Stark RAVing Mad

I think I may have stumbled onto the answer to the most perplexing mystery of the 21st century.  I know that many folks have been scratching their head and even pulling out their hair in a completely futile attempt to answer the mother of all perplexing questions:

How the heck did Barack Hussein Obama ever get elected President of The United States?

I have to admit that the answer to that has kept me awake and pacing my tile floors at night.  But, no longer.  Now I know why.  I’ve seen the light.  Actually, I’ve seen a light show.  

The elusive answer:  RAVE.  That’s it; one tiny four-letter word that explains everything.

You see, because of the economic meltdown that has been steamrolling along under that master of economics, Barack Obama, my business is almost bankrupt.  I, like many others, have had to look elsewhere for employment.  I’m not proud, and there are not many jobs that this American won’t do.  One of them is working security.

Last night I had the pleasure to be selected to work a rave at a local college arena.  It was, without a doubt, the most hideous experience of my life.  For those of you who do not know what a rave is; imagine a thousand people (mostly in their late teens and twenties, but some thirty and forty-somethings too) standing shoulder to shoulder and jumping up and down like the proverbial Easter Bunny.  Only these folks are more like the Energizer Rabbit.  They jumped and pumped their arms in the air for four solid hours.  Of course, many, if not most of the attendees had glazed over eyes and a perpetual grin from ear to ear.  Now I don’t want to accuse anyone of doing anything illegal, but my life experiences would convince me to wager my house that these poor souls had ingested something other than Red Bull.  Of course, I do remember seeing that same vacuous look on faces at Obama rallies last year.

The music (if that’s what it can be defined as) was provided by a DJ (I know of no band that would allow itself to play anything that noxious.)  So here was this DJ, standing alone, mixing cds that had the same song on them.  Let that sink in for a minute…..it was essentially a four-hour song.  I stood by a bank of 24 sub-woofer cabinets that pumped out quarter note kick drum and droning bass notes at 140 beats per minute at sound pressure levels exceeding the liftoff of the Space Shuttle.  Several times I thought I would vomit.

Not to be flip, but if there was ever a time I thought about slitting my wrists it was last night.

Without a doubt, I would have had more fun sitting in my dentist’s chair, having my teeth extracted one-by-one with a hammer and chisel and without the use of novocaine.  It would have been far more enjoyable.

So Moms and Dads be careful.  The next time your son or daughter tells you they’re going to a rave, check their eyes, check their urine and check their politics.

If you don’t, we may see a lot more raving going on.  Only it’s us that will have to face the music.