Enjoy your VIP box at the Edwardian Ball? I really have to wonder. Just why did you have to visit your Facebook page every five damn minutes? I shouldn't care, jackass—I'd hardly call it any of my effing business—but your blazing, blinding, holy mother of a smart phone raided the corner of my own and everyone else's eye behind you within 40 cussed feet! A wonderful, energetic, passionately performed show like the Edwardian Ball so truly did not deserve the peripheral supernova, the freaking fireball, the sleepless nightlight you inflicted on your fellow patrons who paid good money to enjoy what you seriously screwed with. Have fun now, phonewad, for when you die, it will be you occupying the seat behind 10 smart-phone salesmen each hawking his 8-inch, halogen-level phone screen, with eternally charged batteries and friend lists longer than the credits of Avatar.
