Agreed.
You're swaying on the dancefloor, happily intoxicated, with the equally-addled target of your clumsy affections within easy, receptive reach, and you hear:

Weeeeee-eeeeee-eeeeee-eeeeeellllll-llllll-lll...

And your heart just sinks. You know it's only about two and a half minutes long, and you know there's a slim chance you might be able to recapture the mood that was so cruelly stolen from you. But in your heart you know that you might as well just whack yourself on the bell end with a freezing cold dessert spoon and have done with it.

*Click*
(Monkey Tennis isn't Spartacus, Mon 3 Jan 2011, 12:16, Reply)