I didn't mind dropping $400 to take my new boyfriend to see the Stones in Vegas, even if we were so far from the stage there was only one row behind us. It was everything I hoped for—great show, great times, great music. Until YOU, the overweight, pasty-white, badly dressed, balding, 40-plus dude sitting in the only row behind me, decided to start calling EVERYONE YOU KNOW from your cell phone in the middle of the show. Despite our nosebleed seats, it was quite a loud show. So you had to shout! And repeat yourself! And shout some more! Most notably, "Hey, dude! It's me! I'm at the Stones show, dude! What's up with you? Yeah! Stones! So, what's up with you, dude?" The frustrated people turning around to glare at you didn't matter. The fact that you ruined "Miss You" and "Gimme Shelter" for me and my boyfriend (and about 15 other annoyed patrons) didn't matter. YOU needed to make phone calls and say lame shit! I hope your phone gives you brain cancer and you die alone and friendless in a county hospital while your wife sleeps with your best friend and your kids sell all your shit on eBay.
Send anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/o OC Weekly, 1666 N. Main St., Ste. 500, Santa Ana, CA 92701-7417, or e-mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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