Somewhere on the earnest bipolar blur between Manic Goofball Men of the Dead Milk or Minute variety, and the Depressed Doughy Soul of Interpersonal Confusion for Thirtysomethings, ride Thee Headless Kings. These no-brain/all-heart Scarecrows point hither and yon, mocking them that try to intellectualize this ultimately silly pursuit we all share: getting to tomorrow. Stop thinking, and feel it. Let that corndog cow surf in circles around your heart, and find the beat. Ride the rhythm with 'em. If they leave here tomorrow, you won't remember Thee Headless Kings, but you'll feel them. Feel it. Feel me?