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My story is about buying a record... simular reasons...

High school.... Phil Collins' Genesis... the one with the shapes on the cover. I actually have it in my collection to this day.

I still think of her oversized, warm, soft breasts when I hear this record.


Is that bad?

Mayfair wrote:
I still think of her oversized, warm, soft breasts when I hear this record.


Is that bad?

Only if you re-imagine both of them as Phil Collins' gleaming head.

johnnyshape wrote:Only if you re-imagine both of them as Phil Collins' gleaming head.

Well that cured that.

Mayfair wrote:High school... Phil Collins' Genesis... the one with the shapes on the cover. I actually have it in my collection to this day.

I took my girlfriend to see Phil Collins and loved every fucking minute of it! P.C. 4EVER!

I don't know if this is a topper or not, but here it is:

Boyz II Men with TLC and MC HAMMER.

Yep. Please Hammer, don't hurt 'em.

I was seeing this lady from Bottineau, ND. I lived hundreds of miles from her and she was going to this concert. So there you have it.

One of Hammer's dancer's breasts popped out during a particularly aggressive number--real hurky jerky like. That was nice.

I was 15 and not really thinking with my head at the time.

Ike

My fiancee's into REO Speedwagon, Styx, Journey, etc. She knows better than to even ask.

She's also into the White Stripes, which I kinda like, so that's OK. The show that we went to also featured the Flaming Lips, so I was more than happy to be 'dragged'.

I was forced to witness Sheryl Crow in concert thanks to a woman I was very briefly dating. Wilco opened, and they were sloppy and fun, but Sheryl was sheer fucking torture from beginning to end. I could not for the life of me persuade my date to leave at intermission, and I didn't even get laid for all my agony. Never again. Feh.

When I used to wear the flip-up sunglasses and chase the baseballs around, I went to one of those county fair things with a few teammates on an off-day while in Beloit.

We met some local girls who like the straw, Miller beer and pinches of Kodiak and they insisted we join them at the bandstand to see some fella' sing with tight jeans and a belt buckle the size of third base.

While exchanging pleasantries with the lady-folk (Pleasantries being, "We play baseball, what are you doing later on?") I heard the banjo tech begin tuning the banjo, then checking the mic, saying in his Nashville twang "Cheeyack, un, two thrwee."

I began to worry.

So after my repoire had been established with the lady and her name had been written down so-as-to:
1) Not forget it later that night
2) Not forget it when I was to leave her and her friends tickets to the next night's game and
3) Not forget it for the next time we rolled into town
I was just about to ask who the band was when I heard,
"Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls... It's not often we get the likes of your next performer round these here parts. So when you get a chance to catch a star, you gotta put your hands together and count your blessings for....







BILLY RAY CYRUUUUUUUUUS!


Do I leave? Do I pick my jaw up off the ground? Do I pick up the plastic cup of beer I had just dropped? Do I stop saying "What the fuck?" over and over in my head?

No.

I grab the young lady's hand and start boot-scoot-scootin' to the worst song ever recorded in American history performed by the worst performer in American history - and pretend to love every note of it.
You know what the song is. It's the only thing anyone on earth associates with Billy Ray Cyrus.
Unless you're me, of course. Then you associate that shit song/concert AND a fantastic buck-shot-taking country girl from Beloit with him.

I almost had to go see The Donnas one time. That would have sucked.

horsewhip wrote:
"I almost had to go see The Donnas one time. That would have sucked."


It did. (Stupid ex-fiancee)
Close, verrrry close 2nd to the Cyrus.