I’ve been on a Pratchett bender the past week or so, having found six Discworld novels at Half Price books that I didn’t own already. This is a boon of massive proportions, especially seeing as one of them (although it’s not in the best of shape but I don’t even care) has the original paperback artwork. I’m fine with the generic mass-produced covers of most of the paperbacks that I find, but the style of the originals is so ornate and so damn cool that it makes me want to get a full back piece tattooed of the Discworld. Of course, I already wanted to do that, it just makes the wanting and the needing of it that much stronger.
I’ll keep trying to crawl out of my head – it mostly sounds like the zzzzztttt of a staticky television set, randomly interspersed with snippets of songs that burst out while I’m cleaning the cat box, or, more frequently than one would imagine, the doot-doot-doot of the original Mario Bros. game. The tail end of my intelligence is dangling right in front of me, so I’ll just keep fattening it up with good books and blogs, questionable television choices (hell yeah, MTV’s The Challenge: Free Agents is on tonight!), and silly ridiculous sketches that are so bad they make me laugh even while I’m still drawing them. Soon, it’ll get so chockfull of stuff that it’ll burst its seams like the Oogie Boogie Man, and genius in the form of creep-tastic animated bugs will swarm through my mind and spill onto the page.
It’s possible I haven’t gotten enough sleep. Mayhap I’ve gotten too much. Mayhap.
Until that day, please enjoy the most oddly specific spam comment I’ve gotten yet:
Individual, almost microscopic-level jokes, like Cousin Ira
grabbing a fake name from his pen and insisting that he was the contender
and she waas the ex-wife of the i need help to get my ex back contender