the Michael and Sucre finger-puppets in the beverage of your choice):
Sucre: I have served my purpose -- save yourself. My tethered body will float in this river as a monument to our undying love.
Michael: Okay, yeah: no. A) I am pathologically incapable of leaving you here to die, and B) I have determined that you are the only natural source of comic relief and are, therefore, indispensable. QED.
Sucre: Whoo! Plan!
Michael: Step 1) cradle your head above water in a tender yet manly fashion and Step 2) wait for the water level to rise. Simultaneously, I will Step 3) breath through my eyelids and meditate upon the question that has gotten us so far: What Would MacGyver Do?
Sara: Okay, breath. Think. What Would Scully Do? TRUSTNO1? Check. Hair fabulous and autumnal? Check. Decrypt message from tall and taciturn totally-not-significant-other? On it.
Kellerman: Whither the moral ambiguity? You were hired to do a job. So do it. Hard work is the American Way.
Mahone: True. If by "hired" you mean blackmailed, "job" you mean kill 8 guys who may or may not deserve it and "American Way" you mean ... oh, never mind. What Would Samuel Gerard Do?
(For your own safety, please hold the Michael and Mahone finger-puppets as far from each other as humanly possible):
Michael: I know what you did -- pity you can't move the body.
Mahone: Michael, these veiled threats are beneath you. I know where you're going -- pity you won't make it out of there alive.
Michael: Oh, Alexander, we are both men of towering intellect, surprising sensitivity and striking bone structure. Why must we fight?
Mahone: A cruel, cruel twist of fate ... So what are you wearing?
Michael: You mean you don't know? *click*
Edited by CelleDuSoleil, Oct 31, 2006 @ 3:50 PM.