About a year ago I posted this fragment of a storyboard-gif for a Tangled/thebestPM filk thing. I actually tried to write the lyrics at the time, but only got halfway, mostly because the lyrics to Mother Knows Best are really good and, like most filks I’ve attempted, it felt like drawing badly all over a perfectly nice painting.
Anyway, I had another go a few days ago and thought I’d put it up as a sort of apology for the silliness (and unfinishedness) of thebestPM in general. Goethel and Caro/GLaDOS have very different character voices, but they’re both masters of the shamelessly unsubtle, passive-aggressive guilt trip.
Bluh bluh bluh I’m not very good at rhyming.
You want to read this at the Conference? Oh, sir…
HELLO PEEPS it is Portal’s birthday today so I am doing a Blue Sky sort of… thing.
I have erasers. REALLY NICE IWAKO ONES. I have an apple, a unicron, and a… doughnut. They don’t make bagels. BUT I SWEAR TO YOU, if you turn this bastard over, it looks as much like a bagel as you could want. Also they’re not all in one piece, so if you wanted you could probably find a way of removing the chocolate icing part without harming the doughnut/bagel part. But I’m going to leave that up to you, because I’m not licensed to perform eraser surgery.
LIKE OR REBLOG THIS POST to enter. I’ll run all the entries through a random picker on Sunday night, or as soon as I work out what a random picker is.
Entry deadline is at 12:00 GMT Sunday 21st. GOOD LUCK, and for the bajillionth time, THANK YOU FOR BEING SO LOVELY ABOUT MY STORY.
Also one runner up will get this giraffe.
I do not need to tell you why a giraffe.
(Now with BONUS LOVELY ARTS BY RUBIT after the jump!)
She’d chosen the balcony table, side-on to the bar, and the wide golden room below was full of muted conversations and good smells. The ceiling was a plated lake of silver, and the leather chairs resembled fat chocolate buttons fanned out around every table. Outside, drizzle ghosted down across the city in a limp shroud, stroking at the restaurant’s floor-length windows as if it longed to get in but honestly couldn’t be bothered to try.
Everything was elegant and well-presented and pleasant to look at, with the sole exception of her lunch companion.
Oh, he’d made an effort. When she’d spotted him in the foyer he’d been using a glass-framed print of Waterhouse’s La Belle Dame Sans Merci as a mirror and alternately combing his hair and threatening it under his breath, and he was wearing a suit-jacket which had to be on purpose if only because nobody could have designed something that looked so ghastly by accident. There had to have been malicious intent.
“There you are!”
Chell stopped in the aisle, wedging her shoulder against the humming eggshell-white curve of the wall. It bucked and shook like a nervous animal, and she gripped the plush seatback, trying to stay on her feet.
“Don’t you ‘sir’ at me like that, with your face, I thought you’d ditched me or something, looked round at the gate and you’d bloody evaporated, and now we’re probably all going to die-”
“It’s just turbulence, sir,” said the flight attendant, nervously, behind Chell. “We’re passing through a bad patch, there’s noth-”
“Look, mate, I know about turbulence, alright, I’ve read up on it, know my stuff. ‘May sometimes result in mild disruption to commercial aircraft travel,’ is what it says right here.” The Prime Minister stuck his phone under the flight attendant’s nose, then ducked and yelled as another stormy rattle shook the cabin. “AAH! That is NOT mild, that could not be described as mild under any circumstances! Come on, let me have it, I can take it, how long’ve we got? It’s the engine, isn’t it? Oh God, is that it, we’ve lost the engine?!”
#thebestpm was exactly a year old yesterday, so I tried to finish something nice and Christmassy for it, but ended up leaving it a bit too late. I also would like to link to these pictures of Larry II (read, Kevin) by Oodles again because they are lovely and exactly right.
The kitten rolled over on its back and continued to tug and suck busily on the point of the Prime Minister’s tie, which he’d shed on his way to his wardrobe in the other room. The tie, much like the kitten- and the Prime Minister himself, for that matter- was soaking wet, as cold as the sleet that battered the big window and stood in melting puddles on the carpet. Chell had shut the window firmly the second after she’d managed to pull him in from the roof, excluding the possibility that he’d make another spirited attempt to do away with himself.