The kids love it: you pitch a tent, it quickly fills with syringe caps and empty cans of Barfstone Lite, a few bonfires get started, melodramtic, sanctimonious hippies wallow in their own filth, some acidwashed indie rock bluegrass merengue jazz fusion band you've never heard of plays for two hours, all while the paralyzingly amorous fragence of human regurgitation, spoiled, flea-infested corndogs and mothballs fermenting in urine wafts redundantly through the crisp, evening air. It's basically America on a field for 4 to 5 glorious days.
Have a blast, Bonnaroo attendees. Perhaps you will sink deep enough into the mud that you will commune with the reptilian android people that dwell beneath the surface but, most likely, you probably just caught too big a waft of some sort of happy smoke from the bong of that guy two tents down. Let me know if neon elephants really do dance to make gypsys cry.
Have a blast, Bonnaroo attendees. Perhaps you will sink deep enough into the mud that you will commune with the reptilian android people that dwell beneath the surface but, most likely, you probably just caught too big a waft of some sort of happy smoke from the bong of that guy two tents down. Let me know if neon elephants really do dance to make gypsys cry.
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