For years I’ve made offerings–i.e., small children sent to the heavens via weather balloon–to the Interweb Gods in hopes of a pixel-based delivery of a Star Wars cake in the form of an eviscerated tauntaun. Years.
Immaculate. I think the tauntaun entry on Wookieepedia most eloquently sets the scene:
Tauntauns possessed numerous evolutionary adaptations to the bitter, cold environments of Hoth. Those adaptations included […] thick blubber […] and a digestive system that excreted wastes as oils through skin pores, producing a distinctive odor. Han Solo commented on the smell after he sliced open his recently deceased tauntaun with Luke Skywalker’s lightsaber to keep the latter warm.
Poetry! The words swell and bend like bloated tauntaun entrails. Oh, look… there’s some, now!