I’ve still never actually seen this one.

I mean, I’ve seen pictures. Looks legit. If you tell me it’s real I guess I believe you. But I’ve never actually driven down I-95, wind in my thinning hair, “Radar Love” on WYSP, and been blinded by the gorgeous visage of one Samuel Blake Hinkie, beaming down on us judgmentally like Dr. T.J. Eckleburg in The Great Gatsby. Could be a Photoshop. Could be a collective dream. Could be a management plant to justify them moving to Process DEFCON one. All of them seem at least possible.

Frankly, they all seem more likely than the supposed truth: That our ragtag band of RTRS misfits (and their deep reserve of silent benefactors with lots of time, money and bitterness on their hands) actually got their shit together enough to buy a fucking spite billboard. That kind of pettiness, vindictiveness and inability to let shit go is the kind of stuff you usually only read about in 19th-century short stories starring a lot of dudes with apostrophes in their name. To call it next-level in 2016 would be a dramatic understatement: hell, it’s literally several levels higher in the air.