Ha ha splurt

Right now, I'm wiping up a messy combination of snot and cappuccino off my desk.

It's all George Saunders fault. He wrote an article, which The New Yorker published, which I read, which made me laugh so hard that coffee came out of my nose. It's all about nostalgia, and here is a sample:

"I used to love music, back when it had melody and chords and lyrics. But now it has no melody and no chords, just thwack-thwacking, and they even seem to be cutting back on the thwack-thwacking, so now it's sometimes just thwa, and, as far as lyrics, do you consider these lyrics?

Hump my hump,
My stumpy lumpy hump!
Hump my dump, you lumpy slumpy dump!
I'll dump your hump, and then just hump your dump,
You lumpy frumply clump."

I’m sorry. To me? Those are not lyrics. In my day, lyrics were used to express real emotion, like the emotion of being totally stoned and trying to talk this totally stoned chick into sleeping with you in the name of love, which lasted forever, if only you held on to your dreams.

When you've cleaned up that mess, you can read the whole thing by clicking here.

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