Thursday, 16 July 2009

Heavy metal in the rainstorm

My room-mate has recently picked up the habit of asking idiotic questions at the most random of moments. ‘Andrea,’ he queried me yesterday while I was cooking a sausage, ‘if a spider were to get bitten by a radioactive man, would it acquire the proportional powers of an adult human being?’ What the hell am I supposed to think of that? I mean, even if I were to begin conceiving of an answer, what kind of powers could an arachnid adolescent nerd (I don’t know if such things exist but Peter Parker was a nerd so I figure the spider version would have to follow suit) ever acquire from a human? It would be super-smart, so possibly it could ejaculate Shakespeare monologues to its flies before it sucked their fucking guts out like a sponge and made us all think of a pornographic Buffy the Vampire Slayer parody (assuming the original wasn’t pornographic in the first place – considering how she acts, how she got the role, what she DOES in the role, what her script is like and all the rest, that actress has gone through more definitions of ‘sucking’ through that series than I could have done with a quadrilingual dictionary and two ice creams). That aside, what else? It would no longer get erections after the age of sixty, though that may already be the case with those critters and this may explain why the bitches eat their pimps in their world once they’ve done banging each other’s abdomens and covering each other in webs – hell, I too would be pissed off if nature had given me no other fate in the universe other than sitting in a fucking web all day, eating flies and getting fucked by eight-legged shiznits who cannot even give me satisfaction!! – though I may not resort to cannibalism (if only because they’re spiders – seriously, the idea of eating one of those gross sons of bitches makes me about as sick as the idea of having sex with them).

The discussion is beginning to get ugly now, so let’s change the topic. A friend invited me to a party in Paris yesterday which was supposed to be the event to end all events: the annual Erasmus student party, and as it turned out, it was more of an open gig on a field of grass ridden of the cows than it was a party. So I go there on a rather sombre evening (sombre in terms of cloudy skies – for my own part I’d imbibed a Red Bull on an empty stomach and I was rolling like a turbine). The first band to go on is playing Reggae music. Reggae has the same effects on me as a blowjob given by a really fat woman – it’s kind of ok when you’re totally stoned and can’t even get off the couch and all your sense of resistance falls away into the background as naturally as steam in clouds, but it’s complete rubbish at any other time. I have more difficulty telling the difference between one Reggae song and another than I do between a dumb and deaf midget eunuch and a four-foot tall Lord of the Rings fan with his legs chopped off. So I spend the introductory part of the concert walking around with my fancy coat and an umbrella, both of which make me look like Sherlock Holmes.

I mention the umbrella because the Reggae musicians were so bad that during their performance it had actually started to rain. At a parallel pace to that of the descent of water from the skies I was witnessing the descent of alcohol down people’s throats, particularly down the throat of a specific friend of mine who would later be seen vomiting like a dragon. The dickhead stole my umbrella precisely when I had three girls hugged to my chest in an attempt to shield themselves from the rain. I started looking for him and probably would have found him were it not that at one point I found myself stuck amid a group of Yugoslavian Erasmus Rastas (I can’t believe such things even exist) and by the time I walked out of their circle I was so high that I would have imagined the rain to be falling below me, thus rendering unnecessary a strategy of protection against it. Besides, around that moment a metal group walked onstage and blasted through the amplifiers and I went fucking wild – there are few things more satisfying in life than moshing in a heavy metal rainstorm, baby.

Eventually the temperature became something more befitting of woolly mammoths than of human beings (it rained non-stop for the entire night – those motherfucking Reggae scogs should have been kept for last, and not sent forth as the night’s debut), so we decided to lift our tents. ‘Hey Andrea,’ said my housemate when I got home, ‘how can people talk on the phone while they’re taking a shit? I was in a public toilet earlier today and now I know everything about Joelle’s broken hair-dryer, whoever she is.’ Oh for bloody hell’s sake.

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