Ultra Music Festival

This guy had a head on a swivel; he was staring at me wherever I went.

8 Reasons why UMF is a Generally Bad Idea:

1. People die every year.

While dying in the sweaty arms of a total stranger isn't the worst way to go out, dying in the sweaty arms of a total stranger who mistakenly thinks you're a blowup sex doll is.

Flag parasite takes over brain function, kills host, sprouts.

2. There are teenagers.

Half the crowd is of an undefinable age, somewhere between born and dying, but it is hard to miss the groups of friends that trip past you with an average age of 17. The part of the crowd that is over 17? Doing their damn best to act like they are 17. It's a Catch 17; the pitcher missed the catcher's signal and the catcher forgot his glove. Playin' hardball.

3. Your hearing takes a serious step toward deaf.

If your eardrums were castles, they just got stormed by a horde of troll whores carrying torture tables that mix broken bones better than wrecked chords. To add insult to injury they were wearing Beats headphones by Dr. Dre, who hates trolls.

DJ AdolfH lays down a sick set of beatings as one supporter cheers.

4. Saying UMF has bathrooms is like saying guys named Slyde don't suck bananas out of unwashed hammocks.

In fact, I think I might have seen some impromptu hammocking taking place behind a few of the outhouses. In any case, I would say out "houses" is an overstatement. "Trailer toilets" might be more appropriate.

5. All the hot girls have boyfriends.

On the rare occasion you are lucky enough to spy a lass with class you must also immediately notice her boyfriend who has his tongue up her shirt and his hand down her throat.

6. Some of the hot girls have shanks.
A trip is a trip is a trip, unless the tripmaster happens to have nothing to chew on but a plastic water bottle. I watched in awe and visceral fear as the cutie next to me took a good four hours out of her day to chew and twist a water bottle into a prison shiv. While the smile on her face told me she was harmless, the sharp tip of the weapon she held told me some life moments should have asterisks. As in: Ultra Life Moment #121*. *Could have been murdered here, the drugs she was on probably saved my life. 


7. The food costs more than a vasectomy, which costs more than you could pawn your self-respect for after attending Ultra. One of the most ridiculous things I've seen in my life: a hotdog, corndog, and fries combo for $20. Yes Ultra, I know everyone there is high rollin', but not that kind of rollin'. I guarantee if you install a cotton candy machine and a stand that sells latex gloves with lotion in them, you could charge whatever you want and make so much money you can open a UMF bank. Then you can buy your own damn ATMs, launder money onsite, and fuck the free world out of more money then you already are. Take that $5 you are making off of every sold bottle of water and get yourself a good rape lawyer, because you bruised more than my ego when you stormed my castle earlier.

8. Tickets. While an original ticket can be had for less than $200, which isn't so bad, once the $60 service fee is processed the shit starts to pile up. Next on your bill is overnight priority shipping, which is your only option. Then, book a plane ticket or buy a fucking yacht, it doesn't matter; you're going broke anyway.

Everyone on this boat faces the same direction. Someone should attack from behind.

Silver Lining
Despite everything I said, Ultra can change lives like domestically abused partners change door locks. The experience can best be summed up with the following quote from an esteemed U.S. Naval officer who I played strip poker with under a palm tree at 4 A.M.:

"After this, prepare to live a hollow and meaningless life thence, because you'll never again have as much fun as those three damn days." 

Backpack watching is the new Baywatching:

Whatcha got in there? Back that pack up!

"Panda, give me strength to cover these shameful loins with neon."

Unbiased research continually points to koalas as the instigators for most orgies.

Yoshi wears small Asians when he want a backpack.

Turtles suddenly aren't as harmless when they train to be ninjas and smile.

Swinger Parties

If there are two things I know it's that existentialism is real and that swinging without restraint is bad for the heart bones. For those who may not know, a swinger is someone who thinks every room in the house is a potential playground and that marriage is between a square peg and however many round holes that square peg can get to come over on a Tuesday night.

Swinging started in the animal kingdom around the time animal rights became popular in China. Most animals have sex: Fact. The "missionary" and the "falling goat grab" are favorites among the more conservative creatures - but it's still sex. There are some animals, however, that take inbreeding to the next level. These are the swingers. To them, sex is a joke with 85 punch lines and a gene pool is what happens on the forest floor whenever a group of monkeys comes together.


According to LiveScience:

• Bonobo moms hit up their kids when they're feeling frisky
• Spotted Hyenas can't help but cross swords because all the ladies have boom-boom sticks
• Male walruses have recently admitted that they are basically just large, cold-water penises
• Hanging flies seduce with delectable snacks: Aphrodisiacs
• Little Brown Ant-anus mouse things touch their males so hard the men drop dead afterward

Fighting in Low Lighting

Ever seen Fight Club? Ever seen an overweight corrective actions officer sprint up three flights of urine-painted stairs just to nightstick a former heroin dealer for shooting the Lord's name in vein? Well I've seen both, among other, more contumacious random acts of violence.

Hockey fans tell me this action by Zdeno Chara is an illegal hit/check/poke/boomboom. I don't know anything about hockey but I say the only two things illegal here are how Zdeno spells his name and that I've been talking to actual hockey fans. As punishment, I'll be taking my next 10 phone calls from a Death Penalty box.

Violence isn't so much prevalent in our culture as our culture itself is violence. Our bodies are built to do three things: sleep, eat meat, and resolve conflict by ending lives. If you have a hunger problem, kill something tasty, gorge yourself, and then sleep it off until your next meal. As you can see, violence accomplishes all three things are bodies are meant to do.

Want a real life example? Check out this giggle of trannys, getting wistfully visceral over what must be the best damn taco meal in San Diego:

If you're itching to get your hits in, seize the opportunity! All around you is proof of the beauty of life. There, a face poised for punching, jaw unsettled, jutting, waiting for fist to meet flesh in a cascade of knuckle kisses. Behind you,  unwatered sidewalk cracks wait to be quenched with the blood you will help release in the street fight you're about to start. Stop bemoaning your job and your gas bill and your atrophied sex muscle and erect yourself. Walk, no, run, to the nearest person you don't know and show them just how pleasant meeting a blog reader can be!

(DIY) Doing it... yourself?

Look up "how to be emotionally evolved" on the internet and it will probably tell you to give a hand job to your therapist in order to reach the climax of self-awareness. You can think of that as Generally Bad Advice, even if it is from a collective intelligence of the Internet. I say fuck you therapist, if I wanted your approval I'd send you some naked headshots, and maybe if you're lucky, pictures of my face.

Why would anyone want to become better in the first place? Because there is literally nothing else to do these days. [Baby Boomers, track stars, Whitney Houstons, crawdad fishermen] are getting bored. This is completely understandable. When you have enough food, enough water, marginal amounts of sex, access to basic cable, and buns in the oven, you have to look for something to fill that void inside you. No, I'm not talking about the liposuction cavern around your waist that nobody is comfortable talking to you about... that closed up a long time ago. I'm talking about the perpetual stupor of the unfulfilled. The drive to create something meaningful; to feel useful. The need to return to the old ways; the ways of the young. To Do It Your(goddamned)self (DIY).

When I first heard of DIY I assumed it was a group supporting Donkeys In Yemen, an animal anomaly that scientists have been loathe to investigate because no one gives a jack's ass or a Shi'ite about how many Sunnis there are in Philadelphia. I was completely off base. It turns out DIY just means doing it the hard way, America-style; by baking their own cake, the entire American public was able to sit back with a full bowl of expanded waists and get off on watching the rise of the middle yeast. If you ask the right person, you'll find out we glued an entire region together with no instructions whatsoever and God's Army of One. We simply said "Fuck you United Nations, if America wanted your approval we'd send you grenades filled with permission slips. Save yourself some time and let your jawballs drop right now. Grow up"

My ears ringing with the harmony of political discord and feeling high off my country's recent Accomplished Missions, I decided to take DIYourself  to the next level. I dropped in to visit my friends at the neighborhood dollar store and bought myself a whole hell-of-a-lot of lasers. No, I wasn't going to try and make Conan, I'm not that kind of idiot. I was going through a rough patch with my eye contacts and I figured between myself, a few well placed lasers, and Google I could come up with a new eye care plan.

Here's what I learned: Your eyes are your body's prize. Consult a doctor before attempting a self-proctor. It turns out that even 15 low-tech lasers - manufactured by Chinese kids at a factory picnic - don't do shit as far as fixing vision issues. When my eyelashes fell off and my irises started to boil, I thought I saw angels dancing in sugarplum outhouses and tomatoes committing fruitless crimes of passion. I decided to call the whole thing off when the junior I hired from a local alternative education high-school to oversee the operation started to scream. He tried to help me stand up but I did it myself.

Whatchu "looking at" dog?

The entire experience made me realize that just like the United Nations, I need to grow up and hire the experts to get shit done. If the goal is world peace, call in the doves to drop dirty bombs on terrorists. If the goal is eyes that can see what's going on more than a few inches away, start praying really hard with your eyes open. Eventually you'll be bestowed with the miracle of clear vision; a vision of a future in which you don't:

1. wear glasses and look like a nerd
2. play fag-tag with your Internet friends
3. take screenshots of Pandora's Box whenever she shows off her sexiest see-through songs
4. type hard into your diary when no one comments on your Facebook posts 
5. look up solutions to your problems on Google
6. perform reverse psychology below the pantyline (sexual position reference)

There you go. Get out there and realize your potential potential. Live like a rebel. Take off your pants and peel a banana in front of a school bus. Or, if you've really learned your lesson, do the logical thing and hire a recent college grad to do it for you.