Somehow you found yourself awake and it wasn't even midday yet. Fresh on your mind was the usual stuff. Stuff like:
If you make the perfect mix-cd, will a girl from the Internet have sex with you?
If you make the perfect mix-cd, will that jerk off from work stop leaving month old ceiling pickles in your locker?
If you make the perfect mix-cd, will your sister finally call you back after you punched her dumb boyfriend and you might have told her you were secretly in love with her but you were too drunk to remember?
If you make the perfect mix-cd, and your landlord overhears it on his way to beat your door down, will he be all like: Forget about it! This month's on me.
You got right on it. This one was to be your opus. At least your opus for '08. You hadn't had a mix you'd been proud of since early '06 (The Kenosha Kids and The Toilet Meat Situation made that shit a cakewalk), but this was gonna be altogether something else.
Oh and while we're on the topic, let's not forget your mantra. Fuck High Fidelity. So you didn't read the book, and it's quite likely that John Cusack destroyed the essence of something there, but ultimately they just flat got it wrong. You don't make the sacrifice of being a 29 year-old virgin without learning a few tricks on how to win a girl's heart. The tricks they don't want you to know about.
* * *
An Elephant With No Trunk Is Still An Elephant, were an obvious choice for an opening track. Way too obvious. It was a tough call to cross them off. The Acromegaly Medley would have kicked it off great. But you had to keep reaching. But how far would you take it? The Baoding Timpani Orchestra? No woman would talk to you after hearing that. Oh, but maybe that one. Isn't that what this was all about?
If you make the perfect mix-cd, will you stop sleeping 16 hours a day in a bed stacked with 10 year-old copies of NME?
Somehow The Velour Babies were slated in at track 3 with Sliced All The Disco From My Cloven Heel (But Can't Turn My Baby Back From Chinchilla). Even you were beginning to scare yourself. OK, so the kitsch of the 70s Cambodian Dance Pop (Oh Donny! Donny! My Son Will Die A Baggage Handler) was fathomable, but honestly, something in you was starting to wane. This was no longer about putting music in the letterbox of the girl you'd been watching at the supermarket, and returning to masturbate on her front lawn a week later. No, this was actually getting weird.
An Elephant With No Trunk Is Still An Elephant, were an obvious choice for an opening track. Way too obvious. It was a tough call to cross them off. The Acromegaly Medley would have kicked it off great. But you had to keep reaching. But how far would you take it? The Baoding Timpani Orchestra? No woman would talk to you after hearing that. Oh, but maybe that one. Isn't that what this was all about?
If you make the perfect mix-cd, will you stop sleeping 16 hours a day in a bed stacked with 10 year-old copies of NME?
Somehow The Velour Babies were slated in at track 3 with Sliced All The Disco From My Cloven Heel (But Can't Turn My Baby Back From Chinchilla). Even you were beginning to scare yourself. OK, so the kitsch of the 70s Cambodian Dance Pop (Oh Donny! Donny! My Son Will Die A Baggage Handler) was fathomable, but honestly, something in you was starting to wane. This was no longer about putting music in the letterbox of the girl you'd been watching at the supermarket, and returning to masturbate on her front lawn a week later. No, this was actually getting weird.
It's like those guys who get too far into porn, and then one day they can't turn back until they're on the news with their face blurred out, with whatever hilarious animal permanently attached through their modified sweatpants.
* * *
You were taken somewhat by the woman before you in line. You looked down to check for any obvious food stains. The decrepitude of your situation had allowed you some social breathing space, and you actually found yourself asking this woman:
What's your favourite song right now?
Excuse me?
Your favourite song.
Well, it's going to sound kind of silly, since you won't have heard of them.
Try me.
I'm rather partial to the inebriated sludge of Jörmungandr's Whiplash.
Get out. They're only like the most necessary revitalisation of that genre, ever. But what's your favourite song?
She leaned over and whispered with her wet lips against your ear.
Let's Fuck In The Back Of My Stepdad's Saturn.
You found yourself standing outside, staring through the shop window at a woman's behind, with a melted Twix in your hand and half an erection. You decided that walking home at a brisk pace may inspire something new, or at least gauge concern for your first heart attack.
Two days later and more than half the tracks you still couldn't come close to deciding on. You made a waddle down to the general store, hoping that by now somebody had caught on to the notion of Mountain Dew Energy Drinks, they just hadn't thought to notify you via the appropriate channels.
You were taken somewhat by the woman before you in line. You looked down to check for any obvious food stains. The decrepitude of your situation had allowed you some social breathing space, and you actually found yourself asking this woman:
What's your favourite song right now?
Excuse me?
Your favourite song.
Well, it's going to sound kind of silly, since you won't have heard of them.
Try me.
I'm rather partial to the inebriated sludge of Jörmungandr's Whiplash.
Get out. They're only like the most necessary revitalisation of that genre, ever. But what's your favourite song?
She leaned over and whispered with her wet lips against your ear.
Let's Fuck In The Back Of My Stepdad's Saturn.
You found yourself standing outside, staring through the shop window at a woman's behind, with a melted Twix in your hand and half an erection. You decided that walking home at a brisk pace may inspire something new, or at least gauge concern for your first heart attack.
* * *
When you got to your apartment building, there were jewel cases as far as the front steps. You recognised these. Oh what the fuck. You figured, whatever's happened, by now it's done with. When do you ever find yourself walking in on something like this in the process? That day.
The guy who had broken into your place, had actually gone in, taken some stuff, and on the way out realised that he has no fucking idea what any of this shit music he was carrying was, and was left with no choice but to dump it and go back for more. He had to, the pawn shops were closing in an hour and he knew if there wasn't any Air Supply in that crate, then it was no fuckin dice.
Buddy, do you live here?
Yeah...
What the fuck, man. I wouldn't even swap with you dude, and I live in a shipping container by the motherfreakin docks.
Well...uh...
Motherfucker I ain't heard of none of these bands. And I taught motherfreakin Music Appreciation 303 back in the day! Before I was swept away by a right nasty dissonance of the mind! Causin me to get naked in every boat I was ever on! More of a problem than you might expect!
Look...I'm sorry...Just...
Motherfucker! Ain't none of us fuckin leavin til I find a Journey, or a Boston, or even some fuckin Carly Simon. Post-70s Floyd ain't even a tender no more.
Just take a seat. Please. We can work this out, I think.
What is this shit? Daddy Dingo Freeeks With The Hypotenuse Party?
Why don't I just burn you something?
Why don't you just shut the fuck up before I wreck myself!
I'm just gonna go to my computer over here and put you together something real quick.
Soap Poodle? We're Not Just For Gaywads Anymore?
It'll just take a minute. I swear.
Pissy Ruinsock Live At The Tandooridrome?
Here it is...here it is. Please. Let's have a listen. I don't mean to brag or anything, but I've got a good feeling about this one.
If you make the perfect mix-cd, will a vagrant avoid accidentally puncturing your lung with his catch knife, in a wild flaying of arms and nautical-lingo-spouting semi-nakedness?
The guy who had broken into your place, had actually gone in, taken some stuff, and on the way out realised that he has no fucking idea what any of this shit music he was carrying was, and was left with no choice but to dump it and go back for more. He had to, the pawn shops were closing in an hour and he knew if there wasn't any Air Supply in that crate, then it was no fuckin dice.
Buddy, do you live here?
Yeah...
What the fuck, man. I wouldn't even swap with you dude, and I live in a shipping container by the motherfreakin docks.
Well...uh...
Motherfucker I ain't heard of none of these bands. And I taught motherfreakin Music Appreciation 303 back in the day! Before I was swept away by a right nasty dissonance of the mind! Causin me to get naked in every boat I was ever on! More of a problem than you might expect!
Look...I'm sorry...Just...
Motherfucker! Ain't none of us fuckin leavin til I find a Journey, or a Boston, or even some fuckin Carly Simon. Post-70s Floyd ain't even a tender no more.
Just take a seat. Please. We can work this out, I think.
What is this shit? Daddy Dingo Freeeks With The Hypotenuse Party?
Why don't I just burn you something?
Why don't you just shut the fuck up before I wreck myself!
I'm just gonna go to my computer over here and put you together something real quick.
Soap Poodle? We're Not Just For Gaywads Anymore?
It'll just take a minute. I swear.
Pissy Ruinsock Live At The Tandooridrome?
Here it is...here it is. Please. Let's have a listen. I don't mean to brag or anything, but I've got a good feeling about this one.
If you make the perfect mix-cd, will a vagrant avoid accidentally puncturing your lung with his catch knife, in a wild flaying of arms and nautical-lingo-spouting semi-nakedness?
