Sunday, March 1, 2015

I am a Lead Singer, and Live Only for the Thrill of Combat

Rivers shall run red with the blood of hecklers this night.

The fuck you say to me?!  The fuck you just say?! Ok guys, stop playing stop playing.

WHOA WHOA WHOA Stop playing.

Stop. Stop.
GUYS GUYS GUYS. Guys. Stop playing. Okay. Stop. Okay. Stop playing. Jimmy, k stop.

Look, I know that the rest of you are professionals. And actually musicians. But your integrity as entertainers doesn’t even compare to the critical importance of me acknowledging this one person in all of the crowd, who has expressed an opinion of our music out loud that is something other than blind positivity within my ear shot. So stop playing for a second, alright? Thank you. This is truly worth halting our entire performance, of that much I can guarantee. I also reasonably expect you guys to back me up on this.
So how bout you come up here and say that to my fucking face, faggot? This seems like reasonable request, given the fact that the only thing standing between you and me is as follows

  • a couple hundred bodies
  • a guard rail
  • a dozen tall dudes who are big and burly by profession put there specifically to stop people from coming up here
  • a stage 4 feet higher than you
  • Not to mention the several thousand people here who are fans of mine, and would help me fight you if that were even a remote possibility in our current situation. 

Yes, they are teenage girls. But there are a lot of them.

Yeah I didn’t think so. I didn’t think you had the balls to come up here and get immediately ejected by bar staff as a result of even trying. The bouncers are actually integral to my fit up here, because when I make a big spectacle out of lunging at you in a bit, I can tell everybody that they stopped me and that’s why I didn’t really kick your ass. They also won’t let you kick my ass, which is way more likely because you look like you work for a living.

Not like I need any help though, really. I am a lead vocalist. My skills in hand to hand combat are bar none. I would smash you. I would win in this rhetorical situation with crushing ease. Much in the same way I am winning this argument with you, with only the assistance of the blaring PA system, and the blood-curdling screams of support I get every time I call you another gay slur.

Fuck you. How I’m reacting right now does not smack of deep insecurity, I’m being way tough. Also I don’t hate gay people, I just hate how you’re acting like a gay homo cock sucker pillow biter faggot at my show. And hey you there, stop filming this! Put down your fucking cell phone and stop filming me! If you want bad quality audio and video of my lackluster live performance you’re gonna have to fucking pay for it.

Look, you think you can do better than us, bitch? Fucking come up here and play this guitar and see how good you fucking do. Let’s see you try. I don’t need permission from my guitarist to hand over his custom-made signature instrument that’s worth more than a used Toyota to a complete stranger who is under the influence of alcohol, hates our band, and would most likely smash said guitar upon receiving. You fucking get your lil bitch ass up here and we’ll see how good you do.

Oh, just a quick reminder about those dozen burly staff guys before you do try to come up though...

NO?!?!?! PFFT PFFT YEAH PFFT THAT’S WHAT I THOUGHT PUSSY. THAT’S WHAT I FUCKING THOUGHT. I don’t hear you mouthing off now. Fucking wussy.

Someone kick that guy’s ass right fucking now or we stop the show. Everyone in the whole crowd simultaneously punch him right in the fucking neck and face right now. I will not continue this show until he is literally bleeding and also dead.

Wait stop pushing him, ok. Stop. I guess I don’t want to get sued.

K he just threw a straw paper at me, he could have fucking killed me with that shit, security, security, he is throwing missiles on stage. Security get him out. Take him out. Get him out of here. Fucking make him gone. We’re not playing another note until that guy is out of this fucking place. That guy. Get a light on him, right there. With the gut and the glasses and the beard. Big fat guy with the Moonsorrow shirt. Yes, the one that writes That’s Not Metal. Go home and jerk off in your mom’s basement because that’s how blogging works. You. You fa-. You faggot.

Why are you sitting down?

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