They're the Monkees of proselytizers, living vicariously through a dead man's attitude. It's my job to not fall prey to these things and tell you the truth. Anyone who makes quote marks with their fingers should be shotgunned back to 1992 when that dumb pompous shit was still highly regarded, then clubbed beyond brain-damaged numbness. Oh, Lester, Lester, Lester. Your curse, my man, was becoming cool in spite of yourself.
Death does that to people sometimes.
Because you're not there to protest the retards unconsciously erecting statues in your name. You didn't live to see entertainment criticism, as it's called now, sprout into chic sound bites and saturate an industry. You can't make a name for yourself anymore because you're shouting into a backdraft of blowhards struggling to do the same, yet inadvertently speaking in one universal voice of prefabricated attitude and fashion-humping. There are no individuals anymore. Just voices and clamor, a pitiful sight.