I recently went to an outdoor concert. We had general admission tickets and got in line to get in when the gates opened so we could be up close. It was hot, but feeling the sweat of Billy Currington should be worth it, I thought.
Here’s what I learned: people suck and general admission is not a good place for me. The swarms of young gals with butt cheeks hanging out of their shorts that came weaseling their way in front of me to shake their barren mid-riffs, spill their vodka-cranberry on me, and wave “marry me?” on their phone in front of my face…yeah, I wished every one of those girls cottage cheese thighs and stretch marks. Sorry hunny, your half-bun and tan legs don’t impress me. I’ve been sweating my chubby Mom-ass off for 4 hours just to be up close and catch a glimpse of Billy’s dimples. Step. Back.
Let’s not forget about the pleated-short-wearing hipster turds with aviators and half-buttoned, too-small plaid shirts…you know, the sweaty ones with one eye drooping down who rub their disgusting bodies on anyone near them in their pitiful attempt to mouth incorrect words and dance, think it’s funny to spray beer, throw cans, and ( DUH!) pick a fight…yeah, I wanted to shove their aviators sideways up their little asses.
And before it sounds like I’m picking on millennials I’ll go ahead and call out the gals with their bedazzled shirts, coozied Mich Ultra, and enough eye wrinkles for them to fricking know common courtesy. Yeah—you aren’t invisible either. Go back to the beer tent.
Disclaimer: I’ve always been extra aware of other people. I slouch if someone “might” not be able to see behind me. I strip beds before I leave hotel rooms. I hold doors for strangers. I let people with two items go before me and my ridiculously over-full Target cart. That’s how I roll…so maybe I’m just overly sensitive to this stuff. Maybe not though.
Some people might say: that’s just how it is in a big group of people. But when did respect fly out the window? When did everyone think they were more important than everyone else? When did covering strangers in $8 beer become the “cool thing”?
Maybe I’m taking this too far, but in the concert of life who do you want to be? The lady who shows up early to fill her soul and rock out up-close with incredible musicians like the men of Whiskey Myers…you know the lady who just happens to have sweat creases in her shirt and bangs melted to her forehead. Or do you choose to be the drunken asshat who shows up late with elbows and egos flying to run up front, because this is your world and the rest of us just have the privilege of living in it?
I am and will always be the chick with the swass dancing and screaming when Whiskey Myers is killing their song(seriously check them out!) and just an FYI, if you try to fly your elbow or ego at me, apparently I’ll let you know how I feel and make sure your stank ass is behind me so I can catch another pic for my collection.
Just sayin’…
P.S. Billy Currington did not accept the proposal of half-bun brod, but he did return the heart-symbol and say, “I love you too, baby” to the half-melted, swassy lady. So maybe Billy’s on my side.