Congratulations to the Producer of a Goofy Movie!

We hope you’re happy, because if you are that will make this that much sweeter.

Today, at nine AM, a group of horribly mutated dogs will assault your homes, attacking your doors with their freakish, oversized skulls. They’ll ram your door repeatedly, desperately trying to get to the delicious humans contained within. They’ll rake the wood with their massive talons.

You’ll hear the scratching at your door, the horrible baying.

“Goofy?” you’ll ask your empty home, your family having long since abandoned you for your crimes against humanity. The dogs will respond with more horrible baying, which will sound a little bit like the celebrated cartoon character, whose memory you’ve made a modest living defiling, but it will still be horrifying.

You’ll rush through the house to catch sight of the dogs clawing at your door, their massive barbed phalluses swinging beneath them as they hammer their engorged skulls again and again into your door. You’ll immediately recognize them as a part of a failed promotional effort when you made the film that defined your career nearly a decade ago. They’ll be the by-product of an attempt to make actual living copies of Goofy, an attempt which succeeded in making only one copy who later went on to touch kids.

You’ll immediately know that they’ve come for their revenge and, having tried to keep them in cages years earlier, you’ll know that the door won’t hold them for long. Panicking you’ll rush back through the house and run out of the back door, hoping to find a river or a pile of burning tires that could possibly cover your scent and delay their pursuit.

You’ll make it around fifty feet before they close upon you. They’ll circle you rapidly, rushing up behind you and taking your hamstrings with their vile, crowded teeth, razor sharp and streaked with filth. You’ll drop to your knees unwillingly, gibbering with fear. That’s when the dogs will be mounting you, carefully, almost gently. Their massive brains will have granted them awareness of just how to make your death as horrible as possible. And as two of them penetrate your ocular cavities and begin skullfucking you ever so gently while a third one of them violates you anally you’ll realize that you should’ve chosen a different path.

You’ll wish that you could stop screaming, if only to cry out that you should’ve finished art school, but you won’t be able to. Turns out being skullfucked by mutated dogs while a third dog rapes you anally is super unpleasant, and you’ll die screaming while most of the sentient world cheers your fate.

Congratulations to the Producer of a Goofy Movie!