On what should have been a perfectly harmless trip to a perhaps less than harmless electronics purveyor in search of, admittedly, more or less harmful beeping and flashing "lifestyle enhancements" - how else are we to better ourselves? - I nearly came to mortal grief at the checkout line when I found myself, hostage-style, being assaulted by the artistic stylings of that creature fallen from God's own breast, Rihanna, who was lip synching her little heart out in pleather-bound glory.
De gustibus non est disputandum, you know, but to oppress the already somewhat sullen, shuffling masses dutifully fulfilling their consumer destinies with such disaffectionate, ill-conceived excrement-in-sound strikes me rather more than vaguely of adding insult to injury.
As I find myself rather inexplicably arrived in this world in which Rihanna is given to us in HD and in surround sound, I hope to impress upon my checkout line comrades that despite this excess of diversion, this lonely crusade against aloneness, the sweet, gentle, sensual hand of death is coming, thank God -
- and if you have your wits about you, you'll set the table.
