To the stink wrinkle that sat in row B, seat 6 D level Dress section of the Schnitz for the Alice in Chains concert on Wednesday: Perhaps you’ve never been to a concert. I was standing in the space I’d paid for, minding my own business, when your sausage-linked fingers tapped me in the back. I turned and looked. You said nothing, just took those Jimmy Deans and pointed for me to sit down. You must think I’m a child. You have the dour look of a mother whose kids run the show, highlighted by your BRF. You brought the funhammer and swung it wildly at anyone who was trying to have a good time. You ruined an entire row’s fun, as I watched your unauthorized ass do the same to others. I hate you because, for the better part of an hour, I couldn’t concentrate on a show I’d been waiting 25 years to see. You stole that from me as I was too busy thinking of where to dispose of your corpse. But when the encore came on I decided that you could take those Johnsonville originals and fuck yourself with them. I danced, and when you poked me again I was ready. I’m not a fan of capitalism, but this time it worked in my favor. And if you’d taken my advice to get up and dance, maybe you’d enjoy life more, or at least not ruin it for others. Instead of continuing with your sour existence, may I suggest that Oregon has an amazing assisted suicide program that you should consider. We are an overcrowded population and your kind needs some thinning out.

Fuck You