In Other Words …

Jim Kilroy must be stopped.

The man is dedicated, relentless and ambitious. And your firearms are useless against him. Which is why I intended to take the bullet. I would dive in front of you and take 25 bands at five venues in seven hours on the opening night of Kilroy’s Kansas City Rock and Metal Fest. I had even meticulously plotted a course that would (theoretically) allow me to see every band on the bill.

Naturally, the chances of completing the mission were slim. But I had to try. It was only a matter of time before one of Kilroy’s music-fest monstrosities toppled over and crushed an innocent pedestrian. It might have been your neighbor. It might have been your sister. It might have been that guy with the lisp from accounting who smells like Old Spice and moldy Frosted Flakes. But it didn’t really matter who it was; somebody was eventually going to die.

And it might as well have been me.

I wasn’t doing it for the glory. I wasn’t doing it for the wheelbarrows of cash, the feral women in tube tops or the tetanus shots I would surely endure after frequenting America’s Pub. I was doing it because I’m an altruist. A dreamer of dreams and a finder of lost children. And somebody who can happily skewer Boomstick for my own sordid amusement. But then I realized something. Or rather, I read something. A Web post by Galactic Celt (aka Michael Doss), interplanetary doughboy and lead singer of none other than Boomstick:

“I haven’t been impressed with Dinsdale yet,” Celt wrote on the forum for Kilroy’s Banzai Magazine. I could picture Celt jabbing an index finger at his keyboard covered in Kiss Army stickers while scanning for the sarcasm entry in his Reading Is Fun! dictionary. “It’s very obvious that his ability to be an unbiased critic is a joke. He likes what he likes and he tries to use nice sarcasm to shoot down what he doesn’t … Well, Mr. Dinsdale … let me be the first to say #### YOU.”

Sadly, my portly pal is hardly the first. But he did bring up a valid point. I’m in the unique position to give voice to the voiceless. So in an effort to be completely unbiased about the quality of showmanship at Rock Fest, I’ll just let the participants speak for themselves. Here’s a sampling of the stage banter on opening night:

“Thanks, everybody, for coming out to Metal Fest. You guys fucking rock!”

“Where’s Kilroy? I wanna hug that little bastard!”

“Anybody drunk yet?”

“Yahhhhhhhhrrrrrggggghhhh!”

“You motherfuckers hot as I am?”

“I’m off like a prom dress!”

“Fuckin’ a, you fucking fucks!”

“You can’t practice what we do. We’re stupid.”

“I got a problem with my dog, y’all. She keeps crapping on the floor.”

“So, uh, Camel is giving away cigarettes in the back. Isn’t that some cool shit, or what!”

“Are you guys fucking pissed off about gas prices?”

(Singing) Tie me up! Tie me up! Tie me up tight!

“This next song is called ‘Creation Through Destruction’!”

“This song is called ‘The Finer Points of Violence.'”

“This song is called ‘Fuck With Lou.'”

“This one’s called ‘No Remorse.'”

“This song is for the West Memphis Three!”

“Here’s the pretty song!”

“Here’s to the Phonies!”

“I’m going to throw some merchandise into the pit, and I want to see all you fuckers go get it!”

“I’m a big rock star, and I make lots of money, money, money!”

“Once I was in Vietnam, and I stepped on this land mine.”

“So this one guy says to his friend, ‘Man, I want to rip off my wife’s panties!’ The friend says, ‘Dude, you must be horny!’ And the guy says, ‘No, these things are just way too tight.'”

“I’m just going to say three words: Free! Tommy! Chong!”

(Singing) You’re a dick!/Yes, you’re a penis!/You’re such a cock! … but we can’t be sexist about this … so … You’re a bitch!/Yes, you’re a slut!/You’re such a ho bag!

“Hey, I think I’m drunk.”

“So, 25 fucking bands in one night, huh?”

“A toast … to Rock and Metal Fest!”