The rock group Kings of Leon cancelled their show in St. Louis over the weekend after three songs because a pigeon was pooping on them. I happen to be Facebook friends with the bird in question, and he sent me the following explanation:
Look, you know I'm a music fan. I flew 1,200 miles on a busted wing just to catch the last half of Bonaroo. I haven't missed a Tom Petty show since the Damn the Torpedoes tour. Heck, the most exciting day of my life was when Ozzy bit my uncle's head off at one of the Blizzard of Oz shows.
So when I heard Kings of Leon were playing at the local Verizon Amphitheater, I figured, screw it, what else is a pigeon going to do on a hot Friday night?
I get to the venue, and I see they're charging $150 a ticket, and I flat out refuse to pay that much. Why? Two reasons. One, that's before service charges. After the "convenience fee," the "venue fee" and the "fee fee," we're looking at two bills, easy. And second of all, I'm a pigeon, and who in the frig is going to give a pigeon a credit card? Besides Discover.
So I say screw it, and I fly right into the amphitheater. I settle down in section three, row FF. Choice seats, I'm telling you. The show's about to start, I'm already nibbling on an overpriced corporate hotdog someone left on the ground. All of a sudden, this fat douche wad with a yellow windbreaker that says SECURITY chases me away! I'm like, "Watch it, Needlepenis!" But then he gets the rest of the windbreaker gestapo to shoo me away.
So what's a bird to do? I head up and find a private spot on the rafters. Not the best seat in the house, but listen, smoke rises, so maybe I'll at least end up with a decent contact high.
The band finally comes on, they open with some song I never heard of (huge pet peeve). Meanwhile, my little pigeon stomach starts feeling funny. Probably that overpriced freakin' hotdog I ate before. I'm looking around for the men's room, and not only is there a line (like the chicks usually have), but Needlepenis is standing guard right there!
So I says to myself, "Screw it, I'm a pigeon, this is what pigeons do," and I let one go right on the bass player. I was aiming for the empty space next to his amp, but what am I, an Olympic f--king pooper?
The song ends, they go into the next one. And I never heard this one neither! C'mon, boys, Daddy wants the hits. So I send them a little squirt, just to let them know I'm not kidding around here. Boom! Right on the bass player again (it's not my fault bass players don't move around much).
Now I see the guys looking up at me, and I'm like, "That's right, bitches, I didn't pay $150 to hear the b-sides." Actually, I didn't pay $150 at all, but that's neither here nor there. Let's get some "Sex On Fire" up in here.
Third song. What the hell is this?! This sounds like bad Neil Young karaoke. That's it. I open up a can of whoop ass on them. Okay, it was just a can of ass. But this time, guns blazing. It looked like when the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man exploded on the guy at the end of Ghostbusters.
They stop playing. I'm thinking, "Good. Message received." Maybe now I'll get to hear "Use Somebody," or at least something that's been on the radio once or twice.
But no! These mother f--ckers put down their instruments and walk off the freaking stage! Then some roadie comes out and says they're cancelling the rest of the show due to "safety concerns."
Safety concerns? Look, I've ruined a few nice jackets in my time, but what kind of pussies think getting crapped on by some of my excrement counts as putting their lives at risk? Isn't this rock 'n' roll? Even Bon Jovi (not a fan) played a show with a torn calf muscle. Maybe he could teach the Vaginas of Leon a thing or two about giving fans their money's worth.
Anyway, I'm sorry to vent, but this experience really ruffled my feathers. Thanks for listening. Hopefully I'll have a better time at the Rush concert next week. If you want to catch up with me there, I'll be perched right on top of Geddy Lee's nose. Unless they take Discover.
St. Louis, MO