I was cleaning out the closet in the spare bedroom of my house the other day and found this old cassette tape labeled ‘Chaz vs. The White Van Speaker Brigade’. I got very excited because I thought I’d lost this gem forever. It was an answering machine tape that I pulled and put up for posterity. Admittedly the schadenfreude factor is pretty high, but my reason for posting it is solely to entertain.
I posted a loose transcription of this tape on another message board a few years ago, but I decided to post it here word for word in an effort to educate and entertain. Hopefully Chaz’s tale will save you from making your own mistake (that is if these guys still exist), failing that, I thought it was pretty damned entertaining. I tried to do it justice, but words can only come so close to demonstrating emotion. Someday I may digitize it and put it online so it can be truly appreciated.
Call 1 “Hey dude, where the fuck are you? I got a couple of guys out here at Circuit City in a van trying to sell off some overstock speakers. Their boss loaded too many on their truck and they got to get rid of them. Says they’re Dynalabs or somethin’. I thought I heard you mention them before, and I know you’re like mister fuckin’ hi-fi and all, so they must be pretty damn good. Dumb asses want 600 bucks a pair! They’re worth three times that in this magazine the guy has. You need to get with me fast guy, cause they ain’t gonna wait forever and I don’t want to move on it without you giving me the go. Call me, bitch.”
Call 2 (approx. 5 minutes later) “Man, where the hell are you?! These guys are getting impatient. Already starting to try and sell ‘em to other people. They got a few left but I may have to make the buy without you. I need to know if you want me to get you a pair or not. Pick up if you’re there man, seriously. I’m gonna eat these fuckers’ lunch if these are as good as they say. They have another install they have to do, so they said–” [low muffled voice in the background and a short conversation between my friend and the ‘salesman’ that lasts about eleven seconds] “Hey dude, the guy just said he’ll take 500.00 a pair if I act now! Goddam deal of the century! You need to pick up the fucking phone and talk to me! Where the fuck you at anyway? Call me!”
Call 3 (approx. 6 minutes later): “Euth man, What the fuck!? Where you at? I got to make a move on these things. They just sold a pair and are down to one last set. I gotta get 'em. I’ll let you know how it went down. I know you ain’t out doing nothing 'cause your life is for shit. Pro’ly rubbing one out or something, cranking yourself down so fast that your pathetic root looks like it got three heads on it. Call me back, Knuckles McShuffle.”
Call 4 (approx. 10 minutes later) “Hey fuck nugget, I got 'em. I’m on the way home to hook these babies up. I’ll call you when I get em wired up and let you know what they sound like. You should have been home man, I could have gotten you a set. Your loss bitch. Peace!”
Call 5 (approx. 45 minutes later) “Okay I hooked 'em up but something’s rotten in Denmark. The highs aren’t high and the mids are rattling. lows are okay. The red wire to the red post and the black striped wire to the black post, right? I’m gonna switch 'em and try that.”
Call 6 (approx. 15 minutes later) “It ain’t right dude. Either I did something wrong or they’re the wrong Ohms or some shit. I’m gonna play around with them. I’ll call you back. You better fuckin’ be home!”
Call 7 (approx. 1 hour 20 minutes later) [Low, muffled music sound in the background. Sounds like music being played through a subwoofer…at a distance.] “You hear that? That’s five hundred dollars worth of pure high-fuckin’-fidelety, my brother. Sounds like Robert Plant wailing into somebody’s asshole, don’t it? Got his face buried way up between the cheeks and shit. I hooked up my mom’s Fischer speakers and it sounds way better. Hooked up my old Yorx, and the highs were better. Shit, I hooked the wires to my fuckin’ toaster and the highs are better. I jammed the wires straight up my ass then punched myself in the balls… the highs are still better. Reckon I got the polarity of my colon backwards?! You need to call me man, I’m about to go postal. I feel like a gimp, been passed around like a joint at the Dennis Hopper Estate. I’m gonna box these bitches up and go on a manhunt. Somebody’s gonna get their Billy-Jack cherry popped when I find ‘em. Swamp-fuckin’-justice. My next call is probably gonna be from County. Thanks for the help, mother fucker!”
[Long beep]
