Due to the belated arrival of Winter's Sole Redeeming Quality (aside, of course, from chicks in scarfs, Christmas, and its related Coca Cola adverts), tonight's football game is likely annihilated.* That said, today's Grandiloquent Vagary arrives just in time for lunch.
I have a horror idea. The nugget of some raw material, anyway. Since Ought Seven, I've been trying to get a script of the macabre airborne. My avail is none. Said notion has real potential, so it's prolonged gestation gives me the bluest of blue balls. Might be time to give On Writing's spine another crack.**
But who or what must you, the noble reader, "thank" for going Herbert West on the flaccid (fner), saggy remains of my scriptwriting dream?*** Lest I embarrass the person in question - who doubtless knows anyway - know this: temporal shenanigans with none more bleak endings are scriptwriting Lucozade.
Now, go forth and book your Punisher: War Zone ticket. I am thrusting in the general direction of excitement.
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* What can I say? Some guys just aren't as willing to endure frost-ball in the name of the beautiful game.
** For shame to anyone who thought "fner" just now.
*** http://lsfhf.blogspot.com/2008/12/broken-dream-theatre-part-1.html
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