pliny: you created a masterpiece and now you are lying underneath the ceiling
pliny: with a sore neck
pliny: like “damn, those are some hot, buff men”
pliny: no pope gon paint over them
sath: oh my god do you think michelangelo felt smug about the ceiling
pliny: i bet he was like
pliny: “what a terrible ceiling”
pliny: “in my head it was going to look seriously amazing”
pliny: “and now look like this angel’s arm is wonky”
pliny: “fucking colours fucking fast-dry fresco tempera I HAD A VISION”
sath: “there were like at least 20 more dicks in the original sketch”
pliny: “i should have gone hard or gone home with the Sybil’s muscles now it’s like does she even lift”
pliny: cartoon of the sistine chapel: dick spandrels
sath: god originally touching adam’s dick
pliny: reaching out with one tentative finger
pliny: dicktouch achieved
pliny: for the very first time
Michelangelo actually wrote a poem about this! No dicktouching, but pretty much everything else you mention comes up:
This comes of dangling from the ceiling —
I’m goitered like a Lombard cat
(or wherever else their throats grow fat) —
it’s my belly that’s beyond conceiling,
it hangs beneath my chin like peeling.
My beard points skyward, I seem a bat
upon its back, I’ve breasts and splat!
On my face the paint’s congealing.
Loins concertina’d in my gut,
I drop an arse as counterweight
and move without the help of eyes.
Like a skinned martyr I abut
on air, and, wrinkled, show my fate.
Bow-like, I strain towards the skies.
No wonder then I size
things crookedly; I’m on all fours.
Bent blowpipes send their darts off-course.
Defend my labour’s cause,
good Giovanni, from all strictures:
I live in hell and paint its pictures.