How far up a man's ass, Part II: The Subwoofer

Pit fans will recall this thread, in which I pondered just how far up a man’s ass I could get a saxophone to go. I never actually had a chance to find out, since Cannonball Fucking Adderly finally moved on to annoy someone else with his badly jazzed-up TV themes.

Last night, though, I thought I might have another proctologic challenge on my hands.

I live in a duplex in the Student Ghetto around UK. I have had fairly good luck with neighbors, whose loud music I could at least ignore. I’ve been known to crank up the amp and wail on the Strat from time to time myself, so I can be fairly forgiving.

However, a new neighbor moved in last weekend. I’ve only met him twice, and he seems like a nice enough guy, in a frat boy sort of way. I noticed, throughout the week, a soft, continuous thump coming from next door, which I finally identified as a dance beat. I’m cool with it–it wasn’t loud, and maybe he can introduce me to some cool electronica or something. Maybe he’s even a DJ! (How hopeful I can be.)

FF to last night. Tam and I were enjoying a “quiet evening at home” (note use of quotes indicating euphemism), and had made notice of the somewhat louder thump-thump-thump coming from next door. We hadn’t thought much about it, and just turned the Cowboy Junkies up loud enough to drown out the worst of it.

Long about midnight, there is an ungodly banging at my back door. (We share a backyard, and when you come in there’s a little space with a door to each of our apartments.) I get up and throw something on to see what the deal is, and open the door to two guys in full frat-boy-on-the-make gear, Bud Lights in hand, who give me a simultaneous “Heyyy!”.

Their “Heyyyy!” is cut short when they realize that I am not one of them and I am not amused. “Awww, dude, is this your apartment?” Yeah, I said. “Awww, man, we thought this was our buddy’s apartment.”

I just kept staring.

“So this is your apartment, dude?” he repeats, obviously not getting the picture. “That is some phat shit.”

“Dude,” his slightly less hammered sidekick replies, “I think he’s tired or something.” Yeah, or something, fuckstick.

“We’re sorry, dude,” the first one said. “Take it easy.”

I shut the door, shook my head in disbelief, and returned to my previous business.

I woke up around 3:30 AM. The Cowboy Junkies CD had long since ended, and I noticed the same thump-thump-thump I had grown used to–only it was two or three times as loud. Stuff was shaking in my bedroom. I could hear badly distorted bass lines and keyboard riffs as plain as day. I got up, got dressed, and went over to beat on his door. No answer. I continued to beat the living shit out of it for five minutes. No answer.

I went to the back door and beat on it for another five minutes. No answer.

I looked in the kitchen windows, and couldn’t see anyone. I beat on his bedroom window to no avail. I looked in the living room window, and saw no one but the culprit–a tiny, $59 boom box, with a cord running out of the headphone jack to a white plastic cubical subwoofer, about 18 inches on a side, pumping out some unholy Dance Party USA shit on repeat, sitting up against the wall right next to my bedroom.

After a few more minutes of random window and door banging, I finally tried the front door–and found it open. Stuck my head in and yelled, “Is anybody in here?”, but if anybody had been, they couldn’t have heard me over the thump-thump-thump.

I returned to my apartment (where Tamara was now awake and pissed off) and wrote him a note on my best drug company note pad (Seroquel, I believe) recounting the last twenty minutes or so, explaining the unfortunate placement of his subwoofer, and how its continued use will lead to an even more unfortunate placement of said subwoofer. (OK, I left out the last part, but I thought it.) I returned to his place, turned the damn thing down to barely audible, and left the note on the boom box.

Now, given its size and cubical shape, I may well have to disassemble the subwoofer before I can actually get it entirely up this man’s ass. I think it will be well worth the effort, and I might get the individual parts to go as far as his splenic flexure. The trick will be getting it up his ass in such a way that it maintains functionality, and so that both the power and input cords remain hanging out of his anus, so I can hook it back up and treat the man to a little bass colonic.

The only other challenge is the proper CD–Victor Wooten’s “A Show of Hands” would probably be a waste of good bass, so I’ll probably just use his own Frat Boy Dance 2001 CD and treat his ailimentary canal to a little of what I’ve had to deal with. Set the sumbitch on repeat, and it shouldn’t take long for his innards to be reduced to a gooey consistency.

Dr. J

[I fixed the link-bibliophage]

I went to Best Buy a week ago. Shopping around in the computer section, I noticed that the entire building was shaking. Boooooom Boooooooom Booooom. It would go on for 10 seconds and then stop. And then Boooooooom boooooooom boooooom!!! Again.
Clear across the building, in the audio section, there was a set of speakers you could press a button to to get the bass pumped up on it. I went over to my cousin, who works in that section.
I said “I have no clue why anyone would design such a thing, I have no clue why you guys would sell such a thing, but if anyone buys that monstrocity I will rip his or her intestines out and choke that person to death with it. Slowly.”

One of my friends had a neighbor like that over the summer. They never did resolve the situation. If you DO manage to get the subwoofer up your neighbor’s ass, be sure to write detailed, illustrated instructions for the rest of us who will need to perform the same operation.

Oh, and I think someone should drop in to the Band Name thread to add “Bass Colonic” to the list.

Nah, you can make it fit. You just need a little manpower. It’s just that he’ll need the Jaws of Life to get the subwoofer back out.

Oh come on. That woofer is so weak it is like a portable CD. Now come to my area where they put together five woofers each twice the size of what you are describing. What comes out, well, let’s just say that it comes out cheaper renting a backhoe and wrecker ball.

It occurs to me that staving med students in university ghettos worldwide probably sympathize with this situation. you should write it up in techno-speak and send it off to some second-tier journal that isn’t above a telling a joke once in a while. After all, a publication is a publication.

Piercy, J., et. al., Optimal rectal placement of sound generation and reproduction devices with a retrograde approach: two case studies. Am J Proct 2001:23, 1446-1449.

I regret that I am unable to provide any additional information about this topic, but I wanted to jump in and say that your original post about this is what started my Straight Dope Message Board career. Thank you for exposing me to these… WONDERS!

DoctorJ, I say you go ahead and write the article. The title alone had me laughing.

DoctorJ, I infer that you’re a med student? Why not ask your teachers? Or would the weird looks be too much.

The other day I was sitting at a light, and slowly I heard that approaching “BOOM BOOM BOOM” of some young punk in his tricked-out Honda Civic (eww…) with a back seat full of subwoofers, cranked to the max.

Now, this has become a common occurance, and I try to tune it out. But THIS clown had it cranked so high that the subsonic booming was literally starting to make me feel nauseated. My little girl in the car seat in the back started to complain too. Then she was about to cry. I mean, it was AWFUL. Cars for half a block around would have had the same problem.

What’s with these idiots? I’m a stereophile, and I like my music fairly loud. But even as a teenager I had respect for the rights of others to not have to listen to the music I like just because I happen to be near them. And anyway, these new booming stereos sound like SHIT. The music is totally overwhelmed by the insane amounts of bass these things are putting out.

And where are the cops? Why aren’t they ticketing these losers for disturbing the peace? Once in a while one of these morons will drive up our residential street at 3 AM, waking up people on all sides including my daugher, who would then cry and force me out of bed to look after her.

They’re like freakin’ audio vandals.

With cut-away diagrams! These are a must.

Don’t forget the x-rays!!

You have to write this up.


I’ll cite it for one of my engineering projects. (Or an ethics project, take your pick) The world needs this. And you’ll be published. Win-win.

Although a tubular subwoofer would lend itself to this particular application far better than the aforementioned POS home electronics, there is a time honored formula used in high vacuum semiconductor equipment service procedures that will obtain the desired result even with the specific form factor of the device mentioned. I quote:

“Get it up to forty miles per hour and it’ll fit just fine.”

Shoving the subwoofer up his ass is only going to make him go out and get a bigger subwoofer. I’d like to suggest that the only way to defeat this frat boy is to go out and purchase a bigger and louder subwoofer than he can afford and crank it. From a cultural perspective, this will establish you as a dominant male in the world of bass freaks.

Case in point, my backyard party music used to get drowned out by the little shits who drove by my house in Camaros packed with 12" subwoofers. So I went out and blew 7 grand on a P/A system with several thousand watts behind it. Now, the little shits turn their stereos down when they come past my house - out of respect.

I just had a mental image of DoctorJ nailing 20 or 25 cheap 15 inch woofers face first on the wall between his neighbor’s apartment and his own. The impact of the subsonic waves alone from such a configuration might well cause organ collapse.

There used to be a late-night TV ad for a CD called “Maximum Booty” that ran locally. You might see if you can round one up. Regarding the physical compatibility, Zenster has the right idea. My dad’s theory was that everything fits together if you hit it hard enough. He had a lot of hammers.

I found a cd once with a warning stating that it had enough bass to damage some speakers. That would show him!

If you want classic bass, with actual good (kinda) music/rap (if there is such a thing): DJ Magic Mike. He’s from the late 80’s, early 90’s, before the assclowns started fucking it up for everyone.