How I loathe you. The disturbing image of that grinding and humping to the sounds of the local band I was straining to watch has been permanently seared into my brain, and for this transgression against my existence, I will personally assist in arranging your travel plans to Hell. Your attempts at what I will call, for lack of a better phrase,
dirty dancing--not to mention what appeared to be a
25-year age difference between the both of you--speaks volumes about the type of people you are. This tirade is directed to you, the male, sporting
The Ponytail Which Dare Not Speak Its Name, and the woman, hitherto known as
Lil' Slutty Slut Slut (Lacking Rhythm) (Owing to Her Honky Heritage) (And Bad Fashion Sense). How I wish the groovy band I was trying to enjoy hadn't inspired you into such appalling physical behavior, all of it taking place right in front of the table at which I sat, right in front of my very own eyes, the eyes I must now hollow out with a stick to rid them of these tarnished visions. How I wish the sounds emanating from the stage hadn't been so dance-heavy; how I wish the artist on stage had instead been
Miss Violetta Beauregarde as she violently shreiked
Adolf Hitler's Emotional Side and
I'm The Tiennamen Square Guy And You Are All The Fucking Tanks into your sexually twisted ears. Observing your endeavors to writhe and bop along to
Flanger When You Die and
The Umbearable Lightness Of A Farm Tractor--with their warped psychopathic tendencies and intensely anti-social leanings--would make my heart skip a thick joyous rope. If there is one reason, and one reason only, to support abortion rights in America, it is to provide the last God-given opportunity to kill off any possible living offspring as a result of your abhorrent intermingling. On the upside: you left before the encore.
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