Dear the Guy Trying to Effect Social Change with a Tuba within Tuba-distance of my House:
Look, I want you to know, I’m trying really hard to be reasonable about this.
I understand that I get to live in Davis Square, topper of the short list of happening squares, and the trade-off to having 361 tuba-free days is having putting up with Honk! (God forbid I forget the exclaimation mark) festival every year.
I understand that you are nothing if not earnest in your belief that sowing on some patches to torn-up pair of parachute pants, dying your hair some off-brand neon, and not knowing how to play an instrument are making a profound statement.
And I understand that the fundamental point you’re failing to make—that life should be about immediacy, surrounding yourself with the people you love and growing intoxicated of the rarified joys of human experience during this all too brief tenure of consciousness, rather than fritting about with a glowing square or concerning ourselves overmuch with the thoughts and opinions of an ultimately illusory modern society —is a very valid one, and one that I know, deep within my clutching, blackened heart to be true.
But … as soon as you tried to make that point with a unicycle and a smug sense of superiority to anybody not dressed like a complete tool, you lost me.
Get kicked out of your girlfriend’s commune and beg your parents for rent money, you bearded fetus.