You know I love you. There isn’t one of you yet that I wouldn’t follow on a 21 book journey through space and time itself. Implied bestiality and demon rape? Sure! The death of the hero in the first book? Why not! Page after page of clothing and scenery descriptions? I may bitch and moan but I’ll keep reading. Cause my momma didn’t raise a quitter, dammit. But I swear, one of you authors better come up with something I haven’t read yet. You better. I don’t like to threaten, I really don’t. But you’ve backed me into a corner and I have to keep you in line. So smear on some pancake makeup and quit crying, the neighbors will be here any second.

Whew. Wait, OK. Sorry.

See, I’m the best thing you’ve ever had. Fantasy is my crack. Give me a good book and I dream it, I can see it play before me. If I had any idea how to work a video camera and enough money I could give Peter Jackson a run for his money. Instead I have the guy over by the railroad tracks named “Rock Man” and my son dressed in Batman PJ’s. This doth not a blockbuster make.

But I swear upon every virtuous maiden and light fingered goblin you give me one more unending series whose author has the audacity to either a.) totally forget what they were talking about midway through the series or b.) up and die (or nearly die… Robert Jordan, I’m talking to you. Get better dude.) so help me god I will put pen to paper myself.

And what I will rain upon the world will be so chaotically irreverent and timeless that Tolkien himself will rise from the grave and beg me to read his manuscript.