2004-07-27 - 9:36 a.m.
FRANZ FERDINAND WILL KICK DURAN DURAN�S ASS
On an unsuspecting Monday afternoon, Pencopal ponders the long evening that stretches before her. The three-and-a-half hour discussion of Shakespeare in store the evening�s class is quite unpalatable, making the taste in Pencopal�s mouth more bitter than Pastori-i�s spuge. (Um, not that she's ever tasted his spuge. Eew. She just imagines, due to his cantakerous nature, that it's more bitter than a skunked bottle of Beck's) Speaking of Pastori-i, that fucker was supposed to call Pencopal this weekend, and never did. She pictures him shelling out his last few dollars to see a shitty hard core band at the Khyber and to imbibe $1 cans of PBR. An e-mail notification pops up on Pencopal�s screen. Speak of the devil.
PASTORI-I (wearing a white t-shirt bearing a black and white photo of Duran Duran. This home made shit has "Duran Duran" at the topic, in fucking Comic Sans font. Douchebag.): Get your corny dance on, Biarch. Check this out: Y100 PRESENTS: Franz Ferdinand, Electric Factory, Philadelphia, PA, Friday, September 10 at 8:00 PM. Tickets go on sale Friday.
PENCOPAL (heart swelling at the idea of seeing musical prozac live): Good lookin� out, man. Between this and that Interpol Antics CD you hooked me up with, you�re batting 1000.
PASTORI-I (ego swells as his inner music snob rears its ugly head): I can't believe those Franz Ferdinand ass-clowns are going to sell out at the Factory. That said, I'll probably end up going, as long as you don't get the urge to show your tits to the lead singer. You do realize that you�re obsessed with your tits lately, right?
PENCOPAL (rolls her eyes as Pastori-i digs deeper into his holier than thou, I know everything about music because I write for a music magazine mode): Oh, if I can see them, they're going to see the twins. Why are you going, just to make fun of it? I never got people who went to shows just to crack on the band. You'd be better off having a repeat of last Friday night: sitting on the couch with your cock in your hand, experimenting with new levels of self-love. Smooches.
PASTORI-I: (flush rises to his cheeks as he wonders, how did she know? Bitch must have spies everywhere): See, I'd go to this show just to kick back, drink some brews, and watch you go to town. I'd also enjoy tripping hipsters who are attempting their first try at "dancing" whle they stink up the room. The skinny guy with the thick black glasses and the $50 vintage t-shirt? See him? Atomic wedgie right out on the dance floor.
See that other dude, the greasy guy who knows all the words and is shaking his ass like a fool? Kick right to the midsection, blam, then headbutt to the cranium. Ah, sweet relief.
Then I'd feed you a margarita and a half and proceed to laugh as you attempted to cuss me out while shaking it and twirling your boa around.
That's my kind of party. Then I'll pull my D12 hat closer to my skull and roll to the bar, no one the wiser. What? No PBR? BLAM, smack to the head of the bartender, then I pour myself a cold one. Franz Ferdinand. That's gonna be a heck of a night, I can tell already.
PENCOPAL (wondering how she can possibly top that. When this fucker�s right, he�s right): I hate you.
-- end scene--
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