Mike Buzzelli is a stand-up comedian and published author. His book, "Below Average Genius" is a collection of essays culled from his weekly humor column here in the Observer-Reporter.

I’ve taken a bunch of Buzzfeed quizzes. I found out that if I were a dessert, I’d be a Key Lime Pie (sweet and sour). I’m a Dorothy with a rising Blanche. If I were kidnapped, and I had to be rescued by the TV characters of the last show I watched, I’d be up Schitt’s Creek. I’d be dead before Moira could pick out a wig.

I’m a Hufflepuff with a beaver patronus.

Side note: J.K. Rowling got rich making up a lot of stupid words, including words like Hufflepuff and patronus. Many great writers make the mistake of using REAL WORDS! Instead, jam your fingers into the keyboard and come up with words like Slytherin, Hogwarts, Dumbledore and Severus Snape.

But I digress, like I do. My superhero name is the color of my shirt and the object on my immediate right. That makes me the Black Mouse. That’s a great hero name, but my battle cry would be, “Mouse like a computer mouse, not, like, an actual rodent!”

The Black Mouse would fight crime with his best friends, The Aquamarine Wine Glass and the Plaid Fish Stick.

Recently, a Buzzfeed quiz traumatized me. I had to pick out my drag queen/porn name. You take your pet’s name and the name of the street you grew up on. I became Turtle Saranac, which sounds like the name of a Real Housewife of Long Island.

It brought back a sad memory of my first-and-only pet, Turtle the turtle.

I didn’t really have a pet. I had a turtle for a day-and-a-half. I didn’t even have time to give him a name. He was just Turtle, with a capital T. He lived, albeit briefly, in a fish tank in the garage. Since he only lived there for less than two full days, he was more of a house guest than a pet. My dad told me he ran away, which seemed impossible, even to me, and I was 7 years old at the time. I assume my dad, who didn’t want testudines (or reptiles) in the garage in the first place, reached the end of his very short fuse and, most likely, flushed the turtle down the toilet.

He couldn’t have run away. First of all, turtles don’t necessarily run. They are in no rush to get anywhere.

Turtle was tiny. He was smaller than my thumb. My 7-year-old thumb – not my current thumb. I don’t believe he could’ve gotten out of the fish tank in one schoolday, but my dad tried to convince me he made it across the yard and into the woods in six hours. He couldn’t even have gotten out of the garage in that limited time period.

How does a turtle figure out the garage door opener? Did he know the code? He didn’t have fingers.

Turtles do, however, live long. Maybe he’s still out there. Maybe he survived multiple lawn cuttings and chemical treatments.

Turtle, come home. I’m still waiting.

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