WILL STONE is frustrated by a performance that chooses to garble the lyrics and drown the songs in reverb
The Dance of Death by Martin Rowson
More mordant mirth from the master satirist
IN THIS benighted age, with a host of deplorable characters blazing their hideous trails across the heavens, there are apparently few things in which we can take solace.
Yet one enduring comfort is – and has always been – that one day, sooner or later, death will come knocking at [insert name of terrible person here]’s door and put a stop to their dreadful designs.
Whether in the form of cancer, cardiac arrest, falling masonry or over-enthusiastic perusal of “classic literature,” the grim reaper will have its way in the end, though he seems to be taking his sweet time with some.
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