I am waking up. No. I am being awakened. Rudely. By a man with a megaphone in the middle of a square, next to camp that generously provided couches and pillows… the very couches and pillows upon which I am but one of many burners. The sun is baking, but it’s early. Too early. Too early for this. And he is yelling. As if the megaphone isn’t loud enough. And it goes something like this (crass, read at your own risk):
“I will fuck your mother. I will fuck your father. I will fuck bacon. I will fuck forty pounds of bacon. On this square. At noon. That’s right folks, forty pounds of bacon will be fucked, and fried, and served at noon. At this square. Yo, Waldo, you fuck, how many fucking times did I fix your fucking bike? No, you fucking tell me, how many fucking times did I fix your fucking bike? I’ll tell you. Six fucking times. Six fucking times, you fucking asshole. And you know what? If you bring your fucking bike over one more fucking time, I’ll fucking fix it a fucking seventh time motherfucker. Why Waldo? Cause I fucking love you man. Kinda like I love bacon. And I’ll have forty pounds of bacon, at noon, on this square. Fuck you Waldo!”
And not a soul tells him to quiet down. And I am torn. On one hand, it’s too early, and too loud, but, he talks of love… love and bacon… and is there really a wrong way to talk about either at Burningman?