Montag, 16. September 2013



So I'm in the elevator with this short guy who, as expected, is wearing oversized transparent pink shades, a long trench coat, just long enough to let visible some hideous suede color combination rockabilly creepers, and who now suddenly happens to be just a human, while fifteen years of derision of his persona parade through my head and with a shake the elevator starts going up and I know I only have a very limited time to say something to him, something unforgettable (like the fire), something that will show my deep contempt for anything/everything-U2 while keeping him politely unaware (after all it's new-yoke, and probably there is a way to had me sued if emotional damage onto The Bono gets proven) and I'm thinking, yet not fast enough, as their talking distracts me from my task, and Bono says, "How late am I?"... "Don’t worry, you're perfect, you're fine", says the blond woman... "But how late am I?", asks Bono again... "They were expecting you to come in at 2, so don't worry", says the fat guy... "Yeah, ok, but really, how late am I? Two hours?", demands a rapidly-cum-bossy Bono, and then the fat guy gets all serious and says "It's noon now, and your appointment was for 11, so you're one hour late, but it's totally ok"... "Oh so it's not so bad! I thought I was...", says Bono, while the other two melt into a simultaneous rapid-fire sea of "Oh no/yes/don't worry/ fine/all good/no problem/he-he/ the only important thing is that you're already here, now", and my time is running out as we pass through the fourth floor... fifth floor... and they have pressed the 6th floor button, I saw that

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