Going to Vomit

Let me start off by saying two things. One, I love the Mountain Goats, and two, you’re not getting any dick jokes out of me this time, so if that’s what you’re looking for, go here - [Stupid].

So where was I? Yeah, the Mountain Goats have been my absolute favorite band going on thirteen years now, and since 1995 I’ve seen only seen them twice because they rarely venture out to the west coast. Needless to say I was excited to hear they were going to play on the 10th, but as reality set in, I slowly came to realize that I wouldn’t be going. Below are two of the compelling reasons that kept me from going:

1) The show was at the Echo, in Echo Park. Now, I’ve never seen Mi Vida Loca, but I’ve heard the song about a thousand times, or at least often enough to know that Echo Park is infested with Mexicans, and by Mexicans I don’t mean the hard working Mexican-Americans that risked life and limb to get to this great country, who are productive members of society questing for the American dream. No, I mean that other kind of Mexican, the kind you went to school with, that pack of four foot tall cocksuckers walking around with chips on their shoulders because they got gang-raped by their uncles at a drunken backyard fiesta. And don’t act like you don’t know who I’m talking about. We’ve all had to deal with these napoleon-complex assholes wearing dollar-store clothes, creased and buttoned in the wrong places so as to let everyone know they’re hard at work fucking up everybody’s insurance premiums and depreciating real estate values, saving up for the day that they can install that faux-gold plated gas cover on their 89 Sentra. Those guys.

But Mexitron, aren’t you Mexican? Yes. I’m half Mexican, half Black, and Japanese all over, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hate these cunts more than I hate waking up in the middle of the night to realize that I’ve had to much to drink and crapped the bed again. However, in the interest of fairness, you can email me [yellowtreats@aol.com] with a list of any ethnic majority, minority, clan, sect, tribe, division, culture, subculture, or micro-culture, and I’ll reply with a thorough and logical explanation as to why they should all be loaded onto a cattle-car and carted off to a lice ridden gulag on the tundra.

And do you know who I want to get on that trolley first? That’s right, the dumbshit hipster ass-cadavers that think it’s ultra hip to put a nightclub in fucking downtown DMZ. You know what’s a fuck of a lot cooler than that? Putting your club somewhere else so I don’t have to get hassled by three angry dwarves named Speedy, Joker, and Turtle. Not to mention the fact that it’s totally fucked up to promise some poor touring band a great show, only to have them arrive and realize they’ll be playing a condemned disco on the corner of Aggravated Assault St. and Teenage Pregnancy Ln., right next to Scabby Hooker Park. Fuck you whatever your name is. You know who you are*. Next time get a decent venue and charge me the extra five bucks. I’ll pay it and like it, and relish in the fact that I won’t have to take part in some insane right of passage for an ass backwards culture.

2) The fans. Jesus H. Christ in a wobbly shopping cart, do I hate the fans. Not all fans in general (at least, not for this review), but Mountain Goats fans in particular. It’s like they’ve all come from Planet Dorito Dust, where they spend their days leveling up on Ever Quest 2 and thinking of new and more banal ways to request Going to Georgia the next time they’re at a Goats show. And that’s exactly what they do. Once they’re done wiping off the crumb cake off their shirts and spilling their AZT mixed drinks, they all yell “Going to Georgia,” one at a time until John Darniel capitulates and plays it. The great thing is how he changes the lyrics so it’s a about a horse that can tell time, just to let his fans know exactly what he thinks of them and their mindless adoration for a song that’s as worn out as the paint around a Christopher street glory hole.

Here’s a thought: next time, why don’t you request something you’ve never heard before, something new? Maybe that would help you wrap your head around the fact that you drove out to see your band play instead of staying home and listening to the track you downloaded illegally in the bygone days of Napster, you unoriginal, chronic masturbating ass. Did you ever stop to think that if you only saw your girlfriend once a year, and you jacked yourself off before she had the chance to lift her skirt and show you her new tattoo, she’d dump you and tell everyone you were a faggot? Well, lady killers, that’s exactly what you’re doing every time you open your fat mouth and lisp “Going to Georgia,” halfway through the set, you sloppy mongoloids. Next time just shut the fuck up and let the artist do what you pay him to do, which is to have better taste and judgment than you and your homemade t-shirt. Yeah, the one that looks like Michael J. Fox sketched it during a car accident. That one. Fag.

So, in summary, fags and Mexicans made it so I couldn’t see my favoritist band in the whole entire world. Thanks guys.

*If you think I may be talking about you, yet inexplicably and simultaneously think that what I said about you isn’t true, then I’m not talking about you. Unless your name is Speedy, Joker, or Turtle, I don’t want to hear any shit from you. Got it?