I’m not one to be woken peacefully. More than once during my formative high school years, my sleep preservation counter measures found me punished before breakfast. My tactic as it’s been told to me is to flail my limbs without concern for any objects or people and their respective faces. Once all offending parties are out of waking reach, I flip to my stomach and, with a snuff, I’m out. My poor mother came to fear my fitful fists of fury so much that she refused to rouse me, and passed the task to my father. He, half in self-preservation and half in humor, settled on pouring water on me. Struggle as I might, my flinging limbs were powerless against the tactile assault of waking by wetness.
He’s been around since the inception, but we’ve never divulged the name of our mime until now. Everyone, meet Mo. Mo, everyone. Mo Moreau. Formally, his forename is longer, but like some of his comedic forebears, he’s not going to play all his cards just yet. There’s got to be a storyline to be milked out of that, right?