By JAKOB SNOREWELL
I II III
So
I'm in the elevator with this short guy who, as expected, is wearing
oversized transparent pink shades, a long trench coat, just long
enough to let visible some hideous suede color combination rockabilly
creepers, and who now suddenly happens to be just a human, while
fifteen years of derision of his persona parade through my head and
with a shake the elevator starts going up and I know I only have a
very limited time to say something to him, something unforgettable
(like the fire), something that will show my deep contempt for
anything/everything-U2 while keeping him politely unaware (after all
it's new-yoke, and probably there is a way to had me sued if
emotional damage onto The Bono gets proven) and I'm thinking, yet not
fast enough, as their talking distracts me from my task, and Bono
says, "How late am I?"... "Don’t worry, you're
perfect, you're fine", says the blond woman... "But how
late am I?", asks Bono again... "They were expecting you to
come in at 2, so don't worry", says the fat guy... "Yeah,
ok, but really, how late am I? Two hours?", demands a
rapidly-cum-bossy Bono, and then the fat guy gets all serious and
says "It's noon now, and your appointment was for 11, so you're
one hour late, but it's totally ok"... "Oh so it's not so
bad! I thought I was...", says Bono, while the other two melt
into a simultaneous rapid-fire sea of "Oh no/yes/don't
worry/ fine/all good/no problem/he-he/ the only important thing is that
you're already here, now", and my time is running out as we pass
through the fourth floor... fifth floor... and they have pressed the 6th
floor button, I saw that——————
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