The people shift blame after my release, people who have never even seen me. They cover their faces in shame or disgust, wishing I had been held prisoner longer. Yet before they know it, I have spread myself so thin I disappear. Who am I?

My color says I’m innocent, but not all agree. I can build up and tear down, based on the angle you see. If you use me, you may lose me, if you add complexity.

Spaghetti I eat, bad robots I slay. I work with aliens every darn day. Rocks I punch, a career gone South. Keep my wife's name out your bleeping mouth.

'Impossibility' that I was made. Conspiracy, as some would say. A scheme, they would have you pay. Aliens must be the only way.

Whatever isn't beneath us. Is that not the answer? No? Then what was the question?