oh god. um. an SGA comic? something like that.
Okay, so the challenge this week on sga_flashfic is "secret superpowers"-- like, Sheppard has Laser Eyes! or, Teyla is Telepathic! Wackiness Ensues! And I do have a story in the works for the challenge, because-- dude. SGA + superpowers is like combining my two favorite fannish pursuits. But the story's taking a while to work through, and today I got attacked by a vicious plot bunny type thing.
Only. It's not so much a story, you understand-- it's more like a very pathetic comic. Because I was thinking, hey, you know what'd be cool? if someone did a little mini-superhero comic book about Rodney McKay, Man of Relatively Thick Tin, and then I thought, it's too bad I'm not that good of an artist, and then I thought--
(Um. I do not own a scanner. This is me, doing the ghetto digital camera thing instead.)
You see, I had a sketch pad with me, and some pens and pencils, and I thought, what the hell, and then this happened.
(I'm pretty sure that Rodney writes angry letters to artists about the physics of breasts in comics, and how they Don't Do That, and also how Supergirl couldn't possibly sustain her weight on those ankles without breaking something, and so on and so forth. There would probably be equations.)
(Um, oh my god, please ignore this panel. You know, I took god knows how many art classes in high school, and I know for a fact that I did not fail perspective, whatever this picture would imply. Also, it appears that I magically added, like, seventeen feet to the interior of the coffee shop that Do Not Exist if one goes by the exterior shot.)
(Because John would totally name his shop something cheesey like Juvenile Records.)
(Why does handwriting not come with spellcheck? Why? Um, ribbon, not ribon.)
(Katie Brown was going to be a florist, but-- eh. I like the idea of her waving pinking shears, like, three inches from some incredibly valuable comic and McKay freaking the fuck out.)
Anyway. That's all I've got drawn at the moment, but obviously what happens is that McKay can't stand the new record shop, because (1) the stupid proprietor puts stupid flyers up in the window for stupid local acts like The Wig Outs or DJs who do nothing but Mullet Rock, (2) his classical collection is utterly pathetic, (3) the hipster vinyl freak population in the area has gone up exponentially in the past three weeks, and they keep stopping by Lost City Comics and asking for these ridiculous emo indie comics which, okay, aren't that bad, but what about the classics?, and (4) the owner, whatshisname, Sheppard, keeps stealing his table over at Hot Shot. It is an indignity not to be borne. Except, you know, Sheppard's kinda hot, and--
Dude. Someone else write it for me, or else I'm going to wind up drawing the whole fucking thing, and that's just a bad idea. Not in the least because my art skillz are rudimentary at best.
Only. It's not so much a story, you understand-- it's more like a very pathetic comic. Because I was thinking, hey, you know what'd be cool? if someone did a little mini-superhero comic book about Rodney McKay, Man of Relatively Thick Tin, and then I thought, it's too bad I'm not that good of an artist, and then I thought--
(Um. I do not own a scanner. This is me, doing the ghetto digital camera thing instead.)
You see, I had a sketch pad with me, and some pens and pencils, and I thought, what the hell, and then this happened.
(I'm pretty sure that Rodney writes angry letters to artists about the physics of breasts in comics, and how they Don't Do That, and also how Supergirl couldn't possibly sustain her weight on those ankles without breaking something, and so on and so forth. There would probably be equations.)
(Um, oh my god, please ignore this panel. You know, I took god knows how many art classes in high school, and I know for a fact that I did not fail perspective, whatever this picture would imply. Also, it appears that I magically added, like, seventeen feet to the interior of the coffee shop that Do Not Exist if one goes by the exterior shot.)
(Because John would totally name his shop something cheesey like Juvenile Records.)
(Why does handwriting not come with spellcheck? Why? Um, ribbon, not ribon.)
(Katie Brown was going to be a florist, but-- eh. I like the idea of her waving pinking shears, like, three inches from some incredibly valuable comic and McKay freaking the fuck out.)
Anyway. That's all I've got drawn at the moment, but obviously what happens is that McKay can't stand the new record shop, because (1) the stupid proprietor puts stupid flyers up in the window for stupid local acts like The Wig Outs or DJs who do nothing but Mullet Rock, (2) his classical collection is utterly pathetic, (3) the hipster vinyl freak population in the area has gone up exponentially in the past three weeks, and they keep stopping by Lost City Comics and asking for these ridiculous emo indie comics which, okay, aren't that bad, but what about the classics?, and (4) the owner, whatshisname, Sheppard, keeps stealing his table over at Hot Shot. It is an indignity not to be borne. Except, you know, Sheppard's kinda hot, and--
Dude. Someone else write it for me, or else I'm going to wind up drawing the whole fucking thing, and that's just a bad idea. Not in the least because my art skillz are rudimentary at best.