The trouble with being a cloud
Meteorology is simple. A cloud drifts along, minding its business, quietly filling up with air. And air, as anyone who has ever been a cloud will tell you, does not stay put forever.
He is made of air
Ninety nine percent air, one percent ambition. This is true of every cloud in the sky. Tootsy simply refuses to be shy about it.
Air must go somewhere
Thunder is just a cloud letting go, and Tootsy holds sixteen distinct weather events. Some roll in gently. Others arrive.
He feels every one
A wince for the rippers. A wobble for the rumbles. And a deep, pink blush when you get carried away, which you will.
