We’re riding high on sleep deprivation and vintage Fleetwood Mac and watching The National Madness slide by while nightcallers ring us up and whisper: “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
Those unlucky enough to know us well know we’re loquacious with just a hint of cocksure garrulousness thrown in – traits bestowed since the day we bent over backward to kiss the stone of Blarney – and that we’re not afraid to nock an opinion and let it fly from time to time.
But in a state of shock and awe generated by the New Wave of National Obstinance and Willful Ignorance we’re going to do what so many of you have requested and shut the Fleetwood up, preferring to hold close the memory of the time back in 1976 when Stevie touched our hand as we delivered dinner rolls to Big Mac’s table – murmuring a sotto voce “thanks” so Lindsey wouldn’t hear and be jealous.
Some things you just have to keep to yourself.
But if you have something you want to get off your chest (be nice) go ahead and use the comments field below. Come up with something interesting and we may just chime in – it’s hard for us to remain silent for long.