Jan 3, 2012
Jan 26, 2011
Jul 20, 2010
"Gets Trashed at the Concert" Guy
Hey bro. Yeah, you working at the Check Cashing Depot... you with the tribal tattz, soul patch and prematurely receding hairline You probably don't remember me. Think back a few years to the Metallica concert in Memphis. Yes, you were there. Me and my buddies slipped into our not-so-great seats with our nachos and $6 beers for an enjoyable evening with the aging metal legends only to have you make it memorable for all the wrong reasons.
Of course, you and your hoochie looking girlfriend (you probably refer to her as "baby mama 2" by now) had seats directly in front of us. Of course you missed the opening act. Who pays $75 to see a full concert when they can be binge drinking in the parking lot, huh? Anyhow, you and your lovely lady friend made a big ruckus getting into your seats just as the house lights dimmed to alert us of the impending face-melting metal. You spilled your $6 beer on a dude beside you and had the gall to let out a stream of profanity that distracted everyone in Section Q from the curtain drop. You immediately did an about face to go get another overpriced American lager, the opening song be damned.
Ahh, a reprieve from the douchebaggery... we rocked out for 2 songs full of pyro and overused 4-syllable words before you made your triumphant return, nearly falling in the wet lap of the seething guy you'd spilled your Bud on 3 songs prior. "Whoooo hooo, "Sad But True!!"" you shouted as the band cranked out "Fuel." Dumbass.
Skip ahead a few songs, a cacophony of "whoo hoos" and $24 worth of beer down your gullet later. We hadn't heard from your tool self since you stared down Chris for "accidentally" looking down your skank's top when suddenly we smelled something funny. Yep, the "tree" was burning, because you weren't nearly intoxicated enough yet. You soon would be, though, and at least that settled you down a notch or two. It did not, however, save your seat from destruction.
Returning from an umpteenth bathroom trip, stumbling, slurring, drooling and pekid, you sat down hard on your seat with all your roided up weight and fell right through to the ash covered concrete. Another cloud of foul language belched forth from your fat head until your girl passed you the blunt again.
At this point we figured if we were being denied our full concert entertainment dollar's worth, we'd entertain ourselves. Y'all were zombies by this point and we were a little buzzed too, so we started pouring beer down the back of your shirts. You never noticed, only later declaring of your soaked t-shirt "I'm sweating like a mug up in this bitch." Dumbass.
I don't recall what songs Metallica performed in their encore because I was laughing and gagging at you puking up a kidney all over the row in front of you (thankfully not the one behind).
So anyway, you...who paid $150 bucks for tickets, dressed in your finest size-too-small tattoo print shirt and high dollar jeans.... You who only came to make out with your ho' and sing along to the one song you knew (Enter Sandman)... You whose blood alcohol level was surely higher than Ted Williams' fabled .400 batting average as you ruined the show for scores of metal-heads.... You... take it like a man:
Prepare to "Ride the Lightning" bolt of pain from this merciless sackpunch!!!
*This story has been embellished a tad to keep it current, but it's 95% true.