As April 8 approached, I knew it would happen; it does all the time. My address is often confused with Kurt and Courtney's former address in the Denny-Blaine neighborhood. It's usually just high schoolers or foreigners, circling my property trying to figure out where Kurt's house is, but not this time. This April 8 brought a mutation of errant seekers of Cobain's house that pushed oblivious fanaticism to a new level. Some asshole with a malfunctioning bull horn and his skanky-ass, video-taping toady ho stood next to my property at 8:00 in the morning, screaming some incoherent message about how Kurt changed rock and roll and the world. Kurt's dead, shithead, and your message was quite lost on my 3-year-old. He thought you looked kinda funny though, and I was able to use the incident as a good lesson that being stupid is not always funny, but often just sad. Like you, and your stupid, non-map-reading, address-challenged ilk. What brought you and your groupie out, whether it was some wacky radio stunt or maybe the culmination of an acid-induced pilgrimage to what you erroneously thought was the site of Cobain's Last Stand, I'm not sure. Regardless, I don't live in Kurt Cobain's old house and even if I did, I wouldn't want your flummoxed asses in or around my yard. RIP Kurt.

--Anonymous