Jazz, I hate it.

I was not surprised to read yesterday that Sam does not like Jazz, for she is clearly a woman of discerning taste. I would have commented, but it was over at Maroon's gaff and he and I are having a spat because he is a two timing feckless handsome Laird and I am miffed with his wanton ways.
There are two types of people in this world, people who like jazz and people who would rather perforate their ear drum with a rusty knitting needle than listen to it.
I hate jazz with a passion. I really really cannot bear it. I had to listen to it once all the way from Barcelona to Valencia and it was so hellish I still dream about it in B minor.
If the train had slowed even a fraction I would have flung myself from it and rolled down a dusty slope and ran away, away from the jazz, I spit on it. We.....ell, I like Sinnerman by Nina Simone, but only because it was in The Thomas Crown Affair and that ain't jazz anyway.
I don't hold any warmth for people who listen to jazz either. I hate it when people waffle on about Miles Davis and Coltrane and say loudly that they have all Bleeding Gums Murphy's EPs(recorded live-naturally from the now infamous Springfield sessions). I once sat through an entire dinner party where the host not only played jazz, he played an LP of abstract session jazz and bopped his head in 'time' to it. He even clicked his fingers once or twice. I kept glancing fearfully around me, on the look out for mime artists and poetry readers who might leap from the presses and preform their craft. If there is anything worse in this world than normal jazz it is abstract session jazz, with the bipping and the bopping and the scatting and the heart stopping clarinet solos that burst out of nowhere.
Jazz scares the pants of me normally, but that night it was the headless horseman and I was Ichabod Crane. I could not flee I was rooted to the spot in horror, I could only watch and weave as the black waves rolled over me in toot-tootles, barbalas and strange didlde-eepeeps.
'Hey is this the same song as the last one? Where's the chorus? How does anyone know where to end it? When will it end? It will end won't it? My ears are bleeding. Is that tapioca? I think I am about to stab you in the heart with my fish knife.'
I got very very drunk that night-so drunk I lost my voice for two days. And even as drunk as I got I still couldn't make head nor tails of Jazz- and I can talk Esperanto like a native when drunk.
Jazz, I against it!