When the Atlantic was publishing 7800-word profiles about Kanye’s genius, I grudgingly endured it. When Slate was analyzing his videos as if they were high art, I patiently withstood it. When some airheaded ditz at the Baffler tried to portray his shallow narcissism as artistic genius, I suffered it stoically. When the A.V. Club — back when they actually published interesting pieces about music and film before becoming just another interchangeable storefront staffed by snarky adolescents in the Woke Mall of America that counts as pop culture writing these days — kept genuflecting before his greatness, I politely overlooked it. Today, I have to say it was all worth it. All of it. I just hope the Internet is sturdy enough to contain the ocean of salty woke tears I’ve seen flowing through my feed this morning, because if the dams burst and that stuff saturates the earth, nothing will ever grow there for thousands of years and we’ll all starve to death.

But still, this isn’t a day for I-told-you-sos. This isn’t a day for noting that I was anti-Kanye years before it was cool. This is a day for laughter and merriment. A day for relaxing after an intense period of work and travel. Now flow, tears, and soak your cheeks! rage! flow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!