The Rant remembers around day six of Rantmas as we trembled, locked in our tiny garrett, down to our last few sheets of vellum while subsisting on a meager diet of absinthe and Haribo gummy bears. The Rant won’t lie: we felt despair. We wondered if this might be the end. But then we had a wormwood-pectin induced vision of the shiny, bright faces of the Ranatics frantically refreshing their browsers, expectant and hopeful for the next day of Rantmas. And we forged on, dear readers; we forged on.

And now here we stand at the end of Rantmas, our mission complete. Many a Las Vegas book has collapsed paying out the staggering odds of our triumph. When in a future Rantmas, you gather the children about you to describe these twelve days by suggesting echoes of Hercules and his labors, know that Hercules roamed the earth as a child of the mighty Zeus, and we are merely mortal. As you brush a tear away from your eye, remind your young charges that they can aspire to a similar greatness depending on only their pluck and wits. And of course gummy bears. You might hold off on the absinthe until you determine the level of pluck and wits possessed.

But enough of your imaginary children; The Rant salutes you and your fortitude in making this journey with us. 2018 promises less horrific occurrences. We want to get the bar down there as low as we can so the New Year can deftly take flight above it. We shall rant on the beaches, we shall rant on the landing grounds, we shall rant in the fields and in the streets, we shall rant in the hills; we shall rant and never surrender.

So bring it ye gods of inequality and oppression. With our last breath we rant at thee.

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