GOB! The gob is a portal, a pink-flanked cave of chaos where vowels tumble out like startled goats and sandwiches vanish without trace. It smirks, it snarls, it sings love songs to passing pigeons and curses traffic cones with equal passion. Inside, the tongue lounges like a spoiled lizard, flicking secrets between teeth that moonlight as bouncers, forever deciding who gets out and who stays in. Sometimes it speaks truth, sometimes it just hums softly to the cutlery drawer. The gob is not to be trusted—but oh, what a show.






