Somewhere, under the dust of time and negligence, lies the proverbial minute book of the Ancients. They met, once, on Thursdays. Possibly Wednesdays. Tuesday is often blamed.
"Let us convene and address the undeniable surge of... concerns," intoned the First Elder, dipping a quill into not-quite ink, the hue of bureaucratic grey.
In a forgotten kingdom, on a day lost to the ages, they debated the merits of a schedule. An ironic dance et al. ensured efficiency in inefficiency. Discover their decrees.
Join us in deciding the course of history, one irrelevance at a time. Palimpsest upon palimpsest, the future remains unwritten, or perhaps already too written.