You, sir, are a guitar-playing douche. With your sunglasses like a tiara atop your nodding head, you heartily strum some augmented chord over and over like a buskar, as we, the plane, wait for bags.
Woe for you to keep your instrument en-cased during these agonizing 75 minutes of flight time, every second an eternity your meaty babyman hands could not caress the Takamine Dave Mathews model spruce-top instrument with matte finish. Praise god and baby jesus alike that you could emerge from the flying sound prison, strap on and play your chord faster and faster, as if for us to dance in our minds, in this tile and stainless setting of the airport.
Or, perhaps, in our minds we dance a dance of murder, a joyous garrotting of your husky neck with a wound G string, your sandal-clad dirtytoes flailing about as your chord ceases to sustain.
Woe for you to keep your instrument en-cased during these agonizing 75 minutes of flight time, every second an eternity your meaty babyman hands could not caress the Takamine Dave Mathews model spruce-top instrument with matte finish. Praise god and baby jesus alike that you could emerge from the flying sound prison, strap on and play your chord faster and faster, as if for us to dance in our minds, in this tile and stainless setting of the airport.
Or, perhaps, in our minds we dance a dance of murder, a joyous garrotting of your husky neck with a wound G string, your sandal-clad dirtytoes flailing about as your chord ceases to sustain.
Comment