Chicago IL – No festival experience is complete without the ceremonious ritual of a snarling bridge troll leveraging a lifetime of insecurities to gain a better vantage point over any smaller women who had the gall to attend a music festival. Pitchfork Music Festival was no different, as a wave after wave of unwell looking Untuckit chodes, fully incapable of grasping even the prospect of wiping their own ass, belched and farted their way to undeserving vantage points for multiple acts throughout the day.

“None of the smaller women that I trampled to get my perfect spot even cared, they were all SUPER chill with me physically imposing my will on them! Very Rad!” said Terry Kibby, casually beating his meat with a White Claw jammed up his ass while live streaming the entire show to his friend Tyler.

Fortunately enough, the women who waited hours to watch Robyn now get to stare deeply into the horrendous acne riddled back of someone who may or may not have dumped their Birddog shorts moments earlier, so essentially an equal concert experience all things considered.

“It’s not like chicks even care about music,” continued Kibby, grabbing an eyeball falling from his deteriorating face and promptly putting it back into his eye socket.

His girlfriend nodded in flaccid agreement, applying relentless filters to a picture in an effort to convey a happiness she has never felt. Her self-esteem as worn as the elastic on her boyfriend’s underwear. They will at some point die and no one will know or care.