An acquaintance was telling me about her venue's recent Bob Dylan concert. Apparently, a few days before the big show, what should arrive at the theater but a shoebox addressed in frilly writing to the aged wheezebag. And inside were sex toys, batteries, lube, greeting cards detailing the sender's profound emotional connection with Dylan, a digital recorder bearing a spoken reiteration of the same, uhh a pair of graduation pictures of the sender's son, various religious trinkets, and self-taken snaps of the fffoul beast herself.
Sheesh. I mean really there's a line, people. I only stalked Chuck Billy of Testament (above) for 18 months and the worst of it was my creeping up and smelling his hair as he slept. Jesus lady get your shit together.
No comments:
Post a Comment