Is it just me?
Alright, all this talk about
The Pickler is causing some disturbing thoughts in a head hazed in hangover and disgusting since creation. But all I really see in my head are comic book adventures of an epic nature where a bumpy and throbbing phallic symbol races around on tiny legs saving unsuspecting writers from the clutches of the three-headed Stooge monster. It all whirlpools in the back of my brain into some washed-out version of the Holy Grail scene.
ALL HEADS: You're
The Pickler?
The Pickler: I am.
Miranda: In that case, I shall have to give your book the chance it deserves.
Meiners: Shall I?
Clopper: Oh, I don't think so.
Meiners: Well, what do I think?
Miranda: I think screw him over royally.
Clopper: Oh, let's be nice to him.
Miranda: Oh, shut up.
The Pickler: Perhaps I could--
Miranda: And you. Oh, quick! Get the dollar out. I want to send out a worthless press release!
Clopper: Oh, go compare yourself to the great Poet!
Meiners: Yes, do us all a favour!
Miranda: What?
Clopper: Yapping on all the time.
Meiners: You're lucky. You're not next to her.
Miranda: What do you mean?
Meiners: You snore!
Miranda: Oh, I don't. Anyway, you've got bad breath.
Meiners: Well, it's only because you don't brush my teeth.
Clopper: Oh, stop bitching and let's go have tea.
Miranda: Oh, all right. All right. All right. We'll kill his literary dreams, profit from it and
then have tea and biscuits.
Meiners: Yes.
Clopper: Oh, not biscuits.
Miranda: All right. All right, not biscuits, but let's kill his dream anyway.
ALL HEADS: Right!
Meiners: He buggered off.
Clopper: So he has. He's scarpered.