You know when you go to see your favorite band play, and you get there and you're so excited that you pee a little, and they come out and start playing and everything is right in the world and then suddenly the person next to you goes, "He was like so totally Tinder fuckable but not OkCupid fuckable but I messaged him because his hair looks soft ha ha ha!" Well, we've got a pill for that disease.

You know when you go to see your favorite band play, and you get there and you're so excited that you pee a little, and they come out and start playing and everything is right in the world and then suddenly the person next to you goes, "He was like so totally Tinder fuckable but not OkCupid fuckable but I messaged him because his hair looks soft ha ha ha!"

We know you can smell what we're cooking here: concert talkers.

Yes, the curious breed of homo erectus that's not sure what band they're seeing right now, but is pretty sure that the intimate minutiae of their clarinet cult meeting must be spoken about using mouth noise right as the band strums the first few notes of your favorite song. The one that uses their words to pour hot steaming poo all over your concert experience, distracting you from the show as you contemplate which one of your clenched body parts; fists, jaw, or butt, you should use to silence them.

The ones we don't know what to say to.

Because after all, for all their grating disregard for music and the people around them, concert talkers are undeniably human. They're just exercising their innate person-like desire to communicate in a musical setting. How you tell someone to stop doing the achingly stupid thing that they have every right to do?

Plus, even if we wanted to dismantle the mandibles of concert talkers, we couldn't, because we're too busy making out. We brought our girl or boyfriends (chose whichever one supplements your imaginary image of us), and we got drunk, and now we want to make out with them to the throbbing, slow pulse of Beach House, because #yolo.

Not to mention we rolled the perfect joint earlier, and we're not not going to smoke it right now, regardless of your seasonal asthma.

And, if we think the lighting makes the singer's face look like Garey Busey's and it's creepy-funny, you're goddamn right we're going to take like, 60 photos of it, blinding your sensitive corneas with the repeated flashes of amateur iPhone photography.

Why? Because concerts, by nature, are a place where all of the world's annoyances come together in one B.O.-scented mass.

Invasion of personal space? Check.

Incessant farting? Clearly.

A gauntlet of viciously territorial die-hards that stand between you and the front row? Always.

A dude wearing sunglasses on the back of his head that yells "Freebird!" thinking he's being ironic but thinking wrong? Every time.

A screamed conversation about why someone stopped eating butter? Oh, yeah.

Rampant PDA that teaches you more about sex than your high school health class? You know this.

Unless we're talking about a chamber orchestra performance from 1883, concerts have never been relaxing venues of calm enjoyment and grand personal space. They've always been inherent, smelly hellscapes where your favorite pet peeve comes out to play. And it's for that reason that we came up with a list of general guidelines to concert conduct; so you can lessen the struggle that other's inflict upon you at the show of your choice.

General Guidelines

1. If you don't like what's happening around you, take some advice from our main man Ludacris and move, bitch. You're in a public space, where public things like talking, PDA and flailing dancing occur. That means you can't possibly expect people to modulate their behavior or flatulence to fit your needs given the context of a common space where everyone paid equally to stand in.

2. If someone's trying to move, let them. The more you focus on doing your best "You shall not pass!" bit, the less you focus on the band, and that makes them win.

That's it.

We would never sit here and tell you to please stop talking or fucking while you're at a show. Please. That's what shows are for. And we're Rooster Magazine, not Decorum and Endearing Southern Mannerisms Quarterly.

If you want to hear music in the absence of distraction, feel free to stand alone in a dark room while the perfectly studio-recorded sounds of Gardens & Villa drift through your Beats by Dre headphones. You're the only one farting in your musical vacuum!

So what would we say to the dude that's audibly expressing his dream about ponchos that sing in the midst of your favorite song? Nothing. We'd just crop dust him, move a few rows up and forget about it. Because after all, we came to see a show, not to succumb to the mental toil that accompanies concert idiots. To us, it's the music, not the milieu, that matters. So fuck on, people. Fuck on.