Ok, so I've been neglecting the blog a little. But I have an excuse! And I'm gonna make it up to you, baby, I swear.
Monday, I waited in line for three hours with 1000 of my closest douchebag friends for free concert tickets. I debated with my comrades-in-arms (a.k.a. the dude in front of me and the dude behind me) whether this made me crazy or just crazy like a fox. I'll let you know how that turns out.
You may wonder if money's not being exchanged, how could it possibly take three hours to distribute tickets to a free concert? Well, the people of Wall St. Rising have reinvigorated the craft of artisanal concert tickets, an art - nay, a calling - that has been practiced for years all across this great nation of ours, from the rocky coast of Maine to the deserts of the Southwest.
They grind the pulp for paper with a manual apparatus, all the while singing "'Tis a Gift to Be Simple."
They whittle fine quill nibs out of feathers from free-range Greylag geese.
They milk baby squid of their ink before rereleasing them into the wild.
They talk to one another on fancy walkie-talkies, by which I mean soup cans with string.
Once the paper has dried, they tear them into unique shapes and write out the name of the show and venue in Latin, fully vocalized.
Each ticket is hand-wrapped in gold thread before being given to you, the concert-goer, in a tagged and numbered commerative gift box.
Just playin' Wall Street Rising! I have no idea why Wall Street must "Rise," but I'm very excited for the shows! I will endeavor to behave properly at each one.
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