I am sorry, I cannot eat these.
I can, however, transfigure them into a stylish outfit.
Ask a Minecraft Sheep
YOU SHALL NOT MEET A BEING AS CLASSY AS I
We have not yet learned a way to decompile information.
And no, we did not buy a WinRAR license. No one does that.
ಠ___ಠ
I would like to know how you managed that.
More often than you could possibly recognize.
We sheep like to reward good behavior, and with a little bit of negotiation…
…we give those people what they want. The Endermen can change things.
These are small, but significant. We wouldn’t want anyone dying, would we?
Wake up.
Have breakfast.
Call public transportation.
Observe.
Lunch.
Ponder.
Second lunch.
Have in-depth discussion.
Punish offenders.
Call public transportation.
Prepare for resting.
Repeat at leisure. Add more wheat if necessary. Consult a doctor if the day lasts more than 24 hours.
Hello human.
Our ambassador may arrive shortly to check on your well-being.
I would imagine so.
It would be in your best interest to back away from that letter.
In your frenzy for answers you seem to have glanced over my previous mentioning of the matter. Let me redirect you.
I know you. Rumors had led us to investigate you.
The things we found were disturbing.
I would urge you to stop your wool-collecting, lest my hoof SLIP
on a flint and steel. You have been warned.
We think differently.
Zombies are jerks.
The Endermen are our greatest allies.
Color matters little to us, as it has become a fashion to dye one’s wool at a whim. Some of our kind have an aversion to this, because it was created by the creatures that enslaved us.
Our history is stained rose-red. At one time, color was given at birth and determined social status. This was long ago, when our kind was primitive and weak. We had powers, of course, but they were ill-developed. We would teleport into any light we could find at night, invading the bases of strange bipedal creatures that were usually violent. We could not defend ourselves. Our wool would simply fall off if we were so much as touched, and would never regrow, leading to mass slaughter.
I dare say that what lies beyond our lips is not as pink as the exterior appears.