Honey, this record's seen some hard times. It's been used and abused, left scratched and scuffed. It desperately wants to sing you sweet music--the sweetest music there is--but time's gonna come when--well, it can't help but scratch, hiss, and pop at the most inopportune time.
Then let me cut my tongue out and lay it at the feet of one and all that have been wounded by its tourettic venom.
Good thing I couldn't possibly give less of a shit about my own well-being. It shouldn't hurt much.
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