Listen: you have to come see my band tonight.

Remember how I told you how you had to see Shrek and you finally saw it and you said it was actually kind of good? Well my band is even better than that. Imagine if Shrek had a sequel. We're that good.

We're the Backstreet Boys of the lower-upper Brookyln area, mostly because we're all in our mid thirties by now and you only kind of know one of us and that one is begging you to come to our show, please man, just for old time's sake. Listen, you know those "Now That's What I Call Music?" CDs? We're like that. We're what you'd call music.

No, no, hold on! We're more than just another band. Think you might get bored? Don't give it a second thought; mandatory audience participation will keep you on your feet all night, which is convenient, because we don't allow chairs ever since the incident. Want something deepr? We also play a lot of uplifting Christian rock from a really obscure sect of Christianity which is decidedly pro-vuvuzella. Oh, and don't think white guys can rap? Well, you'll be whistling a different tune when MC April Jewels-Day grabs the mic. You'll be whistling a lot. That's part of the audience participation thing we mentioned before.

You may recognize Mr.Jewels-Day from his mixtape, "So Far, So Hood"

Hey, come on, don't think we're selfish with all the fun; we always keep the mic open in case anyone in the audience has any poems or amateur unrehearsed stand-up about the differences between men and women they feel like performing on a whim. And of course we open with a few rounds of improv comedy before each show. Did someone say "a royal wedding to Monica Lewinsky!?" We did, because that's what we yell to the audience every night. We're really curious to see what you, the audience, do with it this time.

It tends to get pretty explicit.

There's a four-drink minimum, but there's no alcohol served at the bar because of Amish Jimmy. Uh-oh, hope you like root-beer! Root-beer costs twelve dollars a glass.

Okay, I didn't want to toot my on horn here, but you really have got to come. We're not just musicians, okay? We're artists. Things get real and stay that way as we get personal with all the feelings you're too shy to express. We get real and make long, unbroken eye contact with every audience member. I don't want to spoil anything, but when we all start sobbing in jagging shrieks about how Sophie dumped us when our facial hair became sentient, it's a magical twenty-eight minutes.

But we have a lighter side, too; did someone ask for a twelve-minute rendition of "Do the Bartman?"

The cover charge is $60 but you get what you pay for: a shredding eight-hour concert played unceasingly at nothing but the highest of volumes. We're not the kind of band to leave the audience wanting more: we give them our all and then some. More music than you could possible require. Encores galore. And just when you think we're finally over, whaaaa? We've got more music coming down your ear-tubes brother, as our other band members forcibly charge in through any and every possible exit to push everyone back in for another song or eight, the vast majority of which are all different variations of "Do the Bartman."

Also: the concert is colonial themed, so be sure to dress properly. And remember: no electronics! We don't want Amish Jimmy to have another incident, right?

Oh come on! You've just got to come. It's not just a performance; it's an experience. Between the fog machines, strobe lights, and feral cats we have clawing through the crowd, you know it's no ordinary show. We have masks too, just like the Daffy Punks. Don't worry though, you'll know its me: I'll be the guy on the vuvuzella, except for the parts where we're all on vuvuzellas, in which case I'm just the guy throwing catnip into the crowd to get the cats excited for our big number, "One of These Cats has Rabies".

That reminds me; you're not allergic to cats, right? What about fire; do you have any allergies to fire? Perfect. See? It'll be a great time. We're nothing like that other band, "The Catholic Whale" with all those Amish-Fire-Cat incidents all those many days ago.

Huh? You really, truly can't make it? Bummer, man. Well, tell you what: you can make it up to me by helping me move out this weekend. My apartment is furnished exclusively with pianos.