One fateful night, I was out at the club, patrolling for some sweet, sweet ass candy. Sitting at the bar with a strawberry daiquiri in hand, a pretty young woman writhing about the dance floor caught my eye. I stood up from the bar and walked towards her. I tapped her on the shoulder and she instinctively made a violent 180 degree swing around, nearly elbowing my head clear off my neck (had I not predicted this action and ducked).
“Are you OK?”, I loudly inquisited over the bright tones of trashy EDM.
“This sounds like one of those reeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaally pretentious Pitchfork reviews written to prove that an album’s content is so abhorrent that it doesn’t even deserve proper content analysis.”, she said, vomiting all over my Giuseppe Zanottis.
“You’re right.”, I replied. Shaking the pink chunks from my feet, I stomped my way back to the bar. There was something foul in the air that night, so I decided to continue watching the girl from afar, whilst I drank.
“Another daiquiri, bartender.” I violently shrieked, waving my empty glass in the air like a baby waving an empty milk bottle.
As I continued to watch… nothing.
A man with the build of a spinning top, massive shoulders and legs as thin as my patience for the bartender, approached the lady on the dance floor. They began conversing, if you could call it that. She was so out of it her soul had slipped into an alternate dimension. They seemed familiar, but not too familiar. They most likely met earlier in the night. After an awkward exchange of mouth noises, they left the club together, the man nearly dragging her out like dead weight. I swiftly left the club after them. Some things are more important than daiquiris. Not many, but some. This seemed like one of them.
After I watched the bizarrely shaped man load the girl into his vehicle, I did the same with myself, and trailed him back to his condominium.
From my car, I watched inside the condo as the man tossed the girl to the floor like a rag doll and reached for a record on his poorly structured shelving unit.
It was I’m Not a Fan, But the Kids Like It!.
I could bear witness no longer. I sped from my car like a bullet through the condo door, tackling the man’s weak, evil legs. As I mounted him and smashed his face, watching it cave in under my fists, I felt like a hero. After I knew he was well and truly dead, I stopped and turned my attention to the girl. After getting some water from the sink, I splashed it on her face and gave her a wake-up slap, and I could see it in her eyes that she was coming back.
“Thank you.”, she meekly uttered.
“No problem, sweetheart. I’m going to search his clothes for date rape drugs and take some photos of this record. I don’t trust cops and this is the type of guy the media loves to frame as a victim. You just rest easy, everything is going to be OK.”
Music video for “Freaxxx”. I am truly sorry: