My biggest fear is ending this blog with that vague notion of "you had to be there." And while I hate to take anyone "there," as it were, I am going to try my best to provide with the following few paragraphs and a rather repulsive metaphor at least a glimpse into the hell through which we persevered the other night. So, with fair warning, I shall continue.
Washington, DC, is a bit like a swimming pool -- a swimming pool with floating pieces of poo in it. And when someone drops a deuce in a pool, it ruins it for everyone. You can't just scoop the dookie out and be done with it. If only it was that easy! Nope. First everyone has to vacate the fertilized waters. Then the thankless pool keeper must fish out the feces, drain the water and disinfect the entirety of the basin. All the while, those who had been happily swimming now sit cold, wet and angry because someone decided to leave a fudge dragon* in the deep end.
And thus was my last Friday night. My friends and I went to see a Japanese Beatles cover band called the Silver Beats at the 9:30 Club. According to one of my friends, A, who had seen them in Japan a few years back, the show promised to be a good time -- a few libations, some dancing and a sing-along or two. After all, that's what the band kept imploring the audience to do.
And that's precisely how we played it in this metaphorical pool. But no one around us seemed to have gotten the message. People were standing so solemnly you'd think they were reliving the day John Lennon was gunned down. But I'll cut them a little slack here. We began the night near the back of the room, where people who might not be into the band, dancing or the general goings-on are free to lay back, sit down, grab a beer, etc.. We, however, wanted to dance, so we pushed forth to the front as politely as possible.
And that's when we confronted the proverbial turd. Without exaggeration, the first three rows of people were in standing comas. Some were checking their messages, others stood quiet, unmoving, with their arms crossed. Way to turn the pool into a poopscapade, kids.
But then one of the droppings spoke.
Doo-doo #1: [taps my friend L on the shoulder and says with a bitchier tone than necessary] Um, is this your first concert?And that was that. The butt nuggets unsurprisingly had no retort for L's well-put turn of phrase. Or maybe they did, but it was at that point when we just closed our eyes and tried to ignore the gnarl that nudged up against us. But how can you ignore something so sick as a steaming hot pile of chud? You can't. Unsurprisingly, the allegorical chocolate hotdog in the metaphorical pool makes it hard to symbolically swim.
L: [ceases sweet dance moves] Come again?
Doo-doo #2 (pun intended!): [increasingly bitchy tone] She asked if you've ever been to a concert before because it doesn't seem like it.
L: Um. Are you serious right now?
Me: [having overheard the retarded ruckus] Wait, you're pissed because we're dancing and trying to have a good time at an effing Japanese Beatles cover band show?
Doo-doos #1 and #2: [blank stares, arms still crossed]
L: Well, you're right. I guess this is my first concert. My first concert in hell. Thanks.
Well, friends, I'm fresh out euphemisms for "poop" and synonyms for "figurative," so I suppose there's nowhere else to go with this entry. But before I proverbially flush it (YES! LOL!), I invite you to view the source of my inspiration for my apt metaphor a.k.a. the most hilarious show on television: Rob & Big, Season 3, Episode 1. It's doo-doo-riffic!
*Additionally, I'd like to thank South Park's "Mystery of the Urinal Deuce" for introducing me to so many new euphemisms for poo. It kind of changed my life.