|This is my pissed off face.|
Apologies to the readers of writing about writing. With Chris still out looking for The SciGuy, apparently discipline has slipped around the Writing About Writing compound. I walked in on Guy Goodman St.White passed out next to a bottle of scotch.
He mumbled something about not signing on for a job with a body count and fish smelling admins when I tried to wake him up. I slapped him with four tentacles while shaking him with four others. I'll try to pretend it was totally professional and that I got no pleasure from it in light of the fish-smelling comment. I smell like LAVENDER, thank you. That's what my body wash is made of.
I may have smacked him a few extra times even though it was clear he was dead to the world. Maybe.
Guy was passed out in a sea of notes on Christopher Marlowe and The Tragical Tale of Doctor Faustus so I assume that we can count on an entry once he's back up and running. Apparently, he just needs to type it up, print it out, and he's good to go.
So please excuse the inconvenience of today's entry being late, or perhaps even delayed until tomorrow. Our little diva seems to be developing a bit of a problem. We're working at top speed to bring you this month's entry of Speculative Fiction Sucks Balls: And Not in the Good Way.
-Cedric (who does not smell like fish)