Journeys Through the Concert Hall: 2 Gallon Hatz
CONCERT HALL--Greetings, my fellow Neopians! Do you like bananas? Yes? Great,
because bananas have absolutely nothing to do with this article!*
I'm sort of a musical guy. Therefore, it's only logical that I should bombard
the Tyrannian Concert Hall every day of my pathetic life. Just a short while
ago, I managed to worm my way through the throng of concert-goers, slap my 1,250
NP on the table, and rip the ticket from that annoying Techo's hand before pushing
my way through the mustered assembly to the doorway of the Concert Hall. However,
a mean-looking Mynci blocked my path, refusing to let me through. Here's a little
sample of our conversation:
Me: But I have a ticket! *holds up*
Me: LOOK AT THIS! It's a nice brown ticket! I can go see the band now!
Me: WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM MY LIFE???!!!
Me: Alright. If you don't let me pass I'm calling a higher authority. *waves
ticket under Mynci's nostrils*
Mynci: *eats ticket*
Me: Hey, you didn't say 'Woog'!
Mynci: Quiet, moron! What kind of primitive idiot do you think I am? I went
to Princeton, goshdurnit!
Eventually, I managed to dislodge the ticket from his esophagus in ways unfit
for description in this article. I held the enzyme-covered paper and triumphantly
shoved him aside. I did a little victory dance, and then I tripped and fell
face-first into a massive pile of dung. Whoopee.
Anyway, the Concert Hall was enormous. People and their pets seemed to churn
as one big mass of mechanically-digested Concert Hall tickets in the great stomach
that is Tyrannia.** But this brought back painful memories of what had occurred
but moments before, and I tried to forget it. Dejected and covered in dung,
I took a seat in the middle of the seventh row, right next to a faerie Kougra.
As the show had not started yet, I attempted to converse with her:
Me: My, those are certainly very pretty wings.
Kougra: R0F1 J00 D0N7 5P33C 1337 O_o
Me: Do you speak English?
Kougra: 1 L1K3 B4N4N4ZZ0RZ35!!!!11123
Me: *scoots over five seats*
A while later, the lights dimmed, and the curtain rolled back, revealing a
spotted, torn orange curtain border bearing the words "2 Gallon Hatz." I looked
down to confirm this with my chewed up ticket, which seemed to read "Dude I'm
fat." Close enough.
Four performers walked onstage. No, wait. Walked is a bit too positive
a connotation for these guys. The hoggish blue Blumaroo trotted like some sort
of apish monstrosity, dragging his guitar by the next as if it was a stone club.
The yellow Poogle--the one with the odd bone in her hair--tromped her way onstage
like a Kau returning from a pasture. The green Bruce with glasses stiffly waddled
with two drumsticks in hand; he could easily have passed for a walking board
of plywood. The Meerca, however, probably had too much Cappuccino in the Deep
Catacombs earlier. He bounced on the the stage with some sort of viciously hyperactive
insanity. I couldn't figure out if it was due to the sugar in the coffee or
his full bladder.***
Then they began to make "music." Let me explain how deeply this... erm...
moved me. The Blumaroo struck a few tones on his guitar, which, of course,
sounded like the screeches emitted by Lord Darigan as he underwent the wonder
of puberty. This horrific noise can probably be attributed to the fact that
he started to salivate and eat his guitar.
The Poogle had some sort of severe motor skills disorder. All she did the
entire time was bob her head and twitch her left eye. At first I thought she
was nodding and winking at me. Then I realized that that particular repetition
was the only part of the show with which she was entrusted--whether that was
a good or bad decision for the promoters, I do not know.
The Bruce banged on the drums the entire time. Nothing much to say here, really,
except for the fact that just before the Blumaroo stuffed the entire guitar
down his throat, the Bruce began to play excerpts from the Blue Kacheek Group
in an unrehearsed turn that would be the band's eventual undoing.
As for the Meerca, well... let's just say I was a little shocked that he was
the vocalist. He bobbed up and down on his tail the majority of the time, in
perfect sync with the Poogle. His singing reminded me of what the Monoceraptor
sounded like when he was slain--note that after that incident, I had to have
The song was rather redundant, really. It just kept going and going and going
and going and going and going and going and going and going and going and going
and going and going. That is, except for when the guitar met its demise at the
merciless appetite of its owner and when the Bruce decided to steal the stage
with tunes from another musical group.
Suddenly, without warning, the concert ended. I got up to leave, when a supervising
official granted me the gift of a 2 Gallon Hatz Jacket, placing it delicately
on my shoulders. As I wandered through the exit wearing this abomination, I
instantly wished that I was covered in dung instead. Then I realized I still
was, and was somewhat happy. I think.
Ferry to Tyrannia? 3,000 NP. Concert Hall ticket? 1,250 NP. 2 Gallon Hatz
Jacket? Free. Ear surgery bill? 1,000,000,000 NP. The knowledge that I can survive
country music from the Underworld and be able to tell the tale? Priceless.
Tune in later for future editions of Journeys Through the Concert Hall! Until
then, I have to perform weird lunar banana rituals to exorcise myself of the
demons of horrific country music. Yee-haw.
*I really stink at introductions. Sue me.
**Toodles if you figure out how I came up with this.
***Then again, I really don't want to know that.