A Big Fuck You To Bonnaroo

Well, I am pissed. And I don't mean just a little pissed, too, like when MM "forgets" to use a coaster under his PBR can on my coffee table or when my neighbor, Marty, is fighting with his girlfriend and goes on 3-day benders of listening to goddamn Foreigner. I'm on a level of irritation that is usually only reserved for people who awaken me while I'm sleeping, wear Blink-182 t-shirts or mention Kevin Federline's name. I'm just that pissed.

I blame Bonnaroo for personally fucking me out of finally seeing one of my Top-5 favorite bands of all-time, Radiohead. I was at work dutifully renewing insurance policies, and by dutifully renewing insurance policies I mean surfing the internet and playing with a rubber band ball I had been crafting for about a week, when I came across an online article announcing Radiohead's North American tour plans. I was atwitter with excitement, my little scheming mind already plotting who would loan me money and/or how many assets I would need to liquidate for ticket money, and by liquidating my assets I mean how many dvds and cds I would have to sell. Forget the stock and bond market; my money's tied up in Columbia House and BMG. And if this wouldn't generate enough funds I was fully prepared to start hooking on the street corner. I even asked MM the going rate on hand jobs, surmising this method involved the least amount of time and physical contact while still providing decent money. He just gave me a nasty look and said, "How the hell should I know?" Hookin' ain't easy, bitches.

My financial planning turned out to be a moot point anyway, as I realized with horror that the closest they're coming to Chattanooga is Bonnaroo. Realistically, I had no delusions they would be in Nashville, but I had been banking on Atlanta, as almost every band passes through there on a tour. But, no. The closest place besides Bonnafuckingroo is like 800 miles away and I'd have to give more than hand jobs to finance that kind of a trip.

So fuck me, I'm not going to get to see them because I refuse to go to Bonnaroo. I don't go to Bonnaroo because I like taking goddamn showers and I have better things to do than submerge myself in Hippie-stink for three days. I am not paying nearly $200 to sleep on dirt in 90+-degree weather for 3 days. I'm just fucking weird like that.

I have friends that are going who attempt various angles of enticement. First, they tried evoking a sense of nostalgia for my wilder years, using the old illegal substances angle with claims of excellent crops to be sampled. Please. You think the cops are fucking retards? You don't think they have some idea there might be illegal substances floating around? I live in Tennessee; let me tell you how it works in our great state. The local Barney Fifes of Manchester, TN would like nothing better than to bust some asshole with out-of-town tags with enough fines to fund their annual Lasagna Dinner for the next decade and that particular asshole is sure as shit not going to be me. I'm sure they even have contests to see who can bring in the most out-of-towners and the winner receives a year of free doughnuts or an unsupervised trip to the holding cell with Bubba, the toothless WunderCop.

When that didn't work they tried to appeal to my love for the music community. "But, but…It's like about love and music and being one as a community of listeners," my friend told me. First of all, I assure you that sitting in traffic for 16 hours on a trip that should only take about an hour is not going to get me in the mood to love the neighbors in any community. And, if you are willing to share a tent with me after I have been trapped in a car for that length of time then you are even dumber than I think you are, buddy.

So MM can breathe a hearty sigh of relief; I won't have to whore myself out for ticket money and the only hand job I give will be to him and it probably won't even get me a free dinner at the Sizzler, either. Bonnaroo's legion of damn dirty hippies will writhe around in drug-addled ecstasy to the musical genius of Thom Yorke and I will be stuck sulking at my computer and basking in the joys of soap and water. Fuck you, Bonnaroo- I hope you're content with robbing me of the last remaining pleasure in my life.