The dark side of opera
I apologize in advance, but seriously.
Dear Old People:
You have legs, we have legs. We understand that because you are old, it might be more difficult for you to use yours than it is for the rest of us to use ours, but that does not mean you are off the hook. Or that we will feel sorry for you just for aging, because Jesus Christ, there are way too many of you for that to happen—especially in this neighborhood—and some of you are assholes. And we'll be old soon, too. WE GET THIS. Anyway, what I was saying in regards to legs is that the social contract must be maintained, or we might as well be monkeys. And please note (here we'll switch from first person plural to singular, because I am willing to take the heat for everybody else when I say): I AM NOT A MONKEY. Also, I AM SHORT. Remember? And therefore unable to either leap or catapult or swing myself over your legs in order to take my seat in the middle of the row. And as much as I will apologize for The Lord's oversight in assigning me such a small bladder, and for Management's oversight in seating me (and others) in the same row in which you happen to be sitting, I believe you also must accept that once in a while, when you venture out into the public sphere for one of these communal experiences known as "entertainment," you are actually going to have to stand up, you fuckers, because YOU DO NOT OWN THAT ROW.
In summary: I left at the first intermission last night because y'all gave me a headache, and I was bored. The End.
Many regards (and P.S. keep it up with the furs, because nothing makes you look fresher and more youthful than wearing dead things),