Dear Sirs of The Hospitals:
I am writing to remind you of the big mess you have left. In fact, it
is a disaster. Complete chaos. Shattered glass and broken drumsticks
are spewed everywhere. The toilet's spilled over, flooding the place
with dirty water. The turntable is spinning warped records,
discharging scratchy distortions. The speakers are blown and won't
stop emitting a penetrating buzz. The amps are smoking, their cords
sparking. The four-track's knobs are at some seriously disturbing
settings. The guitar with no strings is still flaming, floating in
the puddles. I can't quite make it out, but it looks like you wrote
"turn it up" and "fuck it up" all over the walls — with
permanent ink. And speaking of walls — do you have some
sort of anger management issue? Because they've been smashed in,
leaving a number of holes. And what's with all the equipment in the
tub? Amongst these ruins of destruction, it hurts to think about what
you were doing while you were here. And to imagine the noise —
the deafening noise — you must have been making, punishing ears
even blocks away. I have no choice but to demolish the place. As
token compensation for my losses, I demand a copy of whatever it is
you laid down here, because I just know it will fucking blow my mind
and make it all worth it.
Just destroy someone else's place next time.
Regards,
Jenny "I Don't Have A Home" Tatone
P.S. You guys amaze me — keep it up, turn it up and fuck it up.
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