Trey was determined to steamroll the crowd with majestic rhythm; he was Genghis Khan meets a hemorrhoid, but in a good way. The heights he reached could only be met if you were riding bareback on a Pegasus that was strapped to an intercontinental ballistic missile traveling at a maximum speed of Mach 8 and you refused to pull back the reins. He captured the essence of ocean waves crashing upon my squishy, glowing butt cheeks during an idyllic sunrise.
Maybe it was just adrenaline and endorphins and serotonin flooding my brain, but it felt like I was drinking malt liquor with a panda bear surrounded by a squadron of beautiful vaginas. What began as a burlap sack filled with inbred baked potatoes more fitted to be a host for alien parasites, metastasized into a gigantic fireball of awesome. With this jam, Phish had slayed the Kraken.