Last night I dreamed that I was stuck in the audience of the world's worst production of Sweeney Todd. The actors periodically marched into the audience and got in their faces.

At the end, a jet of fake blood spurted twenty feet high, then waved back and forth like the dancing fountains at the Bellagio, drenching the audience all the way up to the balcony. Not waiting for "The Ballad of Sweeney Todd," as a body we charged, dripping and squishing, to the box office to demand dry cleaning vouchers.
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