something's rotten on h street

After missing the awesomeness that is Passion Pit a few weeks ago due to the very worst fact of life (besides, of course, the fact that Tom Hanks is still making movies based on Dan Brown novellas), I made it out to The Rock'n'Roll Hotel on Friday to catch fellow Minnesotans Tapes 'n Tapes for some live music action. If you don't know them, allow me to say they sound like Minnesota's most famous music men Bob Dylan and Prince had one of them been able to become pregnant and give birth to four nerdy'n'dirty looking dudes. NOT!

In reality, they sound nothing like Dylan or Prince. Instead, they sound like four nerdy'n'dirty dudes who have a knack for manipulating rhythm. Even better than how your Uncle Floyd manipulates an at-home stripper pole. (Trust me, that link is worth clicking on.)

In short, the show was smashing!

Well, except for the crowd, the sound and the overall atmosphere. It went from endearing, like your Uncle Floyd working the pole fully clothed (see above link), to very uncomfortable, like your Uncle Floyd and his rapist glasses working the pole in his panties.

Now, I can't confirm 100 percent, but I'm 100 percent 50/50 that I was one of the very few people who had heard any songs off of Tapes 'n Tapes' first album, The Loon (or as I prefer to call it, the good one), which leads me to believe the largely young, unfortunate-looking crowd was not only young and unfortunate-looking, but also retarded. Case in point, a group of drunk girls, one of which was dressed like Dog the Bounty Hunter, seemed to be more interested in snapping photos of my friend's boyfriend rather than watching the actual show. That's even creepier than your Uncle Floyd perfecting his simple aerial routine.

But all of this would have been forgivable (but still retarded) had the concert not sounded and smelled like I was watching it from inside the rectum of a gigantic butt in need of a pretty intense colonic. Honestly, it was about as enjoyable as watching your Uncle Floyd in his Underoos attempting a cross knee release on the family's basement stripper pole. Wait, it's the opposite of that. Your Uncle Floyd is growing on me.

Luckily, the crowd began to thin out about halfway through the show, either because of the intense heat of the venue or because of the rampant farter whose accompanying stench permeated every nook, cranny and can of Sparks within a 50-foot radius. Thankfully, the gas-passer either knocked himself out or left, as well, because when the crowd thinned and I was able to move forward, I was suddenly able to breath without the aid of a makeshift burka fashioned out of my T-shirt pulled up over my face. Seriously.

And because I dislike the majority of the human race, the show drastically improved after most of the people left. In fact, it improved so much that I was even able to enjoy myself. A little. (I refuse to enjoy myself too much as any unheeded emotion tends to short-circuit my motherboard.)

Next step: Program my circuitry and wires to do this (I must watch it one -- or one-hundred -- more times!):



Seriously. I think I want a stripper pole now. Think of the job prospects! Not for that, pervs, but for my new greeting card business!