I was driving to work last Thursday the same way I always do: very fast, windows down, blasting the ride music to Soarin', and sniffing orange peels. Or pine needles. Depends on the mood. I stopped at a red light when, without warning, it sprouted two tell-tale ears. In the crosswalk directly underneath said mouse-morphed light strode a man in a team athletic jacket with the number "26" emblazoned on the sleeve. 26--as in February 26. At that very moment, the music exploded with its concluding pyrotechnic finale. Its concussions echoed with the unmistakable weight of something supernatural, like tremulations upon the ether. Or like that final ear-punching volley in Reflections of Earth. You know. Loud and stuff.
So clearly, indisputably, and in all other ways beyond potential reproach, this was nothing short of revelation.
Something magical happens tomorrow. If not the long-awaited CMO announcement, then what? So mete it be.
Michael, I've got you down for one D-whip.
tothesea, are you in?