A rant about whistling

Are you Andrew Bird? No. You’re not. You are anything but a musical virtuoso/genius who can whistle at the same time as playing a violin or a guitar – or a violin like a guitar (Jimi Hendrix missed a trick there). So why the fuck do you think it’s okay to whistle in public? If I wanted to hear someone do that, I’d pay to see Mr Bird live in concert. The last thing I want is to hear your dreadful approximations of a tune you like that doesn’t sound anything like the actual thing. I mean, Jesus Fucking Christ. I mean, remember that fucking tune by Peter, Bjorn and John? The actual thing was bad enough – it’s one of the most boring, bland songs in the history of pop music – but all those fucknuts who started pursing their lips together as a result made it infinitely worse. Because everyone everywhere was doing it. It was the end of days, the death of culture through ubiquity, the transmogrification of an entire generation (and then some) into a parade of sheep, all whistling gleefully while they’re willingly leading themselves to the slaughter. Get some fucking culture, you fucking clueless cunts. Maybe that’s too harsh, too angry, an unjustified outpouring of bile for something that really doesn’t warrant it. But then, when I’m sitting on a bus or in a waiting room or in a pub with some friends and some idiot starts whistling – usually badly – it pisses me off. Personal space isn’t just physical, you know. You might as well be sitting there farting, waving the particles of your flatulence towards me with your hand, because that’s just as repugnant and direct an assault on my senses. I don’t need to hear you whistle. I don’t want to hear you whistle. Neither does anyone else, you selfish motherfucker. Are you Andrew Bird? No. You’re not. So shut the fuck up and give the rest of us a break. John, Bjorn and Peter – that goes double for you. Long may you suffer. Preferably in silence.