Don’t blow your jets, daddy-o - these cubes are squaresville; yesterday. Us hep cats are hip to their stinky jive, and these days Joe Punchclock is a wake-up too.
This is just a last gasp from the honky set, as The Great Satan starts to see the light, and the graveyard begins to swing into a hootenanny. It was tough toenails for all the groovers until now, but the light the end of the tunnel is a monkey run away.
