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]