Shit George R. R. Martin Says: A Script We're Too Lazy to Film
George R. R. Martin sits in a filthy living room, surrounded by soda cans, hamburger wrappers, and crumpled pieces of paper. It's like he's inside a goat, pretty much. Straddling a bucket of chicken, he bellows toward the camera.
Ser something something.
George R. R. Martin: Smallclothes!
He sticks a drumstick into his mouth.
George R. R. Martin: Boiled leather!
He flips through a thesaurus.
George R. R. Martin: Is there a synonym for 'waddle'?
He executes a Stark.
George R. R. Martin: The bear! The bear! The maiden fair!
He hears a rustling at the window.
George R. R. Martin: Black wings, black words!
A crow enters and steals a chicken wing.
The Crow: Corn! Corn!
George R. R. Martin: Snow! Snow!
He yanks back the purloined chicken.
George R. R. Martin: My sweetling, you are yet a maiden true!
Sucking on the meat, he turns on his TV and watches HBO.
George R. R. Martin: I don't remember writing all these tits.
He sings along to a recording of Julie Andrews' "My Favorite Things":
George R. R. Martin:
"Dunsen and Chiswyck and Raff the Sweetling/
Polliver, Ser Gregor, Ser Illyn, and Amory/
The Tickler, the Hound, Joffrey the King/
and Queen Cersei are Arya's least favorite things."
He updates his Live Journal with the news that the next book will be split in two, with all the good parts in the second.
George R. R. Martin: It is known!
He turns crestfallen reading the comments this announcement provokes.
George R. R. Martin: Seven hells! You know nothing, Jon Snow!
He works and works and is just about to finish his series, secure in the knowledge that life is not at all like his books, and that a good person who attempts to do a good thing will not be cruelly punished for no particular reason. Then the crow returns.
George R. R. Martin: The others take you! You've been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and moon boy, for all I know!
The crow feasts upon him.
George R. R. Martin: No! Ouch! Mine own flesh!
Friends of the crow -- perhaps bannermen -- join in.
George R. R. Martin: Hodor!
The Crows: Corn! Corn! Valar Morghulis!
His relatives arrive and each claim to be the millionaire author's only true heir. Later, a chapter written from the crow's perspective makes you not quite forgive the crow but at least understand why it did this.
Oh, also, we should probably work in something about winter coming soon.