Picture an old-school barbershop. The kind with mirrors on opposing walls so when you were getting a trim, you would see an infinitely repeating image of your viewpoint that would form a tunnel - each reflection appearing inside the other. The only thing that would be partially obscured was the point of being there in the first place - your head. An overly florid explanation of the above posting of the above posting on Gawker. With all this traffic coming in over this, I'll be fucked if I STILL haven't got my Cafe Press store up and running.
PS - It's MICRObano cocksuckers. MACRObano implies proportions well beyond my Cafe Press mugless self.
PPS - In keeping with my own efforts to be whatever James Frey said he was being, yes, I DID send the original posting to Gawker my damn self. What of it punk?