I was actually halfway enjoying myself at the RatDog show until you creeped over. You're not fooling anyone with your counterculture getup: long hair, Jerry Garcia Band tank top, and sarong. Apparently you were passed out after one too many bong rips when the feminist movement hit. Allow me to SPELL IT OUT for you. If the slack-jawed elfin girl swaying with eyes closed in front of you is too high to stand up, let alone consent to you groping her—STOP IT! That's what the "establishment" calls sexual assault, bro. When I called you on your nauseating behavior, you came back with, "Oh, I'm just helping the sister out." Um, more like helping yourself. I've read that unconscious women don't lubricate as well. Was it the promise of increased friction that led to your pursuit? Not on my watch, shitbag. I'm sorry you find it too difficult to interact with sober women. Surely, they'd spot you for what you are—a mouth-breathing, jug-band reject with no self-respect. (To the tiny twirler who narrowly escaped rape and other goodies—VD, ringworm, pregnancy, and scabies—please take better care of yourself. Next time you might not have someone to chase away scumbag opportunists.)