Panic On The Dance Floor

“What the-? Hey! Hey! Yeah, you! Yeah, that’s right, I’m talking to you, don’t even try to act like fucking Travis Bickle, you fuck! I mean, come on: Didn’t you see me here? Yeah, okay so you’re dancing with your girl and you’re totally making out and God bless and what have you, but come on: mind the other people, yeah? I mean, I don’t like swearing, I really don’t, but I’ve had a couple of drinks and I’ve been having a pretty bad night, so, you know: fuck off, you fucking fuck! Yeah, that’s right! Your cocky grin and your cocky cock rubbing on your girl’s cocky minge and your fucking lips locked together and pretty much fucking humping on the dance floor, bumping into people, not giving a shit. I mean, why didn’t you just stay home and fuck? Or why don’t you stay at your table and make out? Why do you need to flaunt your horniness and your pheromones all over the fucking dance floor? Take pity on the poor single fucks who envy you, you cunty fuck!
Hey! Don’t you dare fucking laugh at me, you fuck! Don’t you dare! And fucking take off that fucking beanie off of your fucking head, you fucking beanie-headed fuck! Can’t you think how to dress without watching fucking TV? Do you think this is 1994? Do you think this is fucking Portland? Are you fucking cold or something? Well, I’m sweating my tits off and from the looks of your honey, with her see-through whatchamacallit and the fact that she’s wearing no bra, she’s also got a bit of a titty-sweat situation. Furthermore... Yeah: that’s right: furthermore. Just because I’m a foreigner doesn’t mean I don’t master your language, so please: don’t be intimidated by the fact that I know a three-syllable word you’ve only used once in an essay about panopticism in your philosophy 101 undergrad bong-hitting freshman year! Anyway, my point was: so it’s hot as fuck here and we’re definitely not in Portland, and I know that because I can’t see any junky Czech whore passed out anywhere around here and if there are vegans, they well keep their opinions to themselves in this here state! And, well, I hope I don’t have to tell you: but it sure ain’t 1994. The glorious year when I graduated from high-school to start my wonderful life of fuck all.
Yeah, yeah: I know what I’m saying, I know what my point is! I’m telling you to fuck off!
Yeah, you goddamn right I’m pissed off! You look like a fucking prick and your girl is totally hot and this is just wrong, okay? What does she see in you anyway? I’m hoping she’s an escort -no offense, ma’am- because if she’s out with you on her own volition, then I guess all I gotta do is go home and hang myself with my fucking pleather belt, because then there’s no justice and everything is just wrong.
I mean, let’s face it: I’m an ugly cunt. I know that, I’ve accepted that fact. But if I’m ugly, I’m at least more or less categorized as a human. But you? Shit, I don’t know what the fuck you are! You look like a retarded monkey who passed out drunk in a Pakistani tattoo shop. And really: Tattoos? In this day and age? Really? A fucking dragon on your chest and a fucking barbed wire on your bicep? Really? And why aren’t you wearing a shirt? What the fuck is this? Goddamn nudist-heaven? Sauna-ville? Am I getting spunked? What? Huh? ‘Punk’d?’ Yeah, whatever. Same difference.
Oh, come on: really? Bouncers? Really? For me? For what? I’m standing my ground! I refuse to get bullied on the dance floor by Mr. Cliché and Miss Hot Bitch, so sue me.
Really? You escorting me out? Really? Fucking hell... Then, wait. Wait!
I just gotta do this...
Hold it! Hold it! I just completed my opening statement!”