Coming from across the place there? Is that – your? Oh man, it’s freaking huge!

Whose head? Our head. Our collective head.

In case you missed it, RTE Radio 1’s Arena programme sent their reporter Richie Beirne to our last event, where he made a live recording. They played it last night. You can hear it on their site there, or you can go to the Press bit on our Media section, or you can simply click here, but only if you are supremely lazy because you should listen to it on the RTE site and hear the whole show. It’s opened by Colm Mac Con Iomaire, who plays some gorgeous tunes.

The other thing you can do on our site before you go clicking away from the page is listen to all six stories from our Epiphanies Chaos, every last one of which is really worth your time. We just can’t get over the calibre of storyteller we got, and the openness with which they told their tales. I can’t stop texting Sorcha to tell her how awesome she and Fiona are, and they keep talking about something called a ‘restraining order’. I hope it doesn’t chafe.

And if you would like to relive the moment where the Scary Mary McGintys were punished for their outrageous Chaos Buck Swindle, or if you are simply curious about what sort of penance a cheater might get, you should click on this link right here.

Before we go, and before you go and I apologise if we’ve monopolised your morning, but just look at the size of our heads after all the attention we got last night, something else. What do you expect? Sure, it only encourages us.

Sometimes when I think I am History’s Greatest Monster, I try to think of someone who is either a worse person than I am, or who has simply been the architect of their own, much worse misery, and may not even be aware of how public they are about it. The other night I saw a guy, maybe late 20s, dressed like a regular person, good-looking enough fellow, walking down Pearse Street carrying a copy of The Secret. Poor guy. I hope she’s worth it, I think out loud to myself, so he can hear. Then I think, probably he is the sort of guy who brings a guitar to a party. Maybe bongos. But the guitar guy. Maybe he deserves what he gets. Maybe this is a closed system. Guy who brings a guitar to a party reads it, it’s like Sarah Palin becoming a Fox pundit: are we really surprised, and are you going to get mad because someone who frightens you is going to appear on a ‘news’ network that inflames you?

You know the guy. An unwelcome friend of one of your lesser friends, whom you invited only so he won’t find out you had a party and refuse to shut up about how awesome he is at parties. “Hey, thanks for the party, man, I brought my guitar so I can play some tunes.” He’s the guy that hogs the stereo. He puts on a CD your mom gave you because she heard you were into rock music. He stands slightly back from the stereo, his body curved into a slight bow shape, and moves along to the beat like a pigeon. You just haven’t heard the right albums, man. I have, though. I’ll bet you think it’s all about — . I. Am. Going. To. Harm. Your. Face.

That guy. And you know what he loves? He fucking loves The Doors. It’s The fucking Doors who are responsible for this prick and all the pricks like him. No matter how horrific I am, I am not – thank fuck – the guy who brings a guitar to a party. The guy who likes legal highs and smokes joints in your house even though you’ve told him that smokers go outside. The guy who says, Dude, who ever heard of a pot-room brawl, right?. Mere thought of this guy has just caused me to tear apart a pillow from the sofa.

At least I am not that guy.

So I had a competition on both my twitter and my facebook: who can name me something worse than The Doors? Who can tell me of something that has the ubiquity, that encourages the insufferability, that has spawned a whole culture of poster-buying, beer-stealing, guitar-bringing twats? Whose adherents proselytize so aggressively? Who can give me an example of a culture that is less self-aware and has no redeeming value, even comedic?

I offered one dollar, which I would send through the post to the person who could tell me something worse. The debate railed on for nearly two days. The closest we got was Thomas Edison (the only person who has a life ban from Chaos Thaogahire, although probably we should add Members of The Doors to that ban list) and Paolo Coehlo, whose ‘wisdom’ makes me feel like a man is touching me on my boob.

Nobody won my dollar. And no one will win my dollar because, as my friend Linus put it, the Doors are “the absolute zero of suck”. One cannot multiply or divide by The Doors. In that debate, we discovered a truth, and I discovered that it is mathematically impossible for me to truly be History’s Greatest Monster. There is, therefore, nothing without merit, even that which is entirely without merit.

On the flipside of that debate came a less-spirited one, where I offered my dollar to anyone who could tell me someone or something more underrated than Nikola Tesla. Because, as you will read in this letter, ordinary standards do not apply to Tesla. If you have any knowledge of this dude at all, and that letter does not make you a little teary-eyed, then you have no soul. And you are dead, and you cannot have a dollar.

Then also look at this, which we wish we had drawn.

There, now that oughta ruin all your good Thursday-morning intentions.

Somebody owes me a throw pillow.