At the practice space getting shit together, had to let the beer out, but the bathroom is occupied, no worries, but longer than a piss for sure. I chill, listening to some band that left their door open, not bad for generic rock licks, at least the guitars and bass had great tone. You came out, me not sure what to make of your raty old WW shirt, disheveled, manic hair, and my inability to determine your gender, still not sure there. You avoided eye contact, so no pleasantries were exchanged. I enter the bathroom to find the stank of a thousand PBRs washing down some late night taco stands, utterly unbearable, but I gotta go. Sweet relief, and after a through hand washing, I notice two things. On is that the fan the bathroom is equipped with just for such occasions is off, and the second is that you left your phone you were dicking around with while you stunk up the place. I thought for a moment about grabbing it and exacting some revenge for the stink bomb and general disregard for your fellow musicians, but decided I would just leave it there and not help you out, even though I walked by the open door of your space on the way in. Alas your offense was not bad enough to really fuck you up the ass, just leaving you exposed I guess is enough. Now turn on the god damn fan if your gonna drop the bomb!
Da Bomber Strikes Puddletown
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