pepsoid

'I am,' said Mick, 'a tree.' 'No you're not,' said Larry.

Larry passed Mick a chicken drumstick, which Mick took, got out his penknife, sliced off a slice, dipped it in the gluepot and stuck it onto the canvas before him. He then stood back and twizzled the small, pointy goatee beard he had been cultivating. 'It's good,' said Larry, over the sound of the welding torch, which he was taking to the large block of cheese; 'but it needs more chicken.'