Late last week, we huddled in our homes, horrified, watching the news in silence. It was happening again, all too soon. America was under attack, and our cities were smack-dab in the middle of the crosshairs.

Except not. What appeared to the city of Boston (and no one else—congrats P-town) as a dire bomb threat was really just an unorthodox (read: retarded) advertising scheme. The "devices" were square-foot lite-brite Mooninite signs to pimp the upcoming movie from Aqua Teen Hunger Force (more like Aqua Terrorism Hunger—oh, never mind). It's really too bad for Boston; why do all those mean terrorists have to attack New York? We're important too.

But don't throw a pity party yet! Boston's getting a $2 million check from Ted Turner out of the whole mess. We're sure they'll put it to good use.

What really mystifies us: why does Adult Swim need to advertise at all? They've got all these marketing gimmicks (wtf was with that Dangerdoom album, anyway), but as far as we can tell, they have only two main demographics: stoners and teenagers. So, basically, one demographic. Who hasn't gotten the word yet?

Oh, yeah, and now there's a song. Great.

But we were there. We were there in 2007 at one of the first Clipse shows of the Hell Hath No Fury tour. We were there.

...And so was everybody else. (Obviously, we've lost whatever edge we ever had). Tickets were hard to come by, and with good reason: everyone and their tagalong hipster girlfriend was drunkenly packed into the downstairs of the Middle East last night, hands in the air like they cared oh so much about the coke-powdered rhymes of brothers Malice and Pusha T. This was the place to be. Sort of.

Hell Hath No Fury was critically acclaimed for a reason. Marrying Pharrell's claustrophobic brainfuck beats with uncut lyrical perfection, it was one of those rare, perfect rap records: no skits, little ego, limited guest spots. And both the mainstream and the indie presses loved it and got the word out.

So while everyone knew the words to "Mama I'm Sorry," few could sing along to mixtape classic "Pussy." The pre-Clipse DJ warm-up had people yelling the rhymes to Kanye's remix of Rich Boy's "Throw Some Ds," but Biggie's "Kick In the Door" left the audience cold. Then there was the drunk white girl behind us (Mama we're so sorry—you're so obnoxious) who screamed "VA! They're from VA!" after Clipse finished "Virginia." This is the same audience member who caught a whiff of weed and immediately asked, "Where's that 'dro at?"

The set was unquestionably hot. There was a snarled intensity to Pusha T's verses that wasn't always apparent on headphones, and Malice's swagger was hard as hell. But on "Chinese New Year," when the MCs fired imaginary pistols into the audience, a forest of white fists raised and fired back. Could they even hear the lyrics: "Make nigga kick that can / Fall victim to the Klick Klack Klan?" Would they have come if Pitchfork hadn't given the album a 9.1?

And then came the finale. An oblivious crowd in polo shirts and BoSox caps (what's a 59-50?) looking Clipse in the eyes as they chanted, "Okay, we get it, yep, yeah you too." Okay, everybody: meet Mr. Us Too.