The Xzibit begins to compound itself. Soon there is so much whataboutism compressed into other instances of whataboutism that the singularity has formed. Faintly, all you can make out above the constantly repeating “Yo dawg, we heard…” is the whoosh of the empty air spinning around inside OP’s head. And suddenly, with a cacophonous roar there is nothing but silence. And then, triumphantly, a yellow sickle and hammer emblazon themselves against a red background as the Soviet National anthem plays. OP is at peace.