The very notion of blending a stereotypical extra-helping son-of-a-gun with a monkey’s uncle, if disseminated properly, should just about rehydrate the masses with the piss and vinegar they’ve been sorely lacking in this age of interpretive incontinence (one would think). There’s really no excuse at this point to bank on any other outcome, if we’re to be perfectly honest with one another.
Sure, there are plenty of other theoretical outcomes, but when practicality comes knocking at the door, the ensuing scramble for pragmatism will inevitably result in the mating call of the perpetual compromiser: “let’s just call it a day, shall we? It’s not as though anyone else is really doing much to stall this circus of mottled indiscretions anyway.” Okay, so maybe that’s a bit too contrived to be the universally-accepted mating call, but you get the picture.
Each generation faces the ever-present tumult of failure-studded progress; the wisest among us will inevitably batten down the hatches and continue practicing their craft, content to further their own life’s work while the turbulence around them blows itself out.
WHARVED 