“If you take sexual advantage of her, you’re going to burn in a very special level of hell. A level they reserve for child molesters and people who talk at the theatre.” Shepherd Book, Firefly.
This post is dedicated to the three girls who loomed over us last night at The Tallest Man on Earth concert at The Factory Theatre in Marrickville. Why is this in the ‘stars’ section? Because I got to see The Tallest Man on Earth and he was sublime. Utterly, utterly perfect.
LACK OF STARS:
Here’s where we get to the meat of the situation, the ropes of stringy gristle and chewed nubs of intestine and spleen that are hanging bloodily from the gaping zombie torso that is this situation. These girls, standing so very close to our chairs, talked the entire show. I’m not talking about hushed whispers about how awed they were at the superb concert we were seeing. I’m talking about raucous, cackling, shouted conversation like a cheap prostitute arguing with a flock of parrots about cultural differences. I’m talking the volumes and intonations of a Catherine Wheel strapped to six cats and released in a space shuttle. And I’m talking about subject matter that would make an NRL team composed entirely of moss and amoeba feel intellectual superiority. Here’s a quick portrait of how these harpies looked:
Yeah I know, right!
Why didn’t I simply stand up to them, you ask? With great dignity, explain to them why their behaviour is akin to throwing sharks into a newborn child’s crib? Well, I did manage to ask them to be quiet not once, but twice. And so did a gentleman in front of me. And so did his girlfriend. And did they shut the fucking hell up? No.
And this is why I declare a pogrom against theatre talkers. This is why if all the people who talked in theatres all decided to move to one country and become a distinctly separate race, I would relax my normally stringent distaste of genocide.
They managed to drive even further down the long roads of theatre talking horror and they put their club-like feet firmly on the stupid accelerator. When two of them went off to have a smoke (and at this point the assembled audience must have been hoping for a newer, more instant type of lung cancer to strike them down), the third one started talking on her phone. Her dedication to ruining our acoustic experience was so devout, that she actually phoned a friend in order to help carry it out. By this point, the last few rows were visibly annoyed. In fact, when the smokers came back, they were probably greeted by something like this:
|Holy crap I couldn’t even be bothered finishing this picture. You get the idea.
Blobs with expressions.
Eventually they just left. Perhaps the deep sense of unwelcome permeating the room began to pierce the thick layer of empty screeching and the fog from their dual-wielding of Red Bull and Carlton Draught. Or perhaps they’d heard of a funeral that they could go and have loud anal sex at. Or maybe they are still wandering the streets of Sydney, smearing themselves in their own faeces, emitting a low grunting noise sporadically and collecting old plastic spoons to insert up their noses.