The 10 Commandments Guidelines for Concert Behavior

We have all seen "that guy" at a concert; the one that shows up late and pushes his way to the front of the stage where you are only because you have been standing in line for hours on end. All the while he is spilling the beer that he is already to drunk to be drinking. With that in mind My Old Kentucky Blog is compiling their list over the next few weeks of the 10 Guidelines for Concert Behavior. Stay tuned, as they post the next guideline I will do the same along with an abridged explanation.

I. Thou Shalt Not Puke

Nothing wrong with tipping back a few, but know your limits. Sounds simple, but evidently it’s not. You might not remember spewing at a show, but the folks around you will.

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Bottom line, don’t be a puker. If you came with the puker, do the responsible thing and remove the puker, preferably prior to puking. If you don’t know your capacity and absolutely must puke, allow me to recommend an alley or your roommate’s car.

II. Thou Shalt Not Fart

Flatus, while lacking the tangible quality of, say, vomit, is in many ways a more insidious menace, simply because it's difficult to accurately assign blame. It's like one of those asinine murder at the dinner party games where everyone is a suspect.

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Sadly, concerts are a perfect storm scenario for flatulence. Start with fire code-violating crowds of strangers (many of whom have recently indulged in fried and fatty foods) in an enclosed, frequently warm, space. Add liberal amounts of cheap beer. Throw in a lot of standing, a handful of first dates and top the whole mess off with some inspired shimmying. The result? Practically every colon in the place is idling like a Harley-Davidson Panhead before the headliner even takes the stage. So what's a guy (or girl) to do?

Hold it in.

That's right, hold it in. It's not going to kill you. Your sphincter muscles will remain toned (you'll thank me in the September of your years) and it might actually add definition to your abs. If you absolutely cannot hold it in, wander outside for a moment "to smoke," or (here's an idea) hit the head. At the very least, get out of my section, because Charles's Law is in full effect. I may have spent my entire high school chemistry career carving names of punk bands in lab tables and searching for a Spanish Fly formula, but even I know that, way back in the late 1700s, Jacques Charles figured out that a volume of a gas is directly proportional to its temperature. Lesson here? Save the farting for the ski slopes.