This post is part of my continuing pseudo-rant about the rift between fact and fiction. It features graphic children’s books, hipster vampires, Bob Dylan covers of Rebecca Black songs, and references to John le Carré. Small children and people who have had their appendix removed ought to leave now, and go watch My Little Ponies or something. This has been a public service announcement by the Stranezzian Department of Coolness.
First thing’s first. I went downstairs to drink some allergy medicine last night because I’m allergic to practically everything and was having a fierce attack against my bodily defences. Then I started thinking–which is always a bad idea, now that I think of it–and I said to myself, “What if I make a children’s book about a half-deranged mortician and all of his vampire buddies?” And then I told my sister my plan, and she gave me this look that said: “Geez, that’s a horrible idea. You’re going to traumatise little kids for life if you do that.” But did I listen to her? No, otherwise this post would end right here and that wouldn’t be cool at all.
P.S. So anyway, what I did next: I started thinking about my evil plan, but then I got distracted by John le Carré’s The Constant Gardener, which is an awesome book by the by, and I forgot my plan, so I grabbed a notepad and started writing stuff down, hoping that it would come back to me. And then it did, so I was happy.
I decided my story ought to be illustrated and that I should take out the vampires, saving them for a later issue, and so the story somehow became about a little boy called Sammy who wants to know what happens to his grandmother when she dies. His father decides to take him to his friend Mortimer’s funeral parlour, and Sammy is then traumatised for life.
After I finished it, I looked over my magnum opus, and I thought to myself: “Wow, I need to go see a therapist.”
P.S. That’s the real end.