“We’re all so darn proud of ya.”
“Comment section and I.H.O.G.–”
The International House of Garcias, yeah.
“–are all just havin’ theyselves a whale of a hoot of a jamboree of a possum roast.”
Slow down on the folksiness.
“Can’t help it. I’m Backwoods Garcia.”
What does that even mean?
“Ever be deep in them piney woods and hear a guitar solo?”
“Well, that’s me playin’.”
Is this some sort of animism thing?
“WE ARE GOOD CHRISTIANS, SIR.”
Oh, good. More.
“Bedevil us not with your heathenry.”
Are you Old Testament Garcia?
“No, I’m Dennis Quaid’s Brother Garcia.”
This doesn’t even have a premise! This is all fucking stupid and makes no sense!
“Why can’t you accept that there are Garcias everywhere?”
“Look to your left: Garcias; to your right: also Garcias.”
“Neither of us are Garcias, though.”
Don’t lie to me, fuckers.
So, you’re not Twin Garcias?
“Of course not. That’s ridiculous.”
That’s what I’ve been saying. Thank God for some sane people.
“We merge to form one Garcia.”
“We are Voltron Garcia.”
“Can you not see the infinite Garcias in the world’s eyeballs?”
I have no idea how to answer that.
“I am Foreign Garcia.”
Yeah, I’ll give you that: you are foreign as fuck.
“My man-bun knows secrets.”
“I like the bit as well.”
And which Garcia would you be?
“No, no: I am a Bobby.”