Sarby Pluto (?) here comes ma surly choke guts for another round of preening.
Yes, you heard, the Collector has returned to make you all jealous for another eight billion years. How do I do it? Where do I find the time and money to hoard things nobody cares about? Are you saying that you wouldn’t want a mint condition copy of ‘Vampire Dog’ on DVD, the greatest family film ever made? I don’t think you’re in your right mind, brother.
Into the vault we go, crimsonly like a chick stepping between some other sleeping chicks that aren’t early risers. What delights await us? Avert your eyes, puny human, you’re not ready for the sheer wonders in hand. For now, to wet your whistle (or shistle as I wanted to type) wash your ojos over these:
It’s another limited edition one of one set of Pouring Beans postcards that not only detail the exploits of leading science master and window enthusiast Kevin Hill and horse botherer and French dweller Christopher Marshall but when placed in the right position they depict a map. It must be a map to a magical item, like a wireless abbab with theoretical babs. Perhaps it’s a humongous drinks cabinet that you can climb inside when you get too wasted. Given how awful the weather is at the moment I guess we’ll never know; I’m not going outside.
11 comments on “Enter the Collector – Part 2”
Why would you do this? Why would you assemble these and photograph them without putting the map together? Why? Are you trying to make me ill?
I am. I was hoping for proj-vom (that’s projectile vomiting to you normal types) from the beginning. I did, however, assemble the map in the ‘Photos’ section of the website in case you couldn’t handle it.
So you did. Having felt continuously ill since the 21st December, I now feel better. Thanks.
I suppose the idea of sending postcards is very much dead like teatowels and silhouettes; nobody needs them anymore. I don’t need this silhouette, I’ve got a shadow thanks. Completely unnecessary.
I don’t know if you could say that sending postcards was needed by anyone back when we sent you all these. It certainly felt, at the time, like one of the least necessary things I’ve ever done.
Much like the spoons, secretly I’m always in need of postcards and they never arrive. Sometimes I put huge bragging stories on postcards and send them to myself to impress the post people, like the time I built a shed with no hands.
You built a shed with no hands to impress the post people? I can’t imagine they were all that bothered. Sheds never have hands anyway.
I beg to differ old cha… *Googles ‘sheds’* oh…
Yeah. There you go. As someone who now owns a shed, which is rotten from top to bottom and would be firewood if it wasn’t too damp to burn, I know a lot about this.
Your superior shed knowledge (shededge?) has blasted me into oblivion. I will ponder this as I lie scattered across the universe in little tiny pieces of m-me.
A fate you entirely deserve. Good day, sir.