Greetings, uhhhm, all and, uh -- oh heck, you guys already know the score. Gabe's flown the coop, and while he may doubt the integrity of my presence here, I, Kevin Murdoch, never want to be seen as a sucker fish on the side of the sleek, mako-like Korner. Hey, I look up to the man, and in a way I suppose I was trying to follow in his footsteps, and I guessed I just stepped in it instead. You'd be surprised just how quickly things fall apart around here without Mr. Gabriel. But, I suppose I'm party to this mess, so, like the hung-over partygoer with Bagel Bites crusted to his face, I'll do my best to clean it up.
Trying to get a Korner-ite to stick to a deadline is not even a Sisyphean task -- it's entirely downhill, and basically a pointless effort. We usually just wait for whichever kreationist to pull out of their nosedive and come up smelling roses with a mind/body/soul-blowing work, which as an artist management method has worked better than any other technique we've tried. But see, we're in a pickle here. So, I ran down to Tum Cruz's squarebicle and grabbed the first note I could find off his desk. It looked to be a punchline. Now I could launch into a scholarly dissection of the joke as such, thereby lending this whole post heftier theoretical weight (I did, after all, pen "On the Scatological Aspects of Modern Dating" for POP! Cultural Quarterly), but what the heck, right? This is a hail-mary, so here goes. Hail:
Punchline: To the Richter go the mohels!