They are seated directly behind me, three men of the boyish sort.
They are perhaps 18 or 19 years old, none of them old enough to wear the alcohol wristband for which they would have had to show ID.
Which means that no ID was required to purchase the pot they have recently smoked.
They reek of it.
No idea of their names, so they will just be Boy1, Boy2, and Boy3.
They have distinctive voices. They are right behind me. They are oblivious to the fact that I am taking notes.
Boy1: Where is John? He should be here by now.
Boy2: Mom! Over here, Mom!
Boy3: He texted me. He can’t find his keys.
Boy2: Mom! Over here, Mom! Hi!
Boy1: He is such a pussy. What the fuck can’t find his keys he’s probably just sitting in front of the TV like a lazy motherfucker.
Boy3: His text was pissed.
Boy2: I have to take a piss now. Why you gotta say the word piss? MOM! Over here, Mom!
Boy1: What you gonna do if one of these women comes over to see why the fuck you wanna call her Mom? I am starving as a motherfucker. You got any money?
Boy2: Didn’t no one tell me it was gonna be all old lady moms up in here. What the fuck band are we seeing, anyway? Scorpion?
Boy3: See now . . . that’s where being dumbass gets you. Some of these moms are totally fuckable. Want to know the first rule of fucking someone’s mom? Don’t call her MOM, asshole.
Boy1: OK, dude. This is the perfect moment for this conversation. Your mom is hot, dude. SHE IS HOT. Text her and tell her I said so.
Boy2: I am not fucking texting my mom to tell her you want to fuck her. What the fuck is wrong with you?
Boy1: This is my moment, man! I am going to grab my moment. Text your fucking mom, dude. She deserves to know my thoughts on the matter of her fuckability.
Boy2: You text my mom and tell her you want to fuck her, I will rip your nuts off.
Boy3: Did I tell you guys about that girl who thinks I can play the drums? I am totally gonna hit that.
Boy2: Dude, you better hit that before she sees you play the drums.
Boy3: What am I, stupid? Listen. Listen. Listen. Listen.
Boy1: Fucking say it, dude.
Boy3: This is how totally I am going to hit it . . . I told her . . . wait . . . wait, wait, wait.
Boy2: You gonna stroke out, dude? What the fuck is wrong with you? Spit it the fuck out.
Boy3: I told her I was the Tiny Tim of Snare!
Boy1: THE TINY TIM OF SNARE? You said that?
Boy3: I did. And she wants me. She wants me bad.
Boy2: High-fives on the snaring!
Boy3: I will be snaring.
Boy1: Too bad about the Tiny Tim part, though.
Boy3: You’re just jealous nobody wants you to hit anything.
Boy1: Seriously, though. Dude . . . Tiny Tim of Snare is pretty fucking awesome.
Boy2: You guys forgot to call me by my new nickname! Fuck. I can’t believe you forgot.
Boy3: Remind me.
Boy2: I am So Drunk! Remember? That girl at the party who said she was “fucking so drunk,” and so I decided that’s my new nickname, because the next time she is fucking So Drunk? I am going to be in that story.
Boy1: So Drunk! That’s awesome, dude!
Boy3: Look. See that girl? I would hit that.
Boy2: Which one. Her? You kidding me? Fucking firecrotch of doom? You fucking kidding me?
Boy3: That is the best band name ever . . . Firecrotch of Doom!
Boy1: Dude. I am totally not in your band as of this moment.
Boy2: I gotta take a piss so bad.
Boy3: No one wants a piss report from you. Fucking go take a piss, dude.
Boy2: Nah. I’ll wait. Look at these stupid motherfuckers all clapping to make the band come out. Clap, motherfuckers! Clap!
Boy1: Ooooh . . . maybe if we clap louder, they will come out! Stupid assholes.
Boy3: Nah, do your owl call of superpower! The band responds to nocturnal bird-calls. I read it somewhere.
Boy1: HOOOO! HOOOOO! HOOOO!
Boy2: We are fucking hilarious! Somebody text John and tell him what he’s missing.
Boy3: What do you want me to tell him?
Boy2: Just like text him every single word that we have been saying. We are fucking hilarious!
Boy1: I am starving. Nobody’s got any money? All I smell is hot dogs and French fries and I am going to fucking starve.
Boy3: John says to fuck off and he can’t find his keys.
Boy2: Dude, dude, dude, dude . . . DUDE.
Boy3: You’re the one telling me I am going to stroke out and look at you . . . what’s with the dudedudedudedude?
Boy2: Look.
Boy1: Dude.
Boy3: DUDE.
Boy1: John is going to fucking kill you. Why are his keys in your hand?
Boy2: I have no fucking idea. I must have grabbed them off the table by accident. Dude. John is going to fucking kill me.
Boy1: Dude.
Boy3: DUDE, you are dead.
Boy2: Dad, over here, Dad!
Boy1: What, you want to fuck the dads now, too?
Boy2: I’m just pointing out we are in a room filled with old people.
Boy3: Dude, it’s not like they’re zombies. You will survive the evening. Besides, it’s RUSH, man.
Boy2: Dude. It’s RUSH.
Boy1: Dude.
And the show began.
