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Four Hours of Protracted Intercourse with Mumford and Sons

April 8, 2013

As a human who was raised to have strong opinions about music and would have probably had them irregardless, I usually have no trouble figuring out whether I like a certain band. But after two years and two album purchases I don’t know what to do with Mumford and Sons. Almost every song has a kickass second half, but in order to get there the listener has to eat a plate of sugar-coated tripe. I know that if I decide to spend time with them I’m going to have to pull out my iPod at the beginning of almost every song and ragefully fast-forward, or whatever the new verb is now that cassettes are extinct, through the first 2:30 where they’re just dicking around with their instruments and mumbling some lame shit about how love is good and people should be sure to make use of their internal strength in the face of adversity.

It’s like:

I’m sitting at home, pyjamafied, decosmeticized, reading a novel, chilling with the cat, when my phone rings. I look at it and see that it’s someone buzzing my apartment. I’m not expecting anyone, plus it’s almost 10:00, which is my bedtime, so I almost don’t answer, but curiosity wins out in the end. I’m like, “Hello?” and this bunch of guys on the other end are like, “Hey, it’s Mumford and Sons, can we come up to your flat?” and I’m totally confused, like, “Yeah, I guess…” A few seconds later I open the door and sure enough, it’s fucking Mumford and Sons, and they all come barreling through the door. They’re like, “We’re going to spend the night with you!” and I’m like, “I don’t know about that,” and they’re like, “No, we deffs totes are. Let’s get those clothes off, love.” And in my head I’m like, Aw, balls, I should have just gone to bed.

Anyway, a few minutes later, we’re all crammed into my bed, and Mumford and Sons are like, “All right, we’re going to begin the intercourse now,” and I’m like, “Uhh, that’s fine,” and pre-first-base type stuff starts happening. And this goes on. And on and on. And on! And all through the nothing, they’re saying meaningless stuff like “We’re building a tower of love with our hands gloved in pure intentions.” I don’t say anything at first because I’m trying to unravel the metaphors and be polite, but eventually I pull my phone from the night table and flip it up (it’s a shitty old flip phone) to check the time and when I see it I’m immediately super irritated, like, “Boys, could we just move it along here please? No offense, it’s just I’m a teacher and if I don’t sleep I’m useless. I wasn’t really expecting company, heh.” And to their credit, they’re as well-mannered as can be, consummate gentlemen, like, “Oh, totes deffs. Of course, love. Patience is the path to everlasting haste.” (WHAT?!)

Fifteen minutes later, nothing has changed, and now I’m too annoyed to be pleasant. “Guys, come on. This is a completely unreasonable amount of foreplay.” They’re like, “We are exploring two sweet sandbanks in the desert of our hearts,” presumably referring to my breasts, which have barely even been grazed during the last two hours. I’m like, “Seriously, just shut up and get this done!”

Soon I fall asleep, and when I wake up however much time later they’re totally fucking harmonizing, doing the beginning of that one song that I always mistake for the Lindsay and Tobias Teamocil jingle for a few disorienting seconds from like 1:01 to 1:05. Well, that’s it. I flip out. “CINNAMON COCKS! I can’t fucking believe this is STILL HAPPENING and HASN’T PROGRESSED AT ALL! What part of ‘I have to be at work in six hours’ do you not understand?!” And they’re like, “So sorry, love. No worries. Here we go.”

And now, finally, FINALLY, some less boring and better quality things start happening, but I’m too exhausted and infuriated to appreciate it much. It’s 2:00 in the morning, for fuck sake.

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