Dear security douche—About two years ago, you caught me trying to get into a show with a fake ID. Though it was a huge pain in my ass, I can understand why you confiscated the ID. I practically begged you to give it back, explaining that I had borrowed my brother's license for the night. That's when a cruel smile spread across your face and you launched into a very detailed description of the legal trouble my brother could get into for the deed, even telling me that it was your club's policy to involve the police (which I now realize is bullshit). Then you offered to give it back in exchange for $100. This was a shitty deal, but I was desperate and went through with it. Well, a while back my band played the club, and you were working. You left your water bottle unattended for a few seconds, giving me just enough time to reach down and grasp my sweaty post-show balls and transfer the essence to the bottle's unprotected rim. I fingered that thing quite thoroughly, even managing to stick a slimy finger all the way inside, touching the water itself. Then I watched you drink it, you prick.—Anonymous