This is an album about those late-morning, post-party, drug-caked, booze-drenched poops; the kind that no matter how hard you push, just won’t come out. You start to rock rhythmically on the porcelain booty-cradle, sweating and dizzy from the spins lingering in your head but overjoyed with the euphoria of any form of progress in this delicate time. You push, harder and harder, before easing back and allowing the desiccated log to return to its earlier resting place within your innermost sanctum. This rhythm goes on for what seems like hours… days, even. Truly this is the long season to which the title alludes.

You are nearly about to give up hope; that brown bastard poking his head out of you has won and you are now wondering how on earth you’re going to retract him enough to pull your pants back up and go about your day. Pondering this idea, you finally relax and to your surprise and delight, out he comes. Oh, what joy! Piece by piece, the last lingering evidence of last night’s poor decisions is sent from your body. 15 minutes in and you’re rewarded with the satisfying plop… plop… plop of victory. You sit there for another 15 minutes, grinning at nothing in particular. You are a hero. You are victorious. Everyone poops and you are their newfound king. You emerge from the toilet 35 minutes after you entered, a new human. Kinder, calmer and stronger than ever before. You are the Boddhisatva, you have been enlightened.