About two weeks ago, something very bad happened.
I was cooking a sandwhich at the steak shop I work at, listening to this album. I was bobbing my head, trying to ignore the customers staring at me, making sure I wasn't spitting in their food. They always stare at me. The next sandwhich was called over the loud speaker and, like the "slave to the man" that I am, I emidiately began to cook it. I looked up to see who this customer was (I was hopeing for maybe a short-haired brunette girl with a perfect smile and a big ol' butt, but no such luck) only to see a disturbingly ugly young lad with died black hair, several chains and facial piercings, and an Exploited t-shirt on.
"What's up man." I said, as I normally do to people dawning the punk style.
"What the fuck are you listening to?" he said rather rudely.
"Jets to Brazil, and could you not curse in front of the other customers." I replied, just as rudely.
"Jets to Brazil...oh yeah, I've heard them. They fucking suck. They sound like R.E.M. or some shit like that."
"R.E.M.!!! Dude, you obviously haven't heard them. They're like post-punk, but completely different from anything out there, with some of the best lyrics you'll ever hear, and please, don't curse in front of the customers."
I was begining to get a little heated with this guy, and believe me, I don't get mad very often.
"Whatever. I've heard them and they fucking suck. Please don't call them punk cause they sure as fuck aren't punk. They're slow and sad, and their lyrics don't make any sense. Just fucking stupid if you ask me."
At that moment, I walked back to the back, changed the cd player to song 2, "Morning New Disease", and replied "Listen to this fucking song and tell me they don't rock."
He stood there listening to the song, in my opinion, the best on the album, but still, no luck.
"It's crappy alternative music, man. They fucking suck. Go get a fucking Fear album, you fucking putz."
"Man, FUCK YOU. I like Fear, but Jets to Brazil is way fuckin' better than Fear. They have more thought in one verse than Fear ever had in their lives." I said, my temper rising.
"Wait a second....I knew I knew you from somewhere. You were at that party on Lincoln St. last month weren't ya. AHHAAHHAH! You puked off the deck all night and passed out in the yard.AAAHHHAAHA!"
Granted, I was there, I was shitfaced, and I probably did puke at some point in the night, but one thing I don't do is pass out before all the beer that is there to drink has been drunk.
"Fuck you man, that wasn't me." I handed the asshole his sandwhich and said "Get the fuck out of my face."
"Later pussy, have fun cooking and listening to your pussy rock. Don't puke on the grill, pussy."
At that moment, something inside of me snapped. I grabbed the spatula, leaped the counter in a single bound, and ran after the guy. When I reached him, I grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, and decked him with my cooking utincil.
"Aww, Fuck, you broke my..."
I continued to pound away as if he were a piece of chicken on the grill. One of his facial piercings was now lying a few feet away, and he was crying like a baby.
"Get off me man, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm mmmmhhmhmmh...."
Just as I began to get the spatula into his mouth, the mall security guards pulled me off him, slapped some cuffs on me, and took me to jail.
Yesterday, after two weeks of waiting in a very lonely cell, I finally stood before the judge.
"Fathead, you are charged with aggrivated assault with a spatchula, how do you plead?"
"Guilty, your honor"
"What the hell were you thinking son?"
"The guy just kept on talking trash about Jets to Brazil, and I guess I just snapped."
"Well, seeing how this is your first offense, I'm going to let you go with a $25 fine, as long as you don't let it happen again."
"Thank you sir, thank you." I said exstatically"
"Just one more thing..." he said in a stern voice. "Do you have a copy of "Dear You" I can borrow, I can't find it anywhere?"
"Hahaha, I sure do,Judge, I sure do!"