In which I use the "F" word more times than is probably legal in many states.
Last night Dukay took me out for a romantic evening, which was very nice of him, and which he planned all by himself. And the plan was to take me to the symphony, where we would listen to pretty instruments playing Christmas songs, and hold hands and be generally overtaken by the magic of Christmas as presented through "triangle" and "tuba". That was the plan.
But the plan did not work out so much, in the sense that we didn't actually do that, in the sense that we never quite made it inside, in the sense that PEOPLE, WE GOT KICKED OUT OF THE SYMPHONY.
Yes. I don't want to talk about it.
But I will say that the people at the symphony are REALLY NOT KIDDING about shutting those doors at EXACTLY THE RIGHT TIME, even if that means allowing the people in line DIRECTLY in front of you inside and then abruptly pushing you OUT OF THE DOOR and INTO THE HALLWAY and then LOCKING THE DOOR IN YOUR FACE, while you stand there, amazed, because, HI. YOU JUST PUSHED ME OUT THE DOOR.
I don't think I have mentioned that the woman who pushed me out the door? HAD A RAT TAIL. She was like, sixty years old, and she had a rat tail. Because nothing says "high culture" like a rat tail! Nothing says "I have every right to be a snobby bitch to you, by the powers vested in me by my RAT TAIL," like a rat tail! Y'all, I could not make this shit up if I tried.
And I will also say that Dukay was not HAPPY about this turn of events. No. You can maybe imagine. What followed next could be described as a "conniption fit," if you were trying to describe it. We got into the car to head over to a bar we frequent, and this is pretty much how that went:
Dukay: FUCK THE SYMPHONY.
Self: Yes. Well. Apparently, we were la...
Dukay: FUCK THE SYMPHONY.
Self: ...te. Right. They're pretty hard core, with the rules.
Dukay: FUCK THE SYMPHONY.
Dukay: I WILL WRITE A SCATHING LETTER.
Self: To whom, exactly? The guy who plays the triangle?
Dukay: WITH BAD WORDS.
Self: I don't think you should send a letter. I think you should just write a letter in your heart.
Dukay: I HEREBY VOW NEVER TO GO BACK TO THE SYMPHONY FOR THE REMAINDER OF MY LIFE, SO SAYETH ME, IN MY LIFETIME, AMEN.
Self: Right. Got it. No more symphony. You are very serious.
Dukay: MY ANGER IS BEGINNING TO EXTEND TO THE MUSICIANS. I AM BEGINNING TO HATE THE GUY WITH THE STICK. WHO IS THE GUY WITH THE STICK.
Dukay: YES. I WILL TAKE THE CONDUCTOR, AND I WILL SHOVE HIS LITTLE STICK SO FAR UP HIS A...
Self: How about you just don't send them any money any more?
Dukay: MY ANGER MUST BE KNOWN.
Self: Dude, I think your anger is pretty much "known" at this point.
So we got to the bar, and the valet opened Dukay's door, and Dukay greets him with, "FUCK THE SYMPHONY. Here are the keys."
And then we got inside, and the host came over to hug and welcome us, and Dukay, once again: "FUCK THE SYMPHONY. Hi, Bob."
So word quickly spread that we had been booted from our evening of high culture, and before long, we were sitting at the bar, and a phenomenon occurred, namely that whenever we were addressed, by anyone, this is how that worked:
"FUCK THE SYMPHONY. Y'all want some water?"
"FUCK THE SYMPHONY. How are you two doing on wine?"
"FUCK THE SYMPHONY. The chef sent you some calamari! With a message, that message being, FUCK THE SYMPHONY."
Every toast? We toasted to fucking the symphony. Every goodnight? Given with a healthy dash of the fucking of the symphony. At this point, the symphony is surely well and truly fucked.
And, not surprisingly, it caught on. Other people at other tables began greeting their waiters and waitresses with, "FUCK THE SYMPHONY. I will have the brie." Or, "FUCK THE SYMPHONY. Could we please get a little more bread? Thanks ever so much."
Things, sadly, went downhill, when a woman at a table near us succumbed to the power of the Bottomless Wine Glass, and slumped over in her seat and began VOMITING ALL OVER THE FLOOR, as her friends did absolutely NOTHING to stop this truly terrifying turn of events, except for laugh and pat her back, and people, we are NOT AT A KEGGER, this is a nice restaurant with a nice bar and formerly nice flooring. Immediately, the bartenders and wait staff flocked to Dukay and me and formed a protective shield from The Spewer, apologizing profusely, all, "FUCK THE SYMPHONY. I can't believe that woman is puking all over the world." "FUCK THE SYMPHONY. Oh, good Lord. Where's the mop?" "FUCK THE SYMPHONY. Do you think her friends could, I don't know, maybe make some attempt to get her to a bathroom? I'm just wondering, and also, FUCK THE SYMPHONY."
And meanwhile, I'm just sitting there, thoroughly scandalized, and all I can think of to say is, "FUCK THE SYMPHONY! THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE MY ROMANTIC NIGHT! AND INSTEAD WE HAVE BEEN ABUSED BY A WOMAN WITH A RAT TAIL AND SOMEONE IS NOW VOMITING IN MY VICINITY."
But like I said. I don't want to talk about it. Besides, I think everything that needs to be said, has been said. And that being, for the ninety seven millionth time, with no question whatsoever, and from the bottom of my heart, y'all, FUCK THE SYMPHONY.