>>5100448
>>5100444
Alright, cocksucka, lemme tell you about the time I went to this free concert in the park. It was supposed to be Chappell Roan — you know, that moody singer with the haunting voice. Real chill vibes, perfect for a stoned night out. So I’m high as a kite, floatin’ on cloud nine, ready to vibe to this ugly bitch.

I get there, right? And the crowd looks… weird. Like, too weird. Real weird. Then from the back, I see this slow-rollin’ mutant in a red wig and white clown makeup. Yeah, I said clown makeup. And who’s sittin’ in that damn Herman Miller office chair? None other than J-Tard.

This motherfucker is rollin’ through the crowd screamin’, ‘WELCOME TO MY SHOW, BITCHES! I’M THE NEW POP ICON! I'M BASED!’ His makeup’s runnin’ down his face, and his infected little cock's leakin’ like a busted fire hydrant. People are backin’ away like he’s got the plague — kids cryin’, old folks throwin’ hands.

He's makin' these weird racecar noises and screechin’ about how real music is Formula 1 engine sounds. Next thing his soupy wig slides off. The PA system starts cracklin’, then cuts out — and suddenly the whole park smells like a dumpster fire that’s been marinated in sour gym socks.

Security finally drags J-Tard off, but not before he throws a shit-covered butt plug into the crowd. Somebody catches it — then immediately drops it like it’s a radioactive grenade. The concert’s over in ten minutes. Free? Yeah, but you paid in trauma.

Moral of the story: When you see a free show, cocksucka, check who’s organizin’ it. If it’s a deformed pedophile in a red wig on a busted office chair, just keep walkin’.

Couple months back, cocksucka, I’m sittin’ at home stoned to the fuckin’ gills. It’s 2:30 in the morning, I’m tryin’ to order tickets to the Pop-Tart convention — my Mecca, okay? Frosted strawberry, s’mores, that brown sugar cinnamon that’ll give you diabetes by lunchtime — I’m ready to live.

But I’m so fuckin’ high, instead of Pop-Tart tickets… I buy seats to a fuckin’ K-POP concert. Some group called Loona. I thought ‘Loona’ was a new pastry flavor. Turns out it’s twelve little Korean girls singin’ about love and friendship, which is the exact opposite of what I needed.

So now it’s the day of the concert. I’m like, ‘Alright, let’s make the best of it.’ I eat TWO stars of death — that’s 2,000 milligrams, cocksucka. That’s the edible dosage where you either time travel or shit yourself tryin’.

I get there… 6,000 teenagers in pastel skirts and glitter makeup. I’m in the middle like a gorilla that wandered into a Hello Kitty store — then I hear it…

Squeak… squish… squeak… squish.

The crowd splits in half like the last scene of Ghostbusters… and there he is. J-Tard. The king of human mildew. He’s in that Herman Miller chair, rollin’ forward like a slow-motion car crash. His skin’s three different colors — none of ‘em healthy. His cock's leakin' mushroom soup.

He’s got a crusty blonde wig on sideways, shoutin’, ‘OUTTA MY WAY, I’M BASED!’ And bro — the smell… The smell was like if you boiled an old gym sock in raccoon piss and let it sit in the sun for a month. People were cryin’.

The girls in Loona stop mid-song like they hit an invisible wall and start throwin' up on stage — glittery K-Pop puke, cocksucka. Security’s runnin’ in with gloves and masks, fans are stampeding like a fuckin’ kaiju just hit Seoul.

Lights on, announcement: ‘Concert cancelled due to biohazard conditions.’ Moral of the story? Never put mutants near synchronized dance numbers.