He was in his Super Grover guise, zooming over the street to demonstrate the concept of "above." Instead of landing gracefully, he landed with a stiff, horrified gasp. Grover stood perfectly still on the pavement, his signature Super Grover helmet listing slightly. Then, he dramatically ripped off his cape, tossing it onto a discarded banana peel. “Mon Dieu! This frightful, polyester monstrosity!” he exclaimed, his voice no longer the familiar, enthusiastic squeak, but a deep, pinched tenor. He straightened his entire body until he seemed two inches taller. Elmo, still giggling nearby, rolled a fuzzy red ball toward him. “Grover, play ball with Elmo!” Grover recoiled, tucking his hands stiffly under his armpits. “Play? With a vulgar, mass-produced rubber orb? I am afraid, my dear boy, that I no longer engage in such peasant amusements. Such pursuits are well beneath my station.” He then spotted Big Bird sweeping the sidewalk with a large, simple broom. “Excuse me, large avian creature!” Grover called out, taking small, precise steps. “One simply must inquire: do you not find it hideously common to handle one’s own refuse? One must employ a staff for such menial tasks. I shall require a valet immediately to attend to my impeccably manicured fur.” Big Bird paused, holding the broom. “Grover, are you feeling okay? You sound... snooty.” Grover scoffed, dramatically adjusting his invisible cravat. “Snooty? I assure you, I am merely being discerning. I am Lord Bertram of Beak Street, and I am in dire need of a proper, velvet drawing-room where I may sip bespoke tea and compose highly exclusive, utterly inaccessible poetry.” Just then, he saw a woman struggling to carry two heavy bags of groceries. His body gave a brief, involuntary twitch—a ghost of his former heroic impulse. But Lord Bertram immediately shut it down. He raised a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Ah, a low-status situation. While I might previously have descended upon the scene to offer unpaid, common assistance, I now see the virtue of selective indifference. That is, after all, what separates the elite from the... hoi polloi.” He turned up his nose and began to march toward the brownstone, presumably in search of an artisanal tea service, leaving Big Bird and the confused onlookers scratching their heads. The Super Grover helmet lay abandoned