Vibracathedral Orchestra
Tuning to the Rooster

That I still have to learn to write caTHedral instead of CHatedral, maybe because I often think of Switzerland, but if you search for it like this on Google, it mocks your ignorance in English grammar, questioning your Word! But like that, nice and nice, with a half-raised right eyebrow and the corner of the mouth 15 cm lower than the aforementioned, curved in a north-east/west direction depending on the point of observation. "Did you mean Vibracathedral?" What the heck do you know. The whole thing is quite frust(r)ating.

And no, I am not ignorant!

I listen to cool music, I do!

Stuff that normal people say to you "Ah, what a headache!"

But not me!

"But treat your head well! Get in tune with the chicken too!" says the good old Cope, taking a leap inside a flaccid wall of diarrheal yolks. Splat. Two strokes and he's a fossil too. Splat.

I mean, I listen to music, rather intellectual Music, the kind that only a few Chosen ones understand (Peace and Prosperity, they say in chorus, launching their fingers in tantric exhibitions) and I am the Chosen, but really fixed. Anyway, it all flows well, there's no denying it, relaxing indeed.

I have a huge metaphysical draft, folks!

And so let's go, with these intriguing dives of at least ten minutes ten, yes! Let's bask, damned sweet and sour piglets, let's splash in the sweat grease of our lips! Let's let the balls of the Neighbor vibrate until he becomes sterile, that bastard!

Does he mess with you because you're too cool, this guy? Because he's not from the Elite? Does his mangy, infamous little dog poop on your strictly English lawn that you have cultivated with so much care?

Chickens! Whoever of you has pecked, let them cast the first stone! And down with Vibracathedral Orchestra, stones and lots of Gallettivallespluga! One hundred twenty-six thousand seventy-four point three decibels hurled against his hovel, a test of resistance worthy of Jeux Sans Frontières! CH in mind! And patapam, patapam, today, children, we eat purée...

Because in fact, he had come to chew his shoelaces, poor thing. And to think he was in flip-flops.

Now I can only step out into the street clean and abstract, chest out and crest high, nodding with a wise and experienced manner to the remaining Neighbors who understood not to pull the rope too much with me, no kidding. They look at me with a vague expression of fear mixed with veneration, as if I were Arnold Schwarzzzenger. What do they want to understand, damned plebeians. Music that only the very cool understand. Cool, me. I can lay them all down whenever I want, this is my weapon.