Sorry about the very obscure reference to Felix La Poubelle in the title. I can’t help myself. I can see clearly now this was a mistake. It’s not my fault. I’ve always felt rather temporary about myself. The gross point I’m trying to make is that these are Basques. Cutting crappy econoboxes in half with an ax is apparently a sport there. But of course it is.
It’s old friend Joerg Sprave. He’s jolly. He’s the Saint Nick of destruction. He’s the Mister Rogers of ruination. He’s the Captain Kangaroo of crushing. He’s the Alan Alda of annihilation. He’s the Tom Brokaw of breaking stuff. I could listen to him all day. I’m ambivalent about the mayhem. I’m only here for the chuckling.
Help us out here. We’re bored witless. We’re sending you all sorts of signals. We’re jumping off cliffs for shiggles. We’re driving in circles at 200-MPH for no apparent reason. We’re literally going nowhere fast. You need to give us guys something to do.
Back before everyone lost their minds, the role of a man and a dog and a rat in nature’s pecking order was well understood. Men are born to get sh*t done. Dogs are domesticated to help them. Rats are nobody’s friend. That’s that. Or, it used to be that, anyway.