Clippergeddon.
The wild howl pierces a few inches deeper each day. You can't quite see the destination on the horizon, but the tracks have been laid and the ticket holders who are lucky enough to be loved have already started to dream about better times. The more unfortunate ones amongst us are busy searching for the bourbon, coke, and pills. Hell, who am I kidding. Everyone on board is trying to bleed their mind away from the impending crash, even the suburban poster dads. After all, who wants to hear and feel the splat and scream of the crash with a fully attentive brain and body? Not this passenger. Not this guy. Pass the flask.
On that note, I leave you with tonight's game against the wall into which the the train they call the City of New Blueprint will crash into at a thousand miles per hour in little over a year from now.
Shuffle the deck chairs. Mangle the metaphors. United we run, mother f#$*er, united we run.
Our blogging buddies for the night (and future overlords) are over at Clips Nation. Try not to throw up on their carpet.