 Bruce Springsteen @ US Cellular Field, Chicago, USA We had good, 18th row seats on the field at US Cellular Field (née Comiskey Park). These two dumb, yuppie-style drunk morons (who talked loudly and kept giving each other manly hugs and pats on the back throughout the ENTIRE show) were in front of us with at least two other couples. My companions and I all wanted these two guys to die a catastrophic death. My wife, in particular, HATED them, frequently clapping right next to their ears so they would stop talking. They were basic meatheads, with a touch of nerd and a lot of alchohol. Springsteen's extremely long set gave me a lot of time to pent-up some rage. Towards the end of the show, after spilling beer all over the guy in front of them, and almost repeatedly falling over, the more nerdly of the guys turned around repeatedly to make goo goo eyes at my wife, who, while a cuckolding harlot in our home town, did not appreciate the attention. He then put his hand out for a "low five." I shot him and his friend the look of death and make a "go away" motion over his hand. The friend slapped my hand out of the way quite forcefully and they started saying things like: "Aw c'mon" and "I just wanna give the pretty lady a high five." So naturally I gave him a firm and nasty middle finger right in his face. He then slapped that out of the way, REALLY pissing me off. So I reached over and pulled him right up against my face by the front of his lame-ass polo shirt, ripping the entire button area off in the process. That was pleasing, to me at least. He said: "You gotta let go of my shirt right now." I used what is bound to be my one macho line, so if I get in another concert brawl, I'll have nothing: "Oh really? What are you going to do, little girl?" He was taken aback and began stammering about how I ruined his 80 dollar shirt and he doesn't know what he did. The friend then grabbed my arm rather overzealously, leading my friend to step in and pull his hand away. Finally the nerdier friend starts apologizing, saying shit like "He made a mistake." I said: "You most certainly fucking did," and let the guy go. The nerdy guy apologized over and over, saying he made a mistake and that I have a "pretty lady," "what can ya do when you have a pretty lady?" and other drunken utterances. So I made nice and shook their hands, telling them to enjoy the show, and to relax and stop talking through the whole thing. Then the ripped shirt guy keeps turning around asking me "What he did." I told him three or four times to just let it go. He said, "Well, I just turn around and suddenly my shirt's ripped …" Fed up, I took a boning knife out of my pants and thrust it toward his throat. The nerdier one panicked and ran, followed by Mr. Fuckwit. The funny thing is: there was no boning knife, it was just an illusion I conjured by rearranging the fabric of reality with my mind. After the morons left, we finally got to enjoy the last 30 minutes of the show. I ought to have used my telekinetic ability to remove all the recent songs from Bruce's setlist, and bring in more stuff from Tunnel of Love and Nebraska. But I've learned not to use my psychic powers for mere amusement … the last time I did, Jon Benet Ramsey ended up dead.
Setlist:
Where the Bands Are
My City of Ruins
Review by Dr. Martin Absinthe |