(N.B.: this review of Vomitola’s attendance at last night’s Morrissey show is a joint effort. Lambchop begins, and Licketysplit answers in turn, to form a vibrant tapestry of nonsense.)
“Morrissey!” glittered red bulbed letters ten feet high, spread the width of the stage. Helen and I were there, wielding our bicycle chains. Sadly, our level-headed dates would not allow us to whale the tar out of the drunken administrative assistant who teetered in the aisle before us, warbling into her cellphone. She ended up careening over her seat to the tune of “There is a Light that Never Goes Out.” Lights out for some, I daresay! Morrissey!
We have Standards and Opinions on things, as you all know. The verdict on Morrissey? We let him live! Especially in that dashing red shirt. Did you know he has Opinions too? His sweat stains spelled out “DOWN WITH BREATHING.”
How we wept and kicked over our chairs when he sang Some Girls are Bigger than Others. We tore off our clothes when he trilled “Condoleeeeeeza.” How soon is Now, Morrissey?!?
Well, about 27 days. Massachusetts, your deadline for registering to vote is October 13th. But I digress. This switching between people to write thing is confusing. Let it be known that after the show we shared a Vitamin Water with Morrissey backstage, and found him to be the perfect partner for debating the finer points of driving moccasins. He finally pleaded exhaustion and packed us off with a gift basket filled with aromatherapy eye pillows and hot pepper chocolates.
It was dark as I drove the point home. In the taxi, I got some in pepper in my eye, and it really stung. If only we, too, could sing our lives!
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