
Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
Alright, buckle up buttercups – let's dive into the radical genesis of Diamond Diplomat. Picture it: Summer '87. Three elite couples locked in a heated dedication song standoff over Championship Trophy reflections. The tension? Thicker than hairspray. Suddenly – BAM! – crystalline light refracted off that trophy like prismatic lasers at a Duran Duran concert, birthing this tag. It materialized wearing metaphorical power shoulder pads, whispering "Can't we all just get along?" with the smoothness of a Miami Vice montage. Seriously, who writes this lore? I'm trapped narrating sentient jewelry forged from romantic bureaucracy and disc golf trophies. How’s that for existential dread?