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A subculture or group of like-minded individuals who identify with the conglomerate individuality associated to a musical style.
If you:
Drearily wear, mimic, or perform in any whole- or half-hearted way to a subculture whose actors dress in all black while painting their faces Powder white; drudge up the torment and failings of your creed/culture/society/life while drinking cup after cup of coffee at Perkins (Denny's is for poseurs)?
Have a flair for the dramatic, yet forced to work stage crew due to your crippling fear of public theatrical punditry; cross dressed at Regal Cinema at midnight (many, many times); not find it odd to have seen a man's full pubis through his boxers while he dropped his pants and danced like MC Hammer in front of a full movie theatre; bloviated, at length, about the unimpressive filmography of Tim Curry?
Celebrate the peerlessness of your peers who rhythmically claim to have thrived in the great slurry of the street (having grown up in Orange County); coordinate the color of your boxers with your crooked, slightly over-sized hat; ardently belie the countenance of all titular peace officers (except when directly counseled by The Man)?
Think a mandolin is a guitar and a banjo is a rhythm section; consider randomly bouncing and twirling a higher form of artistic, expressionistic dance; place hallucinogens at the top of the pyramid of the five herb groups; joined or enjoyed a drum circle; seen Phish live even once?
Then YOU belong to a Musicult!
While relating to and distancing himself from a greater societal identity, local teenager Aiden affixed his Beats By Dre headphones, cranking the first (and only TRULY good) Pennywise album, riding in the backseat of his parents' 2012 Lincoln Navigator L, wishing he'd been born, like, 10 years earlier so people would 'get' him, thus inadvertently and immediately joining a decades old construct known as a Musicult.
A rest room encounter in which two stalled bathroom attendees are both faced with a desire to NOT beat the opposing attendee to the finish line (often called the flush line).
The courteous stall attendee will wait for the opposing, earlier arriving squat jockey to flush before making his/or her pioneering lunge towards the flush line. This thankfully prevents said lunge from becoming recognizable by two of the five senses of the unwitting number two participant.
A rare phenomenon called a Turdament occurs when neither stalwart bung vendor have had a chance to advance their cause. Both sit in incommodious silence while their equally taciturn cube mate continues to clinch harder than a vice grip.
The Turdament winner is crowned with the crapshooter who is able to hold out longer than a fat chick at a salad bar, and more importantly, their opponent.
Hey Tim, you'll never believe how long I had to sit and wait before I won a Turdament today. My lower intestine was more uncomfortable than a lengthy pelvic examination performed by a man with two wooden hands.
The insidious shit-talker will employ a tactic whereby the auditor defames a subject, then high tails it fast as agoraphobic deer, before the mark has a chance to retort.
Mesch pulled a Dig and Dash on me, he said my shirt looked clean as a mop in a dump. More out of place than a mosque in Manhattan. Duller than a poet at a rodeo. Charming as a fly-trap in a bathroom. Then he bolted like he was a one-eared alley cat at a dogfight. And dammit I was JUST about to tell him his breath smelled like 3-day-old tadpoles in a sauna.
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An unfortunate circumstance by which an afflictive victim perceives some seemingly minor gastrointestinal insurrection to be laudable as a breezy endeavor. The unsuspecting rectal cashier will think it safe to offer air as relief to the impending pressure.
Alas, the simple act becomes complex, and an unsurpassed drawer spoilage results; that which was guessed to be gas goes solid.
No time is worse for a case of the doody toots than at a neighbor's daughter's quinceanera. Trust me.