All good things must come to end.

So must all mediocre things.

The highhorse of Monk Drabman has slowly, over the years, grown weary and old. All humane moral considerations insist we put this horse out of its misery.

So, on March 9th, 2002, the highhorse was put to sleep. Monk Drabman, himself, and without his highhorse, was more bland than a soggy slice of lettuce. He apologized profusely for years of pontificating fruitlessly, for professing opinions less intellectually stimulating than Bruckheimer's blockbuster slop, and for a world which finds offensive his very passion for armchair social awareness.

So, equally, on March 9th, 2002, Monk Drabman, as you know and hate him, was buried with his highhorse. The government watches closely the ground above his grave to make sure no toxic material or ideas are pushed up beside the daisies.