I’m going to a concert next week. Triumph. I saw them in 1986. It was my first concert. My Uncle Johnny took me. I was 15. Now here we are 40 years later and out of nowhere the band announced a 50th anniversary tour and I got me a ticket. Uncle Johnny is no longer with us, but he’ll be going to the show with me in spirit, I am sure.
That’s not the story with this post though. Not directly at least. No, the point is that ticketmaster is an asshole and I want them to fuck right off.
Over the last week they have been sending me emails reminding me that I have a ticket to a conert. As if I would have forgotten, you know? Not bloody likely. Today though, they put a new spin on the spam. Today’s email reminded me that if I wanted to sell my ticket I can do so through their reseller option.
Ah… no thank you, fuckwads. I do not want to sell the ticket to the show that I have been waiting 40 years for. Fuck you right the fuck off. To borrow a line or two from The Book of Mormon, fuck ticketmaster right in the eye and then fuck ticketmaster right in the other eye.
Inside the Red Head's Head 
This post is hilarious, heartfelt, and painfully relatable all at once. Beneath the sharp humor and perfectly justified rage at Ticketmaster, there’s actually a deeply touching story about memory, music, and connection. The image of 15-year-old you going to see Triumph with Uncle Johnny, and then returning 40 years later carrying his spirit with you, gives the whole piece real emotional weight.
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