So raves are now crackhouses.


This really should conflict with the devout, government-smashing inflexible libertoid that I am .

Unless it’s the ideology that says you’re allowed to attack post office boxes that give you funny looks.

But aside from that, I really should be up in classically liberal arms about this whole gross infringement of our rights to get really giggly, touchy-feely and empathic with each other, all to the incessant beat of Dark Side of the Moon rendered into a techno remix (which usually takes me a couple minutes to figure out that it’s not just a skipping CD). However at the same time, I also have a significant urge within me that tends towards “whomping” things .

This urge has only grown stronger in my years at Berkeley. For a long time, my good whomping hand would twitch only when provoked by the presence of idiotic protesters or smelly hippies, but since I moved into a co-op renowned for years as a raver house, I’ve increasingly felt the pull towards engaging in some serious whompage whenever I hear computer-generated beats or see garishly large plastic pants with so many pockets that a whole herd of plastic kangeroos must’ve been killed to make them and which make that swoosh! sound when someone wearing them walks by. And if I see anyone with an age in the double digits with a pacifier in their mouth, my hand instictively goes for the whomping stick like it’s got a mind of its own, and I end up looking like Dr . Strangelove.

For that reason, I have to say I’m a bit conflicted about these surreptitious shenannigans against the glowstick set. On the one hand, there’s a big, glaring warning sign going off in my head about Government infringement of our rights – STOP! But then, there is an equally impressive neon mental advertisement screaming: Ravers getting whomped —> This way!

The world is a complicated place. My head hurts. I think I’ll go whomp something.

last update : 23-5-2018

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