If Disney is to survive the apocalypse, someone is going to have to be Mickey Mouse. Go on. Put the mask on. It is your destiny. Give in to your hate. Feel the merchandising coursing through you. Hear the cries of 10 billion overweight tourists. Feel the power of the dark side.
Or just, you know, wear this thing on Halloween. Or to protect your lungs from Minnie’s farts. She may be a mini-mouse, but those farts are the farts of a 500 pound Scrooge McDuck!