I'm eating a sensible vegan dinner in town,
when Michael Stipe walks in and sits at my table.
"I'm a fan," I tell him,
"but I don't care for your voice, and your lyrics are often mired in cliches.
I do, however, have great respect for you as a multimedia artist."
Michael Stipe scowls, and out of nowhere, decks me with a left hook.
As I lay there, unconscious, dreaming of other dinners with
different rock stars behaving civilly, Michael Stipe jumps
on me, tears at my flesh, and just before taking a bite out
of my face, says:
"Don't believe everything you see on TV, faggot."
At least I think that's what he said.