Monday, March 15, 2004

The Venue: Grandaddy and three shit bands that sucked.

The Ensemble: Brown corduroy pants, mustard yellow thrift store tee, brown Sketchers, cowboy belt and buckle, baseball cap with fish hook tilted to the left, retro-80’s pins, and retro-Timex watch. S-mooooooth.

The Scenario Upon Entering Concert Theater: Pansy-wussy-bitch-ass takes hold of my right arm and rattles off something about the pins and fish hook.

“You can’t go in with the pins or the fish hook. You’ll have to take them off. There’s a garbage right there.”

“Oh good, I would hate to make the walk back down that one flight of stairs and five cars down to get rid of these. You’re very accommodating, you pansy-pussy-bitch-ass. Why don’t you go fuck yourself while I get sloppy drunk waiting for Grandaddy to come on.”

Five Minutes Later Inside the Concert Theater, minus one fish hook and two retro-80’s pins, less than twelve feet from the entrance: We stand in line to buy four more pins for five dollars. We consider buying two packs and wearing all of them.

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