Now that everything is quiet after the massacre, as it always is (except for the birds), it’s time to reflect on this humbling experience of bass, blood-boiling wompage, and grime. Here are a few things I learned this time around:
- Every year, Deadmau5 sucks the same exact dick.
- That dick is large, and veiny.
- If a naked girl has a seizure in front of you in the mainstage crowd, kindly step back about 2 feet. Ask someone not already covered in blood/semen to take off his/her shirt, put it in her mouth, and hold her head while some horny cholo trying to make it on TV under the headline “HERO!” rushes her (on rush poppers) to the paramedickks.
- If your shirt says “WAKE THE FUCK UP” (RuskoÔ) like mine, wear it inside out to make it past “security” (ha!). Apparently such words offend all the “children” in the festival who are not already traumatized by the dudes beside them snorting [insert here].
- When the beach ball or blow-up monkey lands on your head, play with it and push it up into the clouds for the next raver to enjoy. Do not say, “let’s break it!” and proceed to throw it on the ground while you smash it with your black converse that used to be orange until some buff dude has to pull it out from under your legs while everyone points at you and “whispers” to each other, “what the fuck was that?"
- When you’re sitting on what used to be grass, waiting for the rest of your crew to catch up with you, pay attention to golf carts. An artist, say, maybe... oh, I don't know... SKRILLEX!, may be on one of those. A friend of mine spotted him on one and yes, I have to admit I raced after the cart like the animal that I am and straight up hugged the living dub out of him. He sped off to make a surprise appearance at Excision and Datsik’s set, but I still got to see his button earring up close and have his glasses smash against my face. And yeah, his voice is squeaky in person, too.
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| pit @ Skrillex, Day 2 |
- If you're a girl, good luck throwing yourself into an all-male dubstep moshpit. I was the only chick in some. And I bled a little.
- If you ask a hot betch for her VIP wristband after 11 p.m. so you can sneak into the lounge of utmost elitist glory, she will not give it to you. Such sluts keep those pieces of plastics as souvenirs of a time when they were physically seated above the filth they are covered in year-round. Ask a dude who looks like he hasn’t gotten laid in 2 years, and you’re golden. Worked for us:
- On Day 3 at 12:04 AM, the crowds will have vacated all stages, and once the DJs have died and the lights have evaporated, the debris of bottles and empty gel capsules brushed in white powder will start dancing when you’re gone.
- And finally, when you’re making your way home on the metro and everyone starts collectively chanting, serenading a lost era when their lives meant more than stale "reality," and yelling questions, don’t mention viruses. Here is the official transcript of my metro experience:
Random guy #1: Who had a sick ass fuckin’ time at ULTRA!?
Metro: YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Random guy #2: Who’s gonna go home and smoke some weed!?
Metro: YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Random guy #3: Who wants to fuck a bitch in the ass!?
Metro: ...YAAAAAAAAA…!
Opt!mus Gr!me: Who went to ULTRA and got an STD!?
Three people: YEAH!...... wait, NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Entire subway: BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!
Random cholo: YOU got an STD!
Everyone: YEAH!
Got any ridiculous pics of UMF? Send them to SleepFckParty@gmail.com
Stay street, and see you again next year
O.G.
