It's not me, it's you.
Sammy Hagar unplugged weekend, still unpacking The Google readership [ed. note: I really do try & check out everyone's shit & shit-to-be-clicked 'cause beats the alternative of "work," what a ringing endorsement, you say, relax, I say, your place will never be as useless as this holder, be proud], & I conclude, verily, this: silly season means jack, homes. The Year of Quetzalcoatl is l'année de nouveau tuneage [ed. note: & some choice remasters that were probably released last year, but I'm slow], as are all previous & future years.
Coronary corollary: The wisdom of crowds as oxymoron: the crowd is a toxin-wrapped package of flawed sausage links, as are thee, as is me, & if member-shaped members of this collective were to replace the current PTBs, same shit, different names, more or less panache TBD. Any gang above a baker's dozen is doomed to shiv spines various & sundry. Go do something better with your time, as will I after I finish this negative iota contribution to learned discourse, such as delving into necromancy in order to resurrect Zombie Harry Clarke so he can pen a fresh line of graphic novels.
I know 'tis not new. I don't care. Thanks for trying.