Congratulations Terrible Beatnik!

"WAAA WAAA WEEEE WOOO!" you'll shout into the room.  "ABLEE DOO BLAH DAAAAA!" you'll follow up.

No one will snap their fingers in response.

"Get it," you'll ask the room, removing your hat and pointing to your head.  "Like, up in here?"

A man in the front row will shake his head.  It will be clear that, while he gets it, he doesn't dig it.

"C'mon, don't be squares!" you'll shout at the audience.  They'll shrug in response; the thought of you calling them squares leaves them, at best, nonplussed.  At worst, it might make them moderately irritated.

"Okay," you'll announce to the audience.  "I get it."

You'll open the velvet lined case that you placed on a stool next to you and remove an antique Luger pistol from it.  Then you'll put the pistol to your head.

"Like, whatever," you'll announce to the crowd before pulling the trigger.

The bullet will pass through your temple, into your skull.  Projective force will shatter the bone in front of the bullet, clearing the way for it to enter the cavity of your skull proper.  From there, the bullet will travel into your brain, where it will sever a number of neural pathways and generally fuck shit up.  The jelly-like mass will be distorted and displaced by both the bullet's mass and the force of its movement, and so the pathways that aren't severed will be so severely discombobulated as to prevent any sort of normalized function.  When it's done in there, the bullet will exit through the other side of your skull, taking a great deal of the bone that usually keeps all that now-discombobulated jelly inside your head with it.

You'll tumbled to the ground, bleeding profusely from the wound in your head.

The crowd will snap their fingers at you unenthusiastically as the janitor approaches with a broom in hand.

Congratulations Terrible Beatnik!