The Mars Volta rocks my fucking brains out

I love this fucking band. Some piece of shit kid stole my Francis the Mute CD while I was in Marseille. I'd like to be a good human being and forgive him, but I know I never will. I hate that piece of shit. And the worst part is, I'm sure he has no idea what he did to me. Anyone who would take another man's CDs is obviously a fucked-up, thieving philistine with no appreciation for the beauty of music. His action continues to deny me the aural pleasure of ROCKING THE FUCK OUT to my favorite band's second album. And I love this band in a very unrealistic, high school way. That's why it's okay for me to fantasize, occasionally, about flying back to Marseille, leaving some CDs out front of this kid's apartment as bait, catching him, and proceeding to kick him to the ground and stomp him into unconsciousness. Then I unzip my fly and shoot a stinking stream of piss onto his prostrate body. When his stupid whore mother comes out to protest, I turn my arcing urine sprinkler in her direction, quickly filling her open, yelling mouth with my opinion of her parenting. "Next time bitch," I say, shaking it a little bit, "Teach him some fucking MUSIC APPRECIATION."