The Weight of a Talent

 You know when you're in a job interview and the cold, clammy hand of fear grips you as you realise you forgot - once again - to prepare a sane and reasonable answer to the question "What are your strengths and weaknesses?". You find yourself gaping, rather in the manner of a medium-sized cod, trout, or halibut, with a look on your face resembling that of Bertie Wooster realising he's got to marry - through no fault of his own - Honoria Glossop. This, as all civilised people agree, is a perverse and horrifying question, and asking it should absolutely be in the UN statues regulating crimes against humanity. Be that as it may - being moderately narcissistic, we tend not to focus on any flaws we might theoretically have here at the Privy Counsel, but swot up on our strengths whenever we get the chance. Such as they are. 

Having mostly misspent our youth and also our adult age, and being on track to largely squander our impending middle age, also, our talents might perhaps most honestly be described as "varied", "diverse", or "miscellaneous" rather than, say, "amazing" or "financially rewarding". However, one happy result of our having spent so much of our time writing a weird blog about toilets instead of, say, learning bookkeeping, crocheting street art, or networking with key players in the industry, is that we know a really good urinal when we see one. We don't remember ever consulting a career counsellor in our youth but if we had, now's the time we'd like to go back in time and triumphantly tell that smug adviser to their face that See? we know about urinals, so there. Anyway, Shewee Fiend Friend sent us these photos from a hotel in Canada:

We always find bars on the wall reassuring.

A beauty!

Yes, reader, that does read Twyfords Ltd., Hanley, England.

Our curt Canadian toilet photographer says:

I found a toilet for you

Actually the toilet itself is terrible

But the urinal was excellent

The hotel was founded 1926. The urinal could be from then?

But the rest of the bathroom is just old and grungy, not cute and antique at all

We shall of course be having a stern word with Shewee Fiend Friend about her use of the word "cute".

Meanwhile, Jonny - that splendid specimen of British manhood - has been to a Gordon Ramsay restaurant, causing us to ask ourselves whether Gordon Ramsay is the perfect representation of Orwell's Colonel Blimp? We have no idea, so instead here's a passage from "British Cookery":

 

When Voltaire made his often-quoted statement that the country of Britain has "a hundred religions and only one sauce", he was saying something which was untrue and which is equally untrue today, but which might still be echoed in good faith by a foreign visitor who made only a brief stay and drew his impressions from hotels and restaurants. For the first thing to be noticed about British cookery is that it is best studied in private houses, and more particularly in the homes of the middle-class and working-class masses who have not become Europeanised in their tastes. Cheap restaurants in Britain are almost invariably bad, while in expensive restaurants the cookery is almost always French, or imitation French. In the kind of food eaten, and even in the hours at which meals are taken and the names by which they are called, there is a definite cultural division between the upper-class minority and the big mass who have preserved the habits of their ancestors.

 

We're not sure what relevance this quote has, if any, for the below pictures but there's a time for quoting Orwell and that time is all the time.

"Nice urinal cake!", we commented. "I didn't sample it myself," quipped Jonny, laconically. "I stuck to the menu items."

This looks hygienic and well lit.

Yes, it's a Crapper crapper.

Here we go again with the cattle troughs.

Finally, here's a hot photo of Jonny and some air dryers.

Also, an important announcement: A friend of ours who recently visited Greece, and lived to tell the tale, brought us back an amusing soap called "Venus Secrets", which purports to contain ass's milk. Yes! Ass's milk! As a result of performing our ablutions with this miraculous beauty product, we expect to soon (the packaging doesn't specify a time frame, but reasonably within three to four weeks, surely?) be wielding the fascination of a Cleopatra and - who knows? - engaging in some festive naval battles and maybe destabilising an empire. Watch this space.

For our Festive Video we were naturally going to use Morrissey's Boy Racer ("He thinks he's got the whole world in his hands / Stood at the urinal / He thinks he's got the whole world in his hands / And I'm gonna kill him"), but Shewee Fiend Friend recently had an experience with this song and thought it had a profound significance in terms of the human condition, Weltschmerz, etc. 

Festive Video: Miley Cyrus, Used to Be Young

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The Privy Counsel Greengrocer; or, The Moral High Ground; or, Shit Gets Heavy

 We reported, in our last post, on Shewee Fiend Friend's distressing experience of being forced to comply with the diktat of ideological zealots. [Male person in Shewee Fiend Friend's life], having gone from not caring which way the toilet roll hangs, to becoming an over-orientation fanatic, is exhorting Shewee Fiend Friend to engage in a practice which to her eyes is misguided and wrong, with such force that she has "mostly given up and submit[ted] to [our] and his joint pressure". 

While obviously exulting in this epic triumph of right over wrong; good over evil; over over under, we nonetheless feel some concern regarding Shewee Fiend Friend's human right to hang the bog roll any damn way she chooses. This led us to wonder whether Shewee Fiend Friend is, in fact, the greengrocer of the Privy Counsel bog blog.

Having gone through, like many people, what one might term a moderately woke phase (one of the more sinister manifestations of which was, apart from an increased propensity to indulge in humourless ranting, a bona fide crush on Justin Trudeau) some years ago, we came out the other end with a determination to read the kind of literature that we have had a nagging feeling, ever since high school, that we really should have read, but never got around to due to other concerns. For instance, we went back to 1984, enjoyed the SCUM Manifesto, and made the acquaintance of Václav Havel's greengrocer.

For readers who are perhaps slightly less intellectual than the desired ideal (we are absolutely looking at you, Semi-Intellectual Friend), the famous greengrocer appears in Havel's essay The Power of the Powerless. Havel writes:

The manager of a fruit-and-vegetable shop places in his window, among the onions and carrots, the slogan: "Workers of the world, unite!" Why does he do it? What is he trying to communicate to the world? Is he genuinely enthusiastic about the idea of unity among the workers of the world? Is his enthusiasm so great that he feels an irrepressible impulse to acquaint the public with his ideals? Has he really given more than a moment's thought to how such a unification might occur and what it would mean?

I think it can safely be assumed that the overwhelming majority of shopkeepers never think about the slogans they put in their windows, nor do they use them to express their real opinions. That poster was delivered to our greengrocer from the enterprise headquarters along with the onions and carrots. He put them all into the window simply because it has been done that way for years, because everyone does it, and because that is the way it has to be. If he were to refuse, there could be trouble. He could be reproached for not having the proper decoration in his window; someone might even accuse him of disloyalty. He does it because these things must be done if one is to get along in life. It is one of the thousands of details that guarantee him a relatively tranquil life "in harmony with society," as they say.

Here is a funny yet achingly intellectual meme that we made a couple of years ago.

We put it to Shewee Fiend Friend that she might be the greengrocer, and the toilet-roll orientation (the correct one, which she is now engaging in, albeit against her will) might be the slogan. Shewee Fiend Friend pondered this. Then she wrote back:

Ok I’ve finished reading it. It gets heavy towards the end. Basically you are suggesting I am a collaborator

In your own ideology! Which you think is morally just!

You are criticizing my collaboration of a system you believe in and have tried to convince me of! How do you, as the post totalitarian dictator, somehow get the moral high ground here??!!

Regarding the moral high ground we would argue, firstly, that we always had it. As we have stated before, categorically and determinedly, on the issue of toilet-roll orientation "there is only one possible position, morally as well as intellectually". Secondly, having conceded, on more than one occasion, most notably perhaps regarding the Canadian prime minister but also on several other points, some of which we can remember, to Shewee Fiend Friend that she was right and we were wrong, perhaps we win the moral high ground on this occasion by virtue of past humility, however haphazard and accidental? Or perhaps it is simply the case that smugness will triumph. Whichever argument we employ, we doubt that Shewee Fiend Friend will agree.

Reader, it is hot, hot, hot out there, rather in the manner of Mr Rochester's bedroom.  Jonny, that connoisseur of fine bathrooms, sent us this exquisite toilet selfie, which we would argue is on a par with the weather, in terms of hotness. Attached was this greeting:

You can't really tell but the shirt is waaaaay too big

Looks like the Homer Simpson moo moo

Moo-moo? Or just Mmmmmmm?

 

This is all very well, we thought, but what in the name of arse is going on with the mirror? Jonny's theory was as follows: 

Who knows? It was a Mediterranean restaurant so maybe it's normal?

When we suggested, in line with the current fashion for political correctness, that Jonny might be guilty of xenophobia, perhaps even mediterraneophobia, he retorted, quite reasonably:

I don't think so? Just my first time in a Mediterranean restaurant so statistically it's the norm.

Another possibility, put to us by a reliable source, is that the mirror is a portal to hell. "And not the fun one." We are inclined to agree.

Finally, we are delighted to announce that Jonny has joined the proud Privy Counsel tradition of giving up on learning Greek.

Unfortunately for Jonny, of course, he only counts as a friend for administrative reasons.

The obvious Festive Video for this post is the Swedish punk classic Sheiße (or, as the annoying diktat of the modern German grammar commissariat would have it, Sheisse) by Ebba Grön, which one might argue, someone pointed out to us recently, praises the beauty of free speech.

Festive Video: Ebba Grön, Sheiße


Related Reading

Our definitive post on hanging the bog roll the right way round: Rocking, Rolling, Ranting

On the distressing habits of a) energetic Proto-Indo-European movement and b) haphazard toilet roll placement: Moving Heaven and Earth: Polarisation and Proto-Indo-Europeans

Our passionate defence of Shewee Fiend Friend's right to be wrong: Echoes of Edgar Allan Poe

Shewee Fiend Friend's lugubrious lament about being forced to comply with the diktat of the Over-Orientation Illuminati: Losing, Then Finding, One's a) Shewee and b) Mind

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Václav Havel's The Power of the Powerless

Maya Forstater, The Power of the Powerless 

On learning Greek: "Oh for Shame, How the Mortals Put the Blame on Us Gods" - We Indulge in Melodrama

On Mr Rochester's bedroom: Jane Eyre - Plunging into Passion

Losing, Then Finding, One's a) Shewee and b) Mind

It is after the second or third hipster beer, in our experience, that the really tough questions make themselves known and demand to be taken into consideration. For instance, portaloos with a flush are obviously a game-changer, but where do they place on the grand scale of human endeavour? Are they on a par with fire and penicillin, or further down, more towards the level of Billy the Bass and duct tape? What would Abraham Maslow say? We predict that philosophers will be spending centuries hashing this one out.

We have many habits here at the Privy Counsel, some of which are healthy and many of which are downright deplorable. One habit of which we are not only particularly fond but which we like to think is positively edifying, is having beers with the friend we like to call Nerdy Beer-Obsessive Friend. We happened to be having beer and bewilderingly complex pizza with Nerdy Beer-Obsessive Friend the other day at a place called Benchwarmers, in Helsingborg, and were very pleased to come across this festive and also clean and coat-hook-enriched toilet, especially in light of the inevitable fatigue following upon a) a hard-hitting debate regarding the human condition in relation to portaloos, and b) pizza that requires an inordinate amount of cognitive effort just to figure out what the hell is on it, and why.

We're assuming that the flamingoes are ironic, but the thing about the modern age is that one can't tell the difference between even a joke and a bona fide news item. What chance do the flamingoes stand, in this climate, to signal the presence of irony, or lack thereof?

For those who enjoy almost seeing people, there is a special label just for you.

If you find this picture soothing, there may well be something wrong with you, but at least you're not the only one.

Attentive readers may remember our last post, even though it was published several days ago and nobody among our acquaintance has any memory left of anything occurring this side of 1994. Be that as it may, Shewee Fiend Friend, coming across the illuminative and edifying picture we were sent by Feisty French Friend, was moved to inform us of the changes that have recently occurred in her private life. She reported:

I sent [Male person in Shewee Fiend Friend's life] the beard/mullet toilet roll hanging model from your recent blog and he loved it

In the past year he has converted to full time beard-style hanging and his criticism of my hanging is so intense that I’ve now mostly given up and submit to your and his joint pressure

The funny part is, he believes he has always hung it this way. He has no memory of a time when chaos ruled his life and he did it differently every time, and when I tell him about that time, he claims I am lying

(Read more about this man's incomprehensible approach to bog roll here.)

Reader, this left us reeling. In a frightening and ever-changing universe, Shewee Fiend Friend's misguided stance on toilet paper is one of the few certainties keeping us grounded. What even happens, we asked ourselves, if she has started hanging her bog roll the right way round? As in, cosmically? Will the stars come loose from their sockets and wander about willy-nilly, will the oceans roil and roar to the rhythm of low-quality rockabilly, will the earth quake and maybe even spontaneously combust? Thankfully, Shewee Fiend Friend assured us that: 

[This] doesn’t mean my beliefs have changed. I just now deliberately hang the roll wrong.

After this emotional roller-coaster, we naturally needed a drink. Thus we let ourselves be persuaded to visit a beer festival in Malmö, against our better judgement. You may imagine our relief when we discovered that the hygiene facilities, despite the high concentration of hipsters at this event, were neither portaloos nor ironic toilets reminiscent of a cattle shed, but perfectly civilised facilities offering soap, coat-hooks and spare bog roll. (There was however a sink for filling one's water bottle which was, inevitably, constructed in the likeness of a cattle trough.)

There are actually two different kinds of soap here but as Nerdy Beer-Obsessed Friend pointed out, at least one of them smells terrible.

Normally we'd quibble with the placement of the hook (too near the toilet), but on this occasion we were just so grateful, among the onslaught of various hipster horrors, that there was one.

You can just about spot the spare bog roll, unhygienically placed on the floor. Again, we were just so grateful that there was one.

There is another heartwarming story we've been meaning to tell you about a thing that happened outside some portaloos in Helsingborg in probably 2017, but God only knows where the photos are and we can only promise to bring the subject up again in the unlikely event that - no, we can't even imagine what improbable occurrence might cause that story to be told. Let us swiftly move on to these lovely photos from Jonny, containing the message referenced in a previous post, regarding the Twelve Days of Cistern. The thought of this future event is the only thing currently enabling us to view the darkening days and approaching winter, with its attendant emotional carnage and horror clowns, with anything resembling equanimity.

What can one even do, except maybe sigh and possibly clutch one's throat? Well, quite.

In a clear parallel to Margaret Mitchell writing the last chapter of Gone with the Wind first, we constructed the title of this bog blog post before composing the actual post, and are now left with an obligation, however imaginary, to write something about the trauma we experienced the other day when we could find neither a) our Shewee nor b) our back-up Shewee. Reader, it was rough.

Festive Video: Tré Burt, Know Your Demons

 

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The Devil You Know - Toilets of Tasmania, Part II

We won't go so far as to say that our journey through Australia (read the previous instalments of our intellectual yet thrilling epistolary bog blog tour here, here, and here) was of heroic, Herculean proportions, though we would argue that it contained rather more excitement than we had bargained for - and that's not even counting the Biblical floods, the plague, or the fact that there were free snacks at the pub quiz. One highlight was coming face to face with some Tasmanian devils at the Bonorong wildlife reserve, and concluding that they really are as bad-tempered as their reputation suggests. The toilet at this excellent park is simple but functional, with some rather festive details and helpful signage.

Regular readers will remember when Australian Friend sent us a breathtaking update from Hobart which featured a burning portaloo. In a wonderful instance of life imitating art, we ventured into Prince's Park and photographed the very same portaloos which were featured in the thrilling news report! (Presumably the portaloo that was actually on fire has been replaced, making this a rather neat example of Theseus's paradox.) Feast your eyes! You're welcome.

 

We have learned many things about Tasmania during our time on the island. For instance, Australia's oldest bridge was built here (by convicts, naturally - who else?) in 1823, its oldest brewery was founded in 1824, and Tasmania's oldest gaol was built in 1825. Does one deduce a very pleasing logical chain here? Either way, we heartily recommend the beers from the Cascade brewery bar, but found the toilets deplorable. Instead of showing you pictures of bad toilets that will make you sad, here is this very uplifting one from the Ginger Brown café nearby. Note the hygiene and beautiful floor - a boon to the intrepid traveller who has just confronted their mortality, and also the futility of cotton socks, in the snow at the top of Mount Wellington.

Australian Friend drew our attention to this prize-winning toilet in Sandy Bay, an area otherwise noted for its top pub quizzes. (What is it with public toilets winning prizes?)

We have mentioned many times, on this blog, how grateful we are to have such fast friends. They send us photos of plumbing, encourage our various delusions and ply us with drink when necessary. Truly, the levels of moral and immoral support registered at the Privy Counsel are off the charts, as evidenced for instance by this heartfelt message from Shewee Fiend Friend.

Jonny, who counts as a friend for administrative reasons, notes that "You must have so many pics of me in toilets. You could do a bonus '12 Days of Cistern' around Christmas time." Reader, are you already dreaming of the festive Twelve Days of Cistern? We are!

For the moment, behold: The Holy Trinity of Jonny.

We fear that nobody cares about the pictures of toilets that Jonny sends us, his fans having eyes only for Jonny himself (we hear Jonny is know as "the Marlon Brandon of toilet selfies" - at least round the Hyde Park area of Leeds), but bless him for trying!

In a final piece of exciting news, we have it from an authoritative source that this elegant mixer tap can be found in Battersea:

 

 

Does it remind us of anything? Reader, it does! It is the spitting image of the tap that Tudor Friend named "Prettiest Mixer Tap in Britain" in 2014, and which can be found in York.

Tudor Friend's legendary tap from 2014. At the time, we noted:
"Behold! The prettiest mixer-tap in Great Britain!
Its legendary healing powers are in no way exaggerated!"

Today's Festive Video channels the spirit of the Tasmanian devil.

 

 

 

Festive Video - Anjelah Johnson, Bon Qui Qui King Burger

 

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Crash! Boom! Banff! Are We All Stuck in a Giant Simulation?

Are we all stuck in a giant simulation? If we are to believe someone like David Chalmers, we can't prove that we're not. If, however, we have understood the main argument against the theory that we are all figments of a simulation (and we are not at all sure that we have), there would - if we were all stuck in a giant simulation - not only be glitches, leading to weirdness like gravity suddenly malfunctioning and pigs becoming airborne, there would also be no way that whoever made the simulation would omit leaving some sign to his or her or its creation that it existed in an artificial production. Simple smugness demands it. Being something of a virtuoso in the matter of smugness ourselves, this argument seems inexorably logical, and we see no reason to probe more deeply into the matter.

What caused us to reflect on the simulation problem is that it has recently dawned on us that Shewee Fiend Friend gives us advice not according to what she, on close reflection and with balanced judgement, considers to be the best course of action, but according to what would provide the best entertainment for her. In other words, Shewee Fiend Friend might potentially be a benevolent if capricious puppet-master, setting us off bumping hither and thither like a rather gorgeous dodgem car, then sitting back to enjoy the ensuing chaos and drama, spiced with the occasional distressing hangover and/or heartbreak. 

Considering that Shewee Fiend Friend has been our close friend for over a decade, this gives rise to some rather curious, not to say nervous, reflections. Has Shewee Fiend Friend been manipulating us for her own amusement for twelve years? What about that time when we had three near-death experiences (at least - it is quite possible that we lost count due to alcohol and terror) in the course of twenty-four hours? Or has an unsettling symbiosis developed, in a manner that would be slightly worrying if one were a Freudian, where we ask advice in the knowledge that we will be told what we want to hear (except of course in the case of looking at pictures of Justin Trudeau), meaning we are likely to soon be doing something unwise but entertaining? Possibly we will never know. But bear this possibility in mind, as we take a disconcerting virtual stroll through an ancient prairie hotel.

Does this remind us of something? Why, yes, it reminds us of the Sinister Gurglings Toilet Tale. (If you perk up at the thought of charging across the steppe on a noble steed, nostrils flaring, while roaring "Bij, morduj!" and attempting to decapitate your enemies with a sabre, you should definitely click on the link.)

Does your heart swell with pride at this dedication to the Privy Counsel Standards of Source Criticism (PCSSC)? Ours does.

Mmm. Who doesn't!

Shouts from the gallery: "Boo!"

 It is perhaps lucky, all things considered, that one's hopes never really lifted off the ground. At best they flapped about for a bit then crashed drunkenly.

Speaking of crashing drunkenly after flapping, we've had communications from Jonny (who counts as a friend for administrative reasons). What follows below are photos from the gents' toilets at the Hereford Rowing Club. You heard it here first!

 

Are the sinks and taps weirdly reminiscent of those in the Banff Springs Hotel? Are we too distracted by Jonny's essential hunka-hunka-ness to commit to any deep reflection on this topic? Yes, yes, and yes.

This, according to Jonny, is a "fancy James Bond-style keypad".

Don't you love this avant-garde angle of these urinals? Does it remind you of something? Of course it does.

We don't know where this is and do not want to know, but Jonny calls it a "Tetris toilet". As you were.

 We will not of course let you go before we have foisted a Festive Video on your already fragile state of mind.

 

 Festive Video: Caitlin Rose, Pink Rabbits

 

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Brownian Motion, or, Brownout, or, A Brown Study - Semi-Intellectual Friend's Shower

 

Echoes of Edgar Allan Poe

In terms of literary devices we're big, as all regular readers are aware, on themes here at the Privy Counsel. One of our main themes, after plumbing-horror-induced handwringing and unstructured ranting, is friendship. (Please note however that Jonny counts as a friend for administrative reasons only.) We have had occasion to note recently that true friends are those who make it a point of honour to take the piss out of one whatever one happens to be doing, whether one is of sound mind or not, and indeed irrespective of whether one happens to be suffering from acute gastric distress due to ingesting too many weird pink shots in a godforsaken prairie bar.

The concept of constructive criticism gets a bad press in these times of cancel culture and groupthink. However, telling people when they're wrong is crucial to maintaining public order and a civilised society. Ponder this very bog blog, for instance. How many plumbing heathens have we converted to the true faith by gently yet inexorably pointing out the horrors of separated taps, doors with large scary gaps, and sticky spots on the floor? Well, we haven't strictly counted them, but there are quite a few people by now who send us weird photos.

 

Constructive criticism, however, presupposes the ability to hold unusual or unpopular beliefs. If one were, for instance, to repress all mention of hanging bog rolls arse-backwards, one would never, if one is to believe John Stuart Mill, have the pleasure of insufferable smugness in a heated debate about toilet roll orientation. Now obviously, on this subject, there is only one possible position, morally as well as intellectually. However, it is only when heterodox views are tolerated that one gets to hear ideas which, though ludicrous, may be challenging and inspirational. Moreover, it is only when dissent is encouraged that one gets to hear valid critique of one's own delusional notions - which, however smug one may be feeling in the moment, may be constructive in the long run. If, for instance, one happens to have spent - to pick an example at random - all of 2015, 2016 and 2017, most of 2018, and possibly even parts of 2019, perving on Justin Trudeau, it does feel better, when he goes full-on tin-pot dictator in 2022, to know that Shewee Fiend Friend spent all those years regularly informing one that one was being an arse.

As Aristotle probably said, we disapprove of your awful non-mixer taps but would suffer mild burn injuries for your right to keep constructing them. Thus, when people whose judgement we for some reason still trust insist on hanging toilet rolls back to front, we resist the urge to call for their heads to be cut off. Instead we graciously tolerate their aberrations, taking great pleasure in our own magnanimity, and encourage them to send us toilet photos, in the hope that they will one day see the light. 

 

On the subject of toilet photos, we received these from Shewee Fiend Friend, who wrote:

I was in a prize winning public loo tonight

I was in this restaurant for a [information redacted for the sake of public decency]

So that was weird. I only have very broken stressed memories of that night

I think it checks all the boxes

Resting being one of our favourite activities, we heartily approve of this piece of furniture, so charmingly named, by those quaint North Americans, a fainting couch.

One of our top five activities is almost seeing people.

Behold! The reassuring sight of spare loo rolls! Rejoice, for there may be some hope, however small, for mankind after all.

 

These toilets can be found at the Sauce Italian Kitchen & Market in Calgary - queen of Canadian cities - and made the top five list in the Canada's Best Restroom competition in 2016, as reported by CBC.

I couldn’t hear anyone else peeing though two other ladies were while I was in there

It has everything you could want. Floor to ceiling doors, solid hooks, pompous art and a fainting couch

I guess they were just nominated. Still, top 5!

The gas station won that year

 

Speaking of gas stations, Jonny - everyone's favourite Toilet Babe - has also been in touch with some photos. "I hope you're ready for this," he wrote. 

 

Reader, we were not ready!

Is Jonny the Marlon Brando of toilet selfies?

This is supposed to be a hygienic seat. We keep getting distracted by the sticky spot on the floor, however, and find ourselves unable to concentrate on the alleged hygiene. Does one hear echoes of Edgar Allan Poe?

We are always in favour of not touching things, and heartily approve this door! It reminds us of that time we went to hear - and also see - Caitlin Moran in Copenhagen in 2016.

Other things we are in favour of are helpful signage and clear instructions.

For anyone who finds him- or herself straining at the leash to use these facilities, they can be found at the Toddington motorway services.

If your heart yearns rather for Terminator-level toilet horror, you may appreciate this piece of satire from McSweeney's, sent to us by Tudor Friend.

Let there be a Festive Video.

Festive Video - Sarah Shook and the Disarmers, No Mistakes

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