How I May Have Caught The Flaming Lips By Having Unprotected Commercial Intercourse With Virgin Entertainment (A Short Story In 3 Deviant Sex Acts)
This past Saturday, I visited the Virgin Music Festival on Olympic Island in Toronto. For the most part it was a good day. I was able to visit with some friends I hadn't seen in some time, become blissfully inebriated and enjoy some great live music. All of this courtesy of Virgin Entertainment Inc. My adventures in Virginland were not without their price however, as the headlining act most patrons waited patiently all afternoon to see was cut short due to the island's ferry boat schedule. Add to this the constant bombardment of not so subtle, but well placed marketing campaigns all over the island and the experience seemed much more like a synergistic orgy of commerce taking place on a bed of complacent music lovers. From the red carpet welcome of Virgin Mobile flags at the island's ferry docks, through the outrageous beer ticket prices (to be expected), under the Levi's jeans tent, over the Axe deodorant spray reps and around the mini Bacardi dance club our travels through capitalist wonderland lead us finally to the shining emerald city we'd been so longing to reach, the Virgin Stage. All of the performances were fantastic, but the Flaming Lips being allowed only to play four songs before their forced removal from the stage prompted the outrage of many fans, myself included. Was it not enough that we all payed $60 a ticket? That we paid $5.50 for each individual can of Budweiser? That concert goers all night long paid 50cents for 15 nanoseconds of fame, watching as their text messages of 'I Luv Tits' and 'Kevin Smells' (thanks Bob) scrolled across giant screens flanking the stage? Hell, I'm sure a few poor souls even bought a pair of 501's from the Levi's tent at $90 a pop. It was clearly demonstrated to us by Virgin Entertainment Saturday night that the music was not what was important about the event.
I'd like to make mention that the following letter is heavily inspired by Alan Moore's latest graphic novel endeavour, Lost Girls and it's full of extremely graphic sexual innuendos in the interest of mocking the commercialism of Virgin Fest, so if you have children:
a) Don't let them read it.
b) What's wrong with you?
Dear Virgin Entertainment,
My body still quakes spuratically with enthralling tremors as the memory of your hedonistic, pleasure palace of capitalist fantasy rests clearly in the most uninhibited and exotic parts of my psyche. I'll admit that I was no stranger to commercial intercourse upon my arrival to your "party", but my experiences had been limited to private encounters behind closed doors, a purchase here, a purchase there I would indulge in, though I was always fearful of letting my passions get the better of me. All that changed under the canopy of starlight this past Saturday at Virgin Festival. I was at first taken aback by it all, wary of societal reprecussions should I partake in the activities, but my aprehension quickly dissolved into a curious desire as I observed the transactions of others. Aroused by my own voyeurism, I watched intently as Levi's spread her legs for numerous patrons. Taking advantage of her presentation they caressed her rough, denim skin, shortly thereafter thrusting their bills into her and removing their change, in and out, in and out in full view of the adoring public. It was at that moment, when my arousal had reached a feverish peak, that I laid my eyes on Budweiser, the young American tent dressed in little more than a small, tight tarp and a see-through chain-linked fence. I approached her cautiously, not wanting to seem forward, but she had been through this routine before as I could tell by her eagerness to allow me entry. The conversation was brief and she seemed to care about little more than my age, she then, in a contrast of grace and filthy intent, opened the gates to her fertile grounds begging me to enter her, and I did. Slowly at first. Gently. Carefully exploring every inch of her. It was then that she unshealthed her northern quarters and presented me with her cans, cold from exposure to the night's cool breeze. I firmly pressed my lips on them, tasting her, becoming high on her juices. Perhaps it was my eagerness that caused me to become spent as quickly as I did, perhaps it was boredom and desire for variety, but it wasn't long before I pulled out of Budweiser and moved on. On to more exotic fare. A beautiful Cuban tent by the name of Bacardi who I'd been eyeing maliciously all night. Much like my previous conquest, she was not to be impeded by idle chat and immediately opened herself to not only me, but my friends as well. Others still, strangers, were simultaneously making use of her rear entrance. It felt so wrong, our abuse of her, but it felt so right. My friends and I took turns digitaly photographing each other inside of her in all different kinds of positions. We pumped our money into her with little to no regard for chivalrous behaviour. Her taste and smell would linger on us well into the morning as our senses became drunk on her nature. We left Bacardi not knowing whether we had had our way with her or she with us. The night continued in this fashion as we defiled Axe deodorant spray, molested Pizza Pizza and did things to XBOX 360 that no gentleman could mention even in type.
It is you though, Virgin Entertainment, that I have to thank most for my newfound love of taboo capitalism. Your soft synergy, your supple marketing, your relentless quest to be filled in every orafice with our currency while we orgasmically bliss into bankruptcy. I hear there was also music.
Can I call you sometime,
Kevin Burke
I'd like to make mention that the following letter is heavily inspired by Alan Moore's latest graphic novel endeavour, Lost Girls and it's full of extremely graphic sexual innuendos in the interest of mocking the commercialism of Virgin Fest, so if you have children:
a) Don't let them read it.
b) What's wrong with you?
Dear Virgin Entertainment,
My body still quakes spuratically with enthralling tremors as the memory of your hedonistic, pleasure palace of capitalist fantasy rests clearly in the most uninhibited and exotic parts of my psyche. I'll admit that I was no stranger to commercial intercourse upon my arrival to your "party", but my experiences had been limited to private encounters behind closed doors, a purchase here, a purchase there I would indulge in, though I was always fearful of letting my passions get the better of me. All that changed under the canopy of starlight this past Saturday at Virgin Festival. I was at first taken aback by it all, wary of societal reprecussions should I partake in the activities, but my aprehension quickly dissolved into a curious desire as I observed the transactions of others. Aroused by my own voyeurism, I watched intently as Levi's spread her legs for numerous patrons. Taking advantage of her presentation they caressed her rough, denim skin, shortly thereafter thrusting their bills into her and removing their change, in and out, in and out in full view of the adoring public. It was at that moment, when my arousal had reached a feverish peak, that I laid my eyes on Budweiser, the young American tent dressed in little more than a small, tight tarp and a see-through chain-linked fence. I approached her cautiously, not wanting to seem forward, but she had been through this routine before as I could tell by her eagerness to allow me entry. The conversation was brief and she seemed to care about little more than my age, she then, in a contrast of grace and filthy intent, opened the gates to her fertile grounds begging me to enter her, and I did. Slowly at first. Gently. Carefully exploring every inch of her. It was then that she unshealthed her northern quarters and presented me with her cans, cold from exposure to the night's cool breeze. I firmly pressed my lips on them, tasting her, becoming high on her juices. Perhaps it was my eagerness that caused me to become spent as quickly as I did, perhaps it was boredom and desire for variety, but it wasn't long before I pulled out of Budweiser and moved on. On to more exotic fare. A beautiful Cuban tent by the name of Bacardi who I'd been eyeing maliciously all night. Much like my previous conquest, she was not to be impeded by idle chat and immediately opened herself to not only me, but my friends as well. Others still, strangers, were simultaneously making use of her rear entrance. It felt so wrong, our abuse of her, but it felt so right. My friends and I took turns digitaly photographing each other inside of her in all different kinds of positions. We pumped our money into her with little to no regard for chivalrous behaviour. Her taste and smell would linger on us well into the morning as our senses became drunk on her nature. We left Bacardi not knowing whether we had had our way with her or she with us. The night continued in this fashion as we defiled Axe deodorant spray, molested Pizza Pizza and did things to XBOX 360 that no gentleman could mention even in type.
It is you though, Virgin Entertainment, that I have to thank most for my newfound love of taboo capitalism. Your soft synergy, your supple marketing, your relentless quest to be filled in every orafice with our currency while we orgasmically bliss into bankruptcy. I hear there was also music.
Can I call you sometime,
Kevin Burke
posted by Hooligan at 2:25 PM
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