[ It's a damned good thing Rocket now understands his own genetic heritage, and more than that, has accepted it — that being the Procyon lotor or more commonly referred to: raccoon — or this guy wouldn't get another word out past his big-eyed face before Rocket leapt up onto the nearest surface to launch himself at him and claw said eyeballs right out.

As it is, Rocket remains exactly where he's seated, arms still crossed and looking thoroughly unimpressed while the humie goes through his meltdown. ]

Yeah, sure, you're absolutely high.

[ Why not play along, right? ]

And I'm a freakin' figment of your imagination. Better yet, I'm your fairy godparent, here to watch over you as you try to cook something that smells like the underside of Drax's feet. Do you even know what you're doing?