When I was younger, I used to pretty much like everyone. Like most teenagers, my standards for what constituted a decent human being were pretty low. Basically, if you had a car, you were solid. If you were super good-looking and had a car? Well, you were awesome.
As I've gotten older though, I've started to realize something. I don't really like most people. In fact, I sort of loath them. What's worse, I'm perfectly comfortable making broad, sweeping generalizations about groups of people I don't even know. I'm not talking about racism. My prejudices are far more sophisticated than that, refined even. For example, if you're a guy and you have one of those really thin chin-strap beards, you're probably a douche. If you pop the collar on your polo shirt, you'd probably be well served by a punch in the face. If you have a sticker on your car of any of the Calvin & Hobbs cartoon characters peeing on something that you don't like -- such as a rival brand of automobile -- you're an idiot. The list goes on and on.
It's gotten to the point, frankly, where I'm hardly even able to leave the house. And this includes my several exotically located and wildly expensive beach houses. Bars are, of course, off-limits. Especially those bars where people younger than me go. Movies have become difficult to sit through, because there's always some ramrod talking on his cell phone behind me or becoming loudly confused by the intricate plot of Transformers 2. And, hey Lard Ass, is it possible to open that bag of Sour Patch Kids any louder? Don't even get me started about anyone even associated with The Hills.
However, I doubt if there is a single activity on earth that offers better proof of the downfall of people than a large rock concert.
Last weekend, the wife and I attended a U2 show. During the band's first song, humanity's biggest jackass and his imbecile girlfriend parked themselves right in front of us. Of course, of the 90,000 or so in attendance, he was the tallest and she was the drunkest. For two hours and 23 songs, they danced around like methed-up teenagers, repeatedly crashing into everyone in site, most often, it seemed, my pregnant wife. Occasionally, to diversify their portfolio of irritating behavior, they would take breaks from thrashing about to French kiss and dry-hump as if it were, respectively, there last nights on earth.
The crowning achievement in their nightlong quest to make me hate them took place during one of U2's most famous songs. It was midway through the show, and the crowd was singing along and I'd almost forgotten about Team Water on the Brain in front of me. And then, after some deep tonguing, the guy looked into the girl's glassy eyes and said, just loud enough for everyone to hear, "I'vvvvve found what I'm looking for."
And just then, 90,000 people vomited at once. You may have heard about it on the news. If not, you should Google it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go spend a few weeks in my underground bunker where no one is allowed. Except my wife. I like her. For the most part.