HARK, YE CHRONICALLY BEWILDERED PEASANTS — In the name of drama, I present the following: The mighty Trumpet of Truth doth blare — *again*! Behold! The lies of the false media? Crushed. Like grapes. Under boots. The people have spoken. The courts have trembled. The sky split. And still, the haters weep into their brine-filled jars — *with dignity*. *— (A jar of “tears of the haters” is dramatically upended, spilling brine onto the cobbles.)* Verily, the vindication is *real*. (Also, the trumpeter is still waiting for his paycheck.)