It was the crack heard round the world the day Plinky Pete died.

Was it an under heated studio, a careless intern, or perhaps the lurking ukulele cynical presence of him who shall not be named finally seizing the moment of his Hawaiian loathing dreams?

The answers are simply shrouded in mystery. Either way the sound of a million voices all crying out at once in agony could be heard.

We have lived in deafening silence ever since... only being teased by intros and segues with faint background glimmers but alas there has been no live ukulele episode summaries.

For years I've been waiting, for who among us is worthy to take up the four strings on our own? Yet I will not wait forever. For the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice... which I imagine sounds like the bend of ukulele strings.

So if I must, I will take those plastic threads of hope into my own hands, and lead my fellow holyposters in a passionate and heart-felt, succinct melodic recapitulation of the euphonious conversation they will have just embarked upon.

We must either uke it or loose it... I choose to uke it.