Why are you wearing all-black. George R. R. Martin? You’re at a beach resort.
“Ah, my good sir! You’ve noted my ebon garb! It represents House Marghalis, who are–”
NO. No. No, no, no. I don’t care. Stop talking.
“You shan’t upbraid me with the all-too-cliched ‘Get back to writing, George,” shall you?”
It’s not that. I just don’t give a shit about The Dragonfucker Chronicles or whatever it is you write.
“You’re quite rude, you know.”
Shut up and go buy a bathing suit.
Okay, jackass: let’s go.
Get up, Garcia. What did I tell you about that goddamn Time Sheath?
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, sir.”
Nice try: c’mon.
“My name is George R.R. Martin.”
Are you even trying? That’s clearly a fake name.
“Sir, I am best-selling author.”
“I feel what I do transcends genre, but I supposePUT THE TASER AWAY.”
I told you I had no sense of humor about this particular tomfoolery. Now come help me find Brent: he’s in one of those bear suits.
“Please call an ambulance.”
Walk it off.
“I could barely walk before you tazed me: I’m not a particularly robust man.”
You never were.
“Again: I’m not Jerry Garcia.”
That’s what Garcia would say.