“AH’M AHN EPILEPTEEEK!”
“AH’M AHN EPILEPTEEEK!”
The short drunk Scot (“a wee cunt”?) next to us continually mooed this particular phrase for a good ten minutes before lapsing. Theories abound as to why, but I’m no expert. Hell, I’ve barely seen more than 20 minutes of Braveheart. Maybe it’s an attempt to compensate for the overall dourness of the Brit with a peppy, can-annoy attitude. Maybe he had his kibbles fondled by a soccer* coach as a child. Perhaps he has a tiny penis that, even when excited, can barely be seen from six inches away.
We will never know.
Joe had a good point during the cab ride back – such things are part and parcel of the “live experience”; crowds of people, in addition to being a slew of crowdy, pushy bastards, tend to do things like that. But it just seemed like last night’s crowd was shittier than usual, from the pushy young ladies who are too young, pretty or short to punch, to the short guys and the old guys respectively – or in combination. I’d hate to see these guys at a Low show; it’d be a bloodbath!
Maybe I was just cranky? I don’t think so, because Fuck Buttons rocked my socks off. Continue reading
here there be rodents 